Pairing: Janitor!Bucky Barnes x Teacher!Female Reader
Summary: The school janitor stops by your classroom after the final bell of the day and you are smitten.
Word Count: Over 3.7k
Warnings: Light flirting, fluff, sweetness, longing, attraction, service dog, term of endearment (sweetheart), cold weather, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)
Next Part of Beneath the Surface: In the Quiet
A/N: In contrast to our Diamond in the Rough trailer park neighbor, let me introduce you to our Beneath the Surface soft-spoken janitor! ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The final bell of the day rang, gently echoing in your classroom and the hallway. Your students jumped up with the kind of energy that only children seemed to possess. Chairs scraped the floor, kids scrambled for their backpacks, and their cheerful voices overlapped as they made their way to the door. It was a wonderful kind of chaos.
And you?
You just smiled.
Being new to the area and school, you worried about how the kids would take to you, but they were great and most of the parents were patient and understanding. You were lucky, as it made the transition much smoother than you anticipated.
You moved through the room like a calm center of gravity, making sure everyone had what they needed before they left for the day. “Have a good evening. And don’t forget your projects for tomorrow!”
Moving to the doorway, you stood and watched as they filed out into the hall. It was your little ritual of care, making sure to give them smiles and little waves before they disappeared around the corner. You exhaled a warm, soft sigh once the last child was out of sight and leaned against the doorway. It wasn’t out of annoyance or feeling overwhelmed, but a happy kind of tiredness that came from doing something you loved.
You walked back to your desk and settled into your chair, another sigh escaping. The room was peaceful and quiet now, the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the blinds. You pulled the small stack of papers toward you, hoping to get some grading done before you went home. But just as you grabbed your pen, there was a gentle knock on the doorframe.
And you lost your breath when you saw who was standing there.
“Everything good in here?” Bucky asked, his voice warm and low.
Bucky Barnes, the quiet janitor with the intense steel eyes that seemed to see everything. He stood there in his usual work shirt and pants that always stretched across his broad chest, shoulders, and thighs. His size and stare should’ve intimidated you, but it didn’t since he was polite to you from the start.
“You ever need anything, just let me know.”
You smiled softly. You made it a point to always say hi when you passed by or saw him. He looked blindsided the first time you acknowledged him, like he was used to people ignoring him. But you noticed him. You heard him hum old tunes to himself when he mopped the floors at night and took note of how he fixed things, like light fixtures, before anyone needed to ask. And you had a feeling it was him that left a pack of your favorite pens on your desk after you lost one.
And while he didn’t say much to you in the hallways outside of the polite “hello” in return or offering a soft smile, he always stopped by your classroom to check in. You appreciated that. He was a good man.
“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” you replied.
He leaned slightly against the frame, his toolbelt and key ring hung low on his hips, and tucked his hair behind his ear in an unhurried motion. His gaze drifted over the classroom, the warm colors and decorations, and then back to you, softer than before. You stared back because you couldn’t help yourself. The beefy man with the soft smile made your heart skip a beat.
“Long day?” he asked, tilting his head and studying you like he already knew the answer.
“A good day,” you answered with a small smile. “A little tiring, but still good.”
You weren’t used to people noticing when you were tired.
He smiled faintly in return, like he understood days like that. “Saw your class rush down the hall like a mini stampede,” he said, nodding to the stack of papers. “They giving you a run for your money?” he asked gently.
Your eyebrows shot up, the small talk surprising you. What was nice was the genuine tone and the look in his eyes. He wasn’t just asking for the sake of asking. “They are chaos and balls of energy in tiny shoes, but they’re great.”
You wouldn’t have it any other way.
He huffed a small laugh. “That they are,” he agreed, shifting his weight. “They adore you, you know.”
Warmth spread across your cheeks. “I don’t know about that, but thanks.”
It meant a lot to hear that.
“It’s the truth,” he said, scratching the light stubble on his chin when a comfortable silence stretched. “You sure you don’t need anything? I could… help carry stuff to your car.”
Your gaze flickered to your bag. It wasn’t heavy in the slightest. “I think I can manage,” you said out of habit, used to doing things on your own.
Bucky’s eyes flickered with disappointment, but he masked it quickly. It lasted only for a second, but your heart broke anyway because you caught it. You weren’t trying to brush him off when he was only looking for a reason to linger. It was sweet. Flattering.
“But,” you continued, his head lifting in what you guessed was anticipation. “If you wouldn’t mind walking me to my car when I’m finished grading these papers, I’d really appreciate it.” You gestured to the clock. “Unless you’re busy or have to go. I understand.”
You didn’t want to intrude on his time.
He locked eyes with you and you caught his shock before his gaze softened. The faint tension in his jaw eased and he stood taller. It was the slow, warm smile that had your heart skipping a beat because you hadn’t once seen him smile at anyone else in the building like that. It was a small gift with no wrapping or bow.
“Yeah,” he said barely above a whisper. “I can do that.”
He stepped a little further into the room slow enough, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed and to give you the chance to tell him to go. His worn boots quietly padded across the floor when you didn’t ask him to leave. He didn’t crowd you, but he was close enough that you felt his steady presence and could smell the subtle clean aroma. It was nice.
The keys clinked when he hooked a thumb into one of the belt loops and you forced your eyes up. You refused to look at his thighs or hands, and you definitely didn’t pay attention to the way the belt tugged at his hips. You were a teacher. You needed to maintain some professionalism.
But you were also a woman attracted to a very handsome man.
“You sure you don’t mind me being here?” he asked.
“I don’t mind at all,” you promised, nodding to one of the bigger chairs. “And you can sit if you want. You don’t have to stand guard.”
He quietly took a seat near your desk, still close without hovering, and you felt his eyes on you as you graded. You snuck a couple of glances at him, your cheeks hot when you noticed he hadn’t looked away. Your grip tightened on your pen, but his observant stare didn’t make you feel uneasy. His attention had butterflies fluttering in your stomach.
“You, uh…” He trailed off when you lifted your head, but his gaze wasn’t on you anymore. It was on the corner of your desk instead where a few snow globes sat. “You collect those?” he asked eventually, his voice soft like he was afraid the question might be invasive. Too personal.
“I have a few.” You picked one up with a smile and showed him. “One of my best friends got me this one before I moved here.”
You gently shook it, the glitter inside swirling around the iridescent snowflake. Snow globes were always beautiful to you. They were mini worlds filled with magical stories, sometimes nostalgic, and always full of wonder.
His expression gentled more. “Beautiful,” he whispered, his eyes on you again.
You set it down carefully, your face warm. He said it so quietly you wondered if he meant the snow globe or you. “Do you like snow globes?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light and not give away how fast your heart raced.
You wondered who Bucky was outside of his job. Did he have hobbies or collect anything? Did he listen to music in his home or did he prefer the quiet?
The very curious part of you wondered what his love life was like. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone special in his life. Your heart sank at the thought. If he did have someone special though, would he look at you the way he did? Or were you building something up in your mind for no reason at all?
He shrugged a shoulder and leaned back in the chair that still looked a bit too small for him. “Never had one, but I like them. They’re peaceful.”
“Peaceful. That’s a good way to put it,” you echoed gently, running a finger along the base of another snow globe. “They make me happy, too.”
He hummed low. “It’s nice that you have things that make you happy,” he said, his tenderness almost disarming you. “You deserve that.”
Your breath caught, the stack of unfinished papers forgotten. His sincerity framed itself in a way that felt intimate. “Thank you,” you whispered, your stomach flipping.
His lips curled in a small smile before his brows pinched. “Can I…” He absentmindedly ran a thumb along his belt. “I mean, if I ever saw a snow globe that reminded me of you…” He rubbed the back of his neck next. “Would it be okay if I got it for you?”
Your heart stuttered. “You… You’d do that?”
The soft-spoken man who cleaned up and fixed things without making a show of it wanted to get you something?
He nodded after a moment and shifted again. “Yeah. If you’d want that,” he answered, his tone casual while his body language said otherwise. It was endearing.
“Okay,” he murmured. “I’ll keep an eye out then.”
You made sure he was looking in your eyes when you said, “I’d love that.”
The room seemed brighter, warmer, and he slowly exhaled as he relaxed in his seat. Seeing the relief in his frame tugged at something deep in your chest. You wondered if he realized he had just given you a small piece of his heart.
You smiled and picked your pen up again. Neither of you said anything for a few minutes, the only sound being the quiet hum of the classroom lights and your pen moving across the papers. It was a comfortable kind of stillness.
“You really don’t… mind me being here?” he asked quietly when you got to the last sheet. It felt like he was asking about being in your presence versus your classroom.
“I really don’t mind,” you promised, tucking the stack into your folder. “Do you think I would?”
You hoped you didn’t give that sort of impression.
He shook his head quickly before he lowered it. “No, it’s just…” His fingers curled on his thigh. “I’m just a janitor.”
If your heart could’ve physically broken, it would’ve then and there. “You’re not just anything,” you said before you could stop yourself.
His head snapped up, his eyes wide. “But-”
You held up a hand to stop him and leaned forward on your desk. “Bucky, I know we haven’t known each other for too long, but you help everyone around here. You fix things before they break. You check on people even when no one notices. You’re kind. You pay attention.” Your voice dropped to almost a whisper. “And you treat me with more gentleness than most people I’ve known.”
Color rose to his cheeks. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “I don’t… I don’t want you to feel like you have to be nice to me.”
Whatever was left of your heart shattered into tiny pieces. “I’m not nice out of pity,” you said, shaking your head. “I like when you stop by. I look forward to it.”
He went still. “You do?” he asked, his voice rough.
You gave him a small smile. “I do.”
His breath hitched a fraction, and it was enough for you to notice. When he looked at you again, it wasn’t guarded or unsure. The softness was still visible, of course, but it was more open and a little overwhelmed. It was the kind of look that made your heart skip a beat.
“Thank you,” he whispered, clearing his throat. “Means more than you know.”
“And I know it was you who left me that pack of pens, so thank you.”
He chuckled, his cheeks deepening in color. “I, uh… Yeah, I did.”
You giggled, standing up to grab your coat and bag. “It’s my favorite brand. It was a nice surprise seeing them there.”
He got to his feet and carefully put the chair back where it was. “Yeah, I…” He looked anywhere but at you. “I may have heard you muttering under your breath that you couldn’t believe you lost it. Figured a new pack might help.”
You bit your lip. He really did pay attention. “It really did help,” you promised.
It made you whole day.
“It was nothing.” He watched attentively as you slipped your coat on. “Still want me to walk you to your car?”
“If you’re still willing.”
His lips twitched before a lopsided grin appeared on his face. “I am. Just need to grab my coat.” He hesitated in the doorway when he got there. “Would you mind if I brought Bear? I don’t like leaving him in the building when I'm not inside.”
You nodded. “Of course, you can.”
You had seen the gentle giant of a service dog from time-to-time. The kids loved him. You weren’t sure of the exact reasons Bucky had him, but it wasn’t your business.
Bear’s tail thumped once when he looked at you, a wag that felt like a welcome. You carefully crouched down to greet him. “Am I allowed to pet him?” you asked, knowing better than to assume.
He nodded back in thanks and left while you locked up. You weren’t even halfway down the hall when he came back in a worn coat with Bear beside him, and a giddy feeling filled you at the thought of him rushing back to see you. He scratched behind the dog's ear and your heart melted.
“Hey, buddy,” he said, softer than he spoke even with you. “We’re gonna walk her out, okay?”
“Sure.”
You held your hand out so Bear could sniff it, letting him decide if he wanted you to pet him or not. He nudged it, allowing you to touch his thick fur. “Hey. You’re a good boy,” you whispered. He gave off calm energy. No wonder Bucky trusted him.
He glanced between you two, a mix of tenderness and shock. “He likes you,” he said. “He’s really gentle with kids, but he doesn’t always warm up to adults right away.”
You smiled up at him. “Well, I consider it an honor then. He’s very sweet.”
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes lingering on you.
Bear nudged his hand, a subtle check-in. His fingers slid through his fur like second nature, and you saw the tiniest bit of tension leave his shoulders. “Ready?” he asked when you stood up. He held his hand out and it took you a moment to realize he was wordlessly asking to carry your bag.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Your fingers touched when you handed it over and you inhaled, wondering if he felt the jolt, too.
“You’re welcome,” he said, his voice as comforting as the coat surrounding you.
You fell in step beside Bucky with Bear on his other side, your footsteps echoing gently on the polished floor. Bucky’s keys jingled every few steps, a small sound you’d come to associate with him. He walked with you instead of in front of or behind you, his pace matching you. He was close enough that you could hear the shift in his coat when he adjusted your bag on your shoulder.
“You know, most people can’t wait to get out of here at the end of the day, but you don’t seem to mind staying a bit later,” he commented, sneaking a glance at you.
“The quiet gives me a chance to decompress just a little before I head home,” you said, where there was more quiet since you lived alone. “You don’t seem to mind either.”
“Kinda like you, I guess. Building’s quieter and it makes it easier to process my thoughts.” He pet Bear again and added after a beat, “I like the quiet.”
“I do, too,” you said, smiling. “It balances out the wonderful chaos of the day.”
Before you could reach for the side door, Bucky stepped in front of you to open it. You smiled to yourself at the gesture. The crisp, cold air hit you immediately once you stepped outside and you took a moment to admire the soft blue sky. You shivered and felt guilty that he offered to walk you out in the cold, but it didn’t seem to bother him.
“I’m right over here.” You pointed to a small car, one of the only ones left in the parking lot.
His boots crunched on some of the leftover salt and he put an arm at your lower back. “Just making sure you don’t fall,” he said almost to himself instead of you.
“I appreciate that.”
He cleared his throat and gently pulled Bear along when he sniffed the ground. “I meant to ask before, but what made you want to be a teacher?”
“Oh.” He sounded genuinely curious. “My answer might be cliche.”
“Try me,” he teased.
You got quiet, thinking back to your childhood. “I’ve always loved learning growing up. I constantly had a book in my hand and I always asked questions about subjects that excited me.”
“And your teachers encouraged you, didn’t they?” he guessed.
“They did. They helped keep that passion of learning alive.” It meant a lot to you when you were a kid. “And I realized I wanted to do the same thing. I want kids to grow, learn, and thrive, even when my parents said there was no ‘real money’ in teaching.”
He gazed at you in awe. “That’s really admirable,” he whispered.
“Thanks,” you whispered back, tilting your head. “How did you become a janitor?”
He smiled wistfully. “I’ll tell you when you aren’t shivering,” he promised, lowering his arm once you got to your car and Bear taking a seat beside him. “I’ll tell you about how I got him, too.”
You nodded and took your bag back, wishing you had an excuse to stick around. You wanted to hear his story if he was really willing to tell you. “Thanks for walking with me,” you said, giving his dog a smile. “Both of you.”
His nose nudged your hand again and Bucky smiled. “I’m glad you let us,” he said, shifting a bit on his feet like he didn’t want you to go just yet either.
You fiddled with your keys to steel your nerves. “Bucky?”
He looked at you expectantly. “Yeah?”
You swallowed, feeling much warmer despite the chill in the air. “I’m really glad you stopped by my classroom tonight.”
“I’m glad I did, too,” he murmured.
You bit your lip and dug into your bag until you found a pen and a post-it note, using your car as a flat surface to quickly jot down your number. “Here. Just in case you ever want to chat or anything outside of school hours.”
You blamed the cold for your shaky hand when you handed it over. There was nothing in the rules that staff couldn’t date, but you didn’t want to put any pressure on him or make him uncomfortable. You already felt like you were prying by asking about his profession.
His mouth fell open when he read it, staring at it like it wasn’t real. Did you make a mistake? Should you take it back?
“I’m sorry,” you said immediately. “You don’t have to call or anything. You could be seeing someone and I-”
“No, I’m not seeing anyone,” he cleared up right away. You sighed in relief, thankful that you didn’t shoot your shot at a taken man. “I’m just… Shit, I’m surprised you want me to have your number.”
“Well, I do.” Just like you wouldn’t be nice to him just because, you wouldn’t hand your number out either. “And I’m not seeing anyone either,” you added, answering before he could ask.
He swallowed hard and carefully tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll call you.”
“Great.” Your smile lit up your face, and Bear looked between you two like a happy guardian. You were looking forward to it. “And if you stopped by again tomorrow, I wouldn’t mind.”
He nodded, tucking his hair back with a smile of his own. “I will.”
Bear whined quietly. “You’re allowed to stop by, too, Bear,” you assured him, giggling when his tail wagged.
“He really does like you,” Bucky whispered. It seemed to mean a lot to him, and it meant a lot to you, too.
Your heart fluttered when he stepped back enough to let you open the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Bucky.”
“Good night, sweetheart,” he whispered, the endearment surprising you both. It sounded so natural coming from him. “Sorry. That…”
“No, I… I like it,” you promised, putting your hand on his arm. You felt that jolt again and the hitch in his breath told you he felt it, too. “Good night, Bucky.”
He didn’t walk away when you started the car, staying rooted to the spot with Bear faithfully beside him as you pulled away. He lifted a hand to wave, and you waved back, giggling softly to yourself. It was an unexpected turn of events, which thrilled you.
Because Bucky Barnes was going to change your life for the better.
I know, I know. Another Bucky. But isn't he the sweetest? How long before he calls? What's his story?
warnings: none. this fic is so sweet. i wish bucky was my fake boyfriend
summary: you hire bucky barnes to pose as your boyfriend for a chaotic family reunion. it’s supposed to be a one-weekend performance… until his possessive touches and the way he looks at you stop feeling like an act.
authors note: remember my 2k celebration i broadcasted a few months ago or whatever? yeah, i hardly do either!! here’s one of the fics for it lols
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The profile picture is blurry.
That’s your first thought when the app finally loads his profile, the spinning wheel replaced by a square of washed-out color. A broad-shouldered man in a dark Henley, leaning against a brick wall, a soft smirk under a scruff-shadowed jaw. His hair is pulled into a low knot at the back of his head. His eyes—gray, maybe blue—crinkle at the corners.
James “Bucky” Barnes. Thirty-six. Six feet tall. Professional companion.
And, according to the little green icon at the top, available.
You stare at the screen far longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the “Request Booking” button like it might shock you.
This is insane.
Except your mother’s text from this morning still sits unread in your notifications, taunting you.
Can’t wait to see you both next weekend! Your cousins are already gushing about finally meeting your boyfriend. Love you ❤️
Your imaginary boyfriend. The one you created out of thin air last Thanksgiving to stop the constant, suffocating questions about your love life. The lie snowballed—one offhand comment about seeing someone turned into a full-blown committed relationship by Christmas in your mother’s retelling.
And now, there’s a family reunion. A whole weekend at the lakeside cabin. With your relationship as one of the main attractions, apparently.
You exhale, thumb finally tapping the button.
Screw it.
You fill out the details: dates, location, expectations. “Play the role of significant other at family event. Minimal PDA. Must be convincing. Possessive is fine, but nothing over the top.”
You hesitate, then add one more line in the special notes: “Please be gentle with my grandmother. She’s nosy, not mean.”
You press send.
The app pings back a confirmation.
Booking request sent to: James “Bucky” Barnes.
You lock your phone, toss it onto the couch like it’s burning, and bury your face in your hands.
What are you doing?
He arrives ten minutes early.
The knock at your apartment door is firm, confident. You’re in the middle of re-tying your shoelaces for the third time, nerves chewing at your fingers. For a second, you consider pretending you’re not home.
Then another knock. “Hey, it’s Bucky,” a deep voice calls through the door, smooth and warm and real. “From the app. I promise I’m not a serial killer. I brought coffee as a peace offering.”
You inhale, straighten, and open the door.
The photo did not do him justice.
He’s taller in person, broader, the dark Henley replaced by a black t-shirt stretched over a chest that looks like it was custom-built by a sadistic personal trainer. A worn leather jacket hangs open, and his hair is pulled back again, a little messy. His eyes catch yours—blue, definitely blue—and his mouth tilts in that same smirk. There are two cups cradled in his hands.
“Hi,” you manage.
“Hi,” he echoes, voice softening as he looks at you. His gaze drops, quickly, taking in your jeans, the sweatshirt you debated changing out of three times, the nervous twist of your fingers. “You must be…” He catches himself, smile widening. “My girlfriend for the weekend.”
The words punch air out of your lungs.
“Yeah,” you say, stepping aside so he can enter. “Come in.”
He toes off his boots at the door without you asking, places the coffees on the counter, and looks around your living room like he’s cataloguing details.
“I grabbed a latte,” he says, tapping the cup with the caramel-colored lid. “And a black coffee. You strike me as a latte person, but I didn’t want to assume.”
“You can… read latte energy off someone?” you tease, grateful for the distraction.
“Comes with the job.” He shrugs, unbothered. “I can usually also tell who’s about to cancel at the last minute and convince themselves they don’t need help.” He looks straight at you. “Did I get that one right, too?”
Heat creeps up your neck. “I thought about it,” you admit.
He nods, like he respects the honesty. “But you didn’t. Which tells me this matters.” He leans a hip against the counter, folding his arms. “So. Why don’t you tell me what I’m walking into, sweetheart?”
The term of endearment slips out so easily it throws you for a moment. Not syrupy, not fake. It snaps something tight in your belly.
You wrap your hands around the latte, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. “It’s my family’s annual reunion,” you say. “We rent this cabin on the lake. Barbecues, board games, endless questions about what we’re doing with our lives.” You pause. “I told them I was seeing someone. Then I told them it was serious. And, um. Introduced you last Christmas. In theory.”
He considers that. “What’s my backstory?”
“I, uh…” You blink. “I… didn’t… make one?”
His mouth curves. “We’ll fix that on the drive.” He pushes away from the counter, standing close enough that you catch the spice of his cologne. “What do you need from me this weekend?” His tone is professional, but his focus is all on you. It feels like being pinned without being touched.
“Convincing,” you say. “Just enough affection that my mother believes I’m happy. My cousins are competitive—they’ll probably try to corner you, but… just be nice to them. And my grandmother will ask when you’re going to propose, so… maybe don’t have a heart attack.”
“Got it,” he murmurs. “Be your perfect boyfriend. Deflect proposal questions. Charm the nosy relatives.” His gaze dips to your mouth for a fraction of a second. “Any limits I should be aware of? PDA-wise?”
Your brain short-circuits. “Um. Holding hands is fine. Hugging. Maybe a kiss on the cheek. Nothing too—”
“Nothing too much,” he finishes for you, nodding. “We’ll start there.” He reaches out, gentle, fingers brushing your wrist. “I take this seriously. That sound okay?”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Then let’s get going,” he says, that easy smile returning. “I wanna meet the people who raised the woman I’m crazy about.”
You almost choke on your latte.
He winks.
Apparently, he’s not going to make this easy.
The drive is two hours.
By the time you pull up to the cabin, you know that “James” prefers Bucky, that he was in the military before this job, that he has a cat named Alpine who, in his words, “judges everyone, myself included,” and that he takes his work more seriously than you expected.
“You understand I’m going to act like your boyfriend,” he had said, eyes on the road, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other resting on his thigh. “That means looking at you like I’m crazy about you. Remembering how you take your coffee, your favorite movies, the story about how we met. Touch comes with that. If anything makes you uncomfortable, you say so. Out loud.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
“You’re not a burden for needing boundaries,” he’d added, harder, like it was important you heard it. “You tell me, I respect it.”
It made something unclench in your chest.
Now, as the cabin comes into view, two stories of dark wood and big windows, smoke curling from the chimney, your stomach swoops.
Cars litter the driveway, familiar shapes and colors. Your cousin’s sleek sedan, your uncle’s battered pick-up. The noise of your family drifts on the cold air: laughter, someone shouting about the grill, the unmistakable shriek of one of your nieces.
“You ready?” Bucky asks quietly, putting the car in park.
“Not even remotely,” you say honestly.
His mouth twitches. He reaches over, taps two fingers under your chin, gently guiding your gaze to him. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Just you and me right now. Deep breath.”
You inhale. The air smells like pine and his cologne. You exhale slower.
“There you go,” he says. “Now. One more thing before we go in.”
You brace.
He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. “I’m going to touch you,” he says, voice dropping. “I’m gonna hold your hand, put my arm around you. I might call you baby, sweetheart, whatever feels natural. I’m going to act like every person in that house has been warned not to hurt you. Because that’s what a good boyfriend does. Okay?”
Possessive. The word from your notes flits through your mind.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He smiles then, slow and genuine, as if he’s satisfied with your answer. His hand finds yours between the seats, fingers weaving through. His palm is warm, calloused. “Then let’s go knock ’em dead.”
Your mother spots you first, because of course she does.
“Oh!” she squeals from the porch, dish towel in hand. “There they are! There’s my baby!”
Bucky’s hand squeezes yours once. “You mind?” he murmurs against your hair.
“Mind what—”
He disengages his fingers only to slide his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in against his side as you climb the porch steps. At your mother’s excited wave, he lets out a soft, delighted laugh, like this is the best part of his week.
“There’s my future mother-in-law,” he says, extending his free hand to her. “Hi, Mrs.—”
She cuts him off with a hug, because she’s never met a boundary she didn’t steamroll right over. “Call me Linda,” she scolds, then leans back to look at him, hands on his biceps. “Goodness, you are handsome.”
He actually blushes, a faint pink dusting his cheeks. “Thank you, ma’am,” he says. “I’d say I clean up nice, but honestly, she makes me look good.” His arm tightens around you just a fraction.
Your mother beams. “Oh, I like you,” she declares. “Come in, come in. Everyone’s dying to meet you.”
The chaos swallows you.
A dozen faces turn your way as you step inside. Names blur together—cousins, aunts, uncles, their kids—but Bucky navigates it like a pro. He repeats names back, shakes hands, takes each teasing comment about “finally showing up” with a good-natured grin.
When your cousin Mark, ever the asshole, claps him on the shoulder and jokes, “So what’s wrong with you that you’re with our disaster over here?” his smile doesn’t falter.
“Nothing wrong with her,” Bucky says lightly, but there’s an edge beneath it, a hint of steel. His hand on your hip tightens. “She’s the best decision I ever made.”
The room quiets, just a heartbeat.
Heat floods your face. Mark raises his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, damn. Didn’t realize you were whipped, man.”
“Proudly,” Bucky replies, tone cool.
He doesn’t glare. He doesn’t need to. The way he stands, the subtle shift of his shoulders, the way his thumb rubs slow circles at your waist—every line of his body says mine without a word.
Your pulse stutters.
He’s good at this, you think, a little dazed. Maybe too good.
It keeps happening.
You find your grandmother in the living room, ensconced in her favorite armchair with a blanket over her knees, the TV murmuring an old black-and-white movie. Her eyes light up when she sees you.
“There she is,” Grandma coos. “And this must be the mystery man.” Her gaze rakes over Bucky, assessing. “Hmm. He’ll do.”
Bucky chuckles, stepping forward. “It’s an honor, ma’am,” he says, taking her frail hand in both of his. He’s so gentle it makes your throat tight. “I’ve heard you make the best apple pie in the world.”
“Flattery,” she declares, patting his knuckles. “We like him.” Her eyes sharpen. “So. When are you gonna put a ring on her finger, James?”
You open your mouth, panic flaring, but Bucky is faster.
“Well, that depends, doesn’t it?” he says smoothly, glancing down at you with a soft smile. The tenderness in his eyes makes your stomach flip. “I want her forever, but I’m not gonna rush her. As long as she knows I’m not going anywhere, I’m happy.”
Something in your chest aches.
Grandma harrumphs. “Smart boy,” she says. “Don’t let her go. She’s special.”
“Believe me,” Bucky says, eyes never leaving yours. “I know.”
You have to look away.
Later, in the kitchen, one of your little nieces barrels into your legs, babbling about how Uncle Mark dropped the chips in the lake. You scoop her onto your hip, laughing, and Bucky watches you with an expression that makes your breath catch.
Soft. Open. Like he’s seeing something he hadn’t expected.
“You’re good with kids,” he says, voice low enough that only you hear it.
You shrug, bouncing your niece. “I grew up in this chaos. It’s second nature.”
He steps closer, brushing a stray crumb from your shoulder with a little frown, like the idea of something messy touching you irritates him personally. “You’d be an amazing mom,” he says.
The words hit you square in the sternum.
You swallow. “What about you?” The question slips out before you can stop it. “You want kids?”
His gaze drops to your mouth, then lower, to the niece clinging to your shirt. When his eyes meet yours again, they’re darker. “With the right person?” he says quietly. “Yeah. I’d want everything.”
Your heart does something dangerous.
He’s pretending, you remind yourself fiercely. This is his job. None of this is real.
You repeat that to yourself when he takes your hand during dinner, thumb stroking over your knuckles under the table. When he leans in to murmur a joke only you can hear, his lips brushing your ear. When he wraps an arm around you on the couch during game night, tugging you into his side as your cousin’s fiancée eyes him with open admiration.
“Where did you find him?” she whispers later, when you’re alone in the bathroom, both of you washing your hands.
“You’d be surprised,” you say weakly.
In the mirror, your cheeks are flushed. There’s a mark on your neck from when he’d whispered something inappropriate about what he’d rather be doing with you than playing charades, teeth grazing your skin just barely. Your body had jolted, heat pooling low, and he’d pulled back with a tiny, satisfied smile when you smacked his chest.
He’s not just convincing your family.
He’s convincing you.
Night comes, bringing with it the inevitable question of sleeping arrangements.
Your mother corners you in the hallway, whisper-hissing like you’re still a teenager. “There’s only one guest room left,” she says. “The one upstairs. The kids have the bunk room, Mark’s on the pull-out, your aunt and uncle have the downstairs queen. You two are fine sharing, right?” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Don’t be shy on my account.”
“Mom,” you groan, scandalized.
She just pats your cheek and flits away, humming.
A moment later, Bucky appears at your side, towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp from a shower. “Everything okay?” he asks softly.
“Apparently we’re sharing a room,” you say, trying for casualness and failing spectacularly.
His brows lift. He studies your face for a long beat, searching for discomfort. “Okay with you?” he asks finally. “We can always pretend there was a plumbing emergency and I had to sleep in the car.”
The mental image of him stretched out in the backseat, broad frame cramped, makes your stomach twist. “No, it’s fine,” you say quickly. “It’s just one bed, but… it’s big. And we’re adults.” You’re rambling now. “I can stay on my side.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I’ll build a pillow wall,” he promises. “And I’ll keep my hands to myself. Unless you say otherwise.”
Your pulse flutters hard enough you’re surprised he can’t see it through your shirt. “Got it,” you say.
The guest room is cozy, all soft lamplight and mismatched quilts. The bed does look big—king-sized, at least—but somehow still not big enough when Bucky drops his duffel on the dresser and shrugs off his jacket.
He’s in a thin t-shirt and sweats now, the fabric clinging to the lines of his back, the slope of his shoulders. He rummages for something, then holds up an oversized t-shirt.
“Figured you’d want something more comfortable than jeans,” he says. “They’re not exactly sleepwear.”
You stare. “You… brought me clothes?”
“I don’t show up unprepared.” He shrugs, a little self-conscious. “Didn’t know if you’d want to bring your own pajamas with your family around. This way you don’t have to walk through the house in anything you’d be embarrassed by.” His mouth quirks. “Unless you like the thrill.”
Your face goes nuclear.
He chuckles, the sound low and fond. “Kidding. Mostly.” He offers you the shirt again. “You can wear it or not. Totally up to you.”
You take it, fingers brushing his. “Thank you,” you say softly.
The bathroom is tiny, steam fogging the mirror as you change. The t-shirt smells like laundry detergent and something undeniably him. It falls to mid-thigh, soft and worn, and you catch sight of yourself in the mirror—bare legs, his shirt, hair messy from the long day.
You look like someone’s girlfriend.
You look like his.
Your stomach flips, and you flick off the light.
He’s already in bed when you emerge, propped against the headboard, scrolling lazily through his phone. The sight of you freezes him. His gaze tracks from your bare knees up to the hem of the shirt, lingering on the sliver of skin at your thigh, then higher.
His throat bobs.
“That okay?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.
He drags his eyes to your face. For a moment, whatever’s in his expression is too raw, too unfiltered. Then he exhales, slow.
“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah, sweetheart. It’s… perfect.”
You slip under the covers on your side, careful not to brush him. The bed dips under his weight. He flips off the lamp, plunging the room into soft darkness.
For a while, there’s only the sounds of the house settling, the distant murmur of the TV downstairs, the muffled laughter of your relatives. You stare at the ceiling, hyper-aware of the man lying less than a foot away.
“This is weird, right?” you murmur finally.
“What, the fact that your grandma tried to bribe me with pie if I knock you up before Christmas?” he asks, amused.
You snort. “That’s just her. I meant this. Us. You’re very… convincing.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “That’s the job,” he says eventually.
“Do you ever—” You hesitate. “Do you ever get tired of pretending?”
His voice is closer than you expect when he answers, like he’s turned toward you. “Sometimes,” he admits. “Usually when it’s clear someone doesn’t want me. Not really. They want the idea of me. A prop for their story.” The mattress shifts as he moves, maybe running a hand through his hair. “This doesn’t feel like that.”
Your heart stutters. “No?”
“You didn’t book me to show off,” he says. “You booked me so your family would stop tearing you apart. So you could breathe for a weekend.” His sigh is a soft thing in the dark. “You’re not using me. You’re asking for help. Big difference.”
Silence stretches, warm and fragile.
“What about you?” he adds. “This weird for you?”
“Yeah,” you say honestly. “But not in a bad way.”
“Good weird?” he teases.
“Annoyingly good,” you grumble.
He chuckles, low. “I’ll take that.”
The pillow wall is forgotten. At some point, you roll onto your side, and his hand finds your waist under the blanket, fingers splaying there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You should protest. Remind him of boundaries. You don’t.
Instead, you fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing.
The second day is worse.
Worse, because it feels easier. Your body starts to anticipate him. His palm at the small of your back when you walk into a room. The way his fingers find yours under the table. The soft brush of his lips against your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
You tell yourself it’s just for show. That you’re playing your part, too, laughing at his jokes, leaning into his touch. But when your cousin’s ex-boyfriend, Luke, appears uninvited Saturday afternoon—because of course he does—something shifts.
You and Bucky are on the back deck when Luke walks up from the dock, all smug grin and cologne, a beer in his hand. He’s not technically family, but he’s been around long enough that everyone tolerates him.
“Hey,” Luke drawls. “Long time no see.” His eyes rake over you in a way that makes your skin crawl. “Didn’t know you’d be here this year.”
Bucky, standing at the railing beside you, goes very still.
“Luke,” you say, keeping your voice neutral. “Didn’t know you were invited.”
“I invite myself,” Luke says breezily. “So this is the infamous boyfriend, huh?” He looks Bucky up and down, dismissive. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Luke,” you warn.
Bucky’s hand slides to your hip, anchoring you. His expression is mild, but there’s nothing friendly in his eyes. “You must be the ex everyone pretends not to see coming,” he says pleasantly.
Luke snorts. “Cute. So, what, you two met how? Dating app? Work? Or did she finally start paying someone to put up with her?”
The words slam into you, dredging up old insecurities he’d planted. You flinch before you can stop yourself.
Bucky notices. Of course he does.
His fingers tighten, pulling you slightly behind him. The move is subtle, but Luke’s eyes narrow.
“Careful,” Bucky says, voice quiet. The humor has drained from it, leaving something cold and sharp. “You’re in her family’s house, talking about her like that.”
Luke raises his hands. “Just joking, man. Relax.”
“You made her flinch,” Bucky says. “Nothing funny about that.” He takes a step forward. He doesn’t loom—he doesn’t need to. The set of his shoulders, the steady, unblinking stare… it’s a warning all on its own. “You got a problem with her, you take it somewhere else. She’s not your punchline anymore.”
Blood rushes in your ears.
Luke scoffs, but there’s an edge of unease now. “Whatever. Enjoy the perfect boyfriend act while it lasts,” he mutters, turning away.
Bucky’s hand leaves your hip only to climb higher, curling around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. Even after Luke disappears back around the corner of the house, he doesn’t let go.
“You okay?” he asks, turning to look at you. Up close, his eyes are blazing.
You swallow around the lump in your throat. “He’s always been an ass,” you say. “It’s nothing.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Minimize it.” His thumb strokes your side. “If something hurts you, it’s not nothing. Not to me.”
Something in his tone makes your chest ache. “You really committed to this possessive boyfriend thing, huh?” you joke weakly.
His gaze drops to your mouth. When he looks back up, something has shifted behind his eyes. The air between you crackles.
“Maybe I’m not pretending as hard as I thought,” he says quietly.
Your breath stutters. “Bucky…”
He cups your jaw, fingers warm against your skin. “Can I kiss you?” he asks. On the surface, his voice is steady, but there’s a roughness to it. “For real. Not for them. For us.”
Your heart pounds. You glance toward the house—no one’s watching. The lake glitters beyond the deck, the afternoon sun soft and golden.
This is a bad idea.
“Yes,” you hear yourself say.
He doesn’t hesitate.
The first press of his mouth is careful, almost tentative, as if he’s giving you a chance to pull away. You don’t. You lean in.
He exhales against your lips, and then the kiss deepens, his hand tightening at your waist. His other slides into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the angle. It’s not gentle for long. There’s hunger there, banked but fierce, like he’s been holding back all weekend and finally, finally lets himself want.
You cling to him, fingers bunching in the fabric of his shirt. The world narrows to the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the low sound he makes when you lick into him.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.
“That felt…” you start, then trail off, at a loss.
“Real,” he finishes, forehead resting against yours.
You nod wordlessly.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, searching your face. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice rough. “If this is too much, if you want to keep the line where it was—”
“I don’t,” you blurt.
His eyes darken. “You don’t.”
You shake your head. “I know this is complicated and probably impractical and we’re technically in a contract, but—” You swallow, forcing the words out. “I like you. You. Not the role. Not the performance. You.”
His breath leaves him in a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Is that a yes?” you press, heart pounding.
He cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “It’s a hell yes,” he says. “But we’re talking about this. For real. After this weekend, we sit down like adults and sort it out. No pretending. No app between us.” His mouth curves. “I’m selfish enough that I want you outside of this house, too.”
Your pulse stutters. “Okay.”
He dips in for another kiss, softer this time, then rests his chin on your head, holding you to his chest. For a moment, you just stand there, wrapped in him, the lake breeze cool against your flushed skin.
“Just so you know,” he murmurs into your hair, “if anyone else talks to you like that asshole did? I’m not going to be nearly as polite.”
You smile against his shirt. “You were kind of terrifying already.”
“Good.” His arm tightens. “They should be scared. You’re the best thing in this place.”
The rest of the weekend blurs.
There are no more exes to deal with, just the usual family chaos, softened now by the knowledge hanging between you and Bucky like a secret. Every touch feels charged. His hand at the small of your back. Your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. The way he says baby now, voice dropping, just for you.
Sunday morning, you wake with his arm banded around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, his breath warm against your neck. His fingers splay over your stomach, the metal of his dog tags cool where they’ve slipped out of his shirt.
“Morning,” he mumbles, voice gravelly with sleep.
If this is pretending, you don’t want to know what real feels like.
The drive back is quieter, but not awkward. His hand finds your thigh over the console, thumb drawing idle patterns on your jeans. You talk about nothing and everything—favorite breakfasts, your worst high school memories, how his cat got her name.
When he pulls up in front of your building, the afternoon sun slants warm through the windshield.
“Well,” you say, suddenly shy. “I guess this is where you drop me off and we give each other a professional five-star rating.”
He huffs a laugh, but his jaw flexes. “About that.” He turns in his seat to face you fully, one arm draped over the steering wheel. “We don’t have to decide anything right now. You’ve had a long weekend. But I meant what I said on the deck.”
Your chest tightens. “Me too.”
He nods, like he’d expected that but needed to hear it anyway. “Okay. Then this is what we’re gonna do.” He pauses, eyes searching yours. “I’m gonna give you my number. My real one. Not the app. You think about what you want. If you decide this was just a little reunion fantasy and you’d rather leave it there, you don’t call. I’ll respect that. No questions.” His mouth tugs into a crooked smile. “I’ll probably sulk about it, but I’ll respect it.”
“And if I call?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes darken. “Then I’m taking you on a real first date,” he says. “Flowers, dinner, the works.” He leans in, the corner of his mouth brushing yours. “And I stop pretending that I’m not crazy about you.”
Your heart feels too big for your ribcage. “You’re really leaving it up to me?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. “You hired me. I wanna make sure you’re the one hiring me again. As your boyfriend this time. Not as a service.”
You stare at him, overwhelmed by the gentleness of it. The way he hands you the power, no pressure, no manipulation.
“Okay,” you say finally, voice steady. “Give me your number.”
He grins, slipping his phone into your hand. “Put your name in, too. So I know it’s you when you call and not, like, my dentist.”
You laugh, fingers trembling slightly as you type your name and hit save. When you hand it back, his thumb brushes your knuckles.
“This isn’t a goodbye, you know,” he says. “Not if you don’t want it to be.”
You swallow. “It’s a… see you later?”
“Hopefully very soon,” he murmurs.
He leans in for one last kiss, slow and lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. When you finally pull back, your head spins.
You gather your bag, open the car door. The air outside feels different somehow, sharper, infused with possibility.
“Bucky?” you say, pausing.
“Yeah?” he replies, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on his thigh.
You smile, heart pounding. “Text me when you get home. So I know you’re safe.”
His answering smile is blinding. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Anything for my girl.”
The phrase sends a thrill through you. Your girl. Not for show. Not with anyone watching.
You step out of the car, close the door, and watch as he pulls away. He glances in the rearview mirror, lifts his hand in a little wave.
You stand on the sidewalk long after his taillights disappear, your phone heavy in your hand.
You could tuck this away. Let it become a wild story you tell friends over drinks—remember that time I hired a boyfriend for a weekend and accidentally fell for him?
Or you could open your messages, scroll to the new contact, and type three little words that feel like the beginning of something.
You tap the screen.
Hey, Bucky.
You hit send before you can overthink it.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Been waiting for that. When can I see you again, sweetheart?
Your cheeks ache from smiling. Fingers flying, you type back.
Touch starved Bucky who arrived at the tower a couple months ago and everyone keeps avoiding him except us. One day we come back from a mission and just crawl onto his lap, bury our face into the crook of his neck and fall asleep. He stays up all night staying still so he doesn’t wake us up and just rubs our back.
Thanks!
He arrives quietly.
That’s the first thing you notice about him—the way Bucky Barnes slips into the tower like a ghost that forgot how to haunt properly. No announcement. No jokes. No easy smiles. Just the soft mechanical whirr of the elevator and the faint, almost apologetic sound of boots against polished floors.
The team tries. You can tell they do. They greet him, nod at him, offer him space that’s a little too wide and smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes. No one knows where to put their hands around him, so they keep them firmly to themselves. Conversations die when he enters rooms. Chairs scrape back just a bit too far when he sits down. It’s all very polite. Very careful.
And very lonely.
You notice that too.
It’s in the way he keeps his arms folded tight across his chest, like he’s holding himself together. In how he always chooses the edge of the couch, perching instead of relaxing. In the way his shoulders tense whenever someone brushes past him by accident, as if touch is something to brace for instead of something to want.
He’s been here two months when you finally stop pretending you don’t see it.
Maybe it’s selfish—maybe you’re just tired of the way missions chew you up and spit you back out raw and aching. Maybe you’re touch-starved too, in your own way. Or maybe it’s as simple as this: every time you sit beside him, he leans in a fraction of an inch without realizing it.
So you sit beside him. Always.
You don’t force conversation. You don’t ask questions he isn’t ready to answer. You just exist near him. Your shoulder brushing his arm during movie nights. Your knee knocking into his under the table. Small things. Normal things. Things that make him freeze at first—and then, slowly, breathe.
He never pulls away.
The mission that breaks you is supposed to be routine. In and out. Clean. Instead, it’s loud and messy and exhausting, and by the time you’re back at the tower your adrenaline has burned off, leaving nothing but bone-deep fatigue in its wake.
The common room is dim when you wander in, lights low, city glowing beyond the windows. Bucky is there, as usual, sitting on the couch like he’s not sure he belongs to it. His head lifts when he hears you, blue eyes softening instantly.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
You nod, even though your body feels like it’s made of lead. You don’t trust your voice, so you don’t answer. Instead, you drop your gear by the door and walk straight to him.
He barely has time to shift before you’re climbing onto his lap.
It’s not dramatic. You don’t think about it. You just turn sideways, knees pressing into the couch cushions, and settle your weight against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your face finds the crook of his neck, warm and solid and real, and you breathe him in—soap and gun oil and something unmistakably him.
You sigh.
Bucky goes completely still.
For one heartbeat. Two.
Then his arms come up—not all at once, but slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid sudden movement will scare you away. One arm circles your waist, tentative. The other rests awkwardly along your back, metal cool even through your suit.
“Hey,” he murmurs, unsure. “You… uh…”
You don’t answer. Your breathing evens out, exhaustion dragging you under faster than you can fight it. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself, and you’re asleep before he can finish the sentence.
Bucky doesn’t move.
He doesn’t even breathe deeply at first. He stares ahead, eyes wide, heart pounding like he’s just come back from a firefight. Your weight on him is warm and grounding and terrifying all at once. He’s scared to blink, scared that if he shifts even an inch you’ll wake up and realize what you’ve done and pull away.
So he stays.
Minutes stretch into hours. The city lights change outside the windows, traffic thinning, the tower sinking into its nighttime hush. His legs go numb. His back aches. He doesn’t care.
Your face is tucked against his neck, breath ghosting over his skin. Every exhale makes something in his chest ache in a way that’s sharp and sweet all at once. No one’s held him like this in… he can’t remember. Maybe ever. Not without expectation. Not without fear.
His hand finally starts to move when he’s sure you’re deeply asleep.
Just a small motion. Fingers brushing up and down your back in slow, careful strokes. Over your spine. Along your shoulder blades. Reassuring, rhythmic. The kind of touch meant to soothe, not claim.
You make a tiny sound in your sleep and melt closer.
Bucky swallows hard.
He stays awake all night.
He watches the room darken completely, listens to the quiet hum of the tower settling, memorizes the weight of you against him like he’s afraid it might disappear if he doesn’t hold onto it tight enough. His hand never stops moving, even when his eyes burn with exhaustion.
When morning light finally creeps in through the windows, painting everything soft gold, he feels something unfamiliar bloom in his chest.
Peace.
For the first time since he arrived, he doesn’t feel like something the tower is tolerating.
He feels wanted.
And when you stir a little, nose brushing his throat, arms tightening around him in your sleep, Bucky smiles—small and stunned and achingly real—and keeps rubbing your back, still as a statue, grateful for every second you choose to stay.
That kind of loud where the bass hits your chest before the sound even hits your ears. One of those forced peacekeeping galas meant to make the world feel like it had stopped burning just long enough for the important people to pat themselves on the back.
The room smelled like champagne and expensive perfume. Your dress was too tight. Your shoes pinched. Your head was already aching.
And Bucky wasn’t supposed to be here.
You’d read the list twice. Sharon said he didn’t do public events like this. Not when there were cameras, reporters, suits everywhere, all watching for him to blink the wrong way. Not when he was still rebuilding who he was allowed to be.
But then you turned, eyes catching movement by the far end of the open ballroom, and, there he was.
Leaning back against the far wall like he wanted to sink into it. Black suit. Tie slightly loosened. Hair pushed back, but a few strands falling out already. Hands clenched at his sides. Jaw tight.
Bucky Barnes.
And when he saw you across the room, he softened. Just a little.
Only for a second.
Then he looked away again.
You hadn’t spoken to him since Madripoor. It wasn’t personal, at least, you told yourself it wasn’t. Things got complicated. You moved onto another assignment. He moved into the shadows again.
But you remembered. You remembered the rooftop talks. The quiet, unexpected nights. The way he looked at you, not like you were fragile, or dangerous, or a mistake, but like he couldn’t quite figure out why you were still looking at him.
You didn’t blame him.
You weren’t sure either.
"Agent Y/N," a senator said beside you, his breath far too close to your neck. "Can I just say, you are absolutely stunning tonight."
You smiled politely, but it didn’t reach your eyes. "Thank you, sir."
He stepped closer.
"Do you do protection details for civilians?"
"Only when necessary."
"I’d love to make myself a necessity."
Your smile dropped.
You turned your body slightly away. The senator didn’t get the hint.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Bucky push off the wall. His posture changed. He was still a hundred feet away, but you could feel the air shift like gravity had noticed him.
"I’m going to get a drink," you said sharply.
You didn’t wait for permission. You slipped through the crowd, heart climbing up your throat. The noise was too much. The music, the chatter, the clinking glass, it was like a hundred different things trying to touch you at once.
You hated this.
You hated pretending you didn’t.
You didn’t realize how fast you were breathing until you got to the edge of the hallway.
Just outside the ballroom. Just outside the noise. But not far enough.
You leaned against the wall.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Your dress felt like it was choking you. Everyone was looking at you. Everyone was watching you.
Even when they weren’t.
Especially when they weren’t.
You didn’t hear him approach.
You just felt him.
The quiet shift of presence beside you. The warm brush of air as he leaned in close, not touching, not crowding, but there. Steady. Solid.
His voice was so quiet, you almost didn’t hear it.
"Are you okay?"
You blinked.
Then turned your head just slightly.
He wasn’t looking at you, he was looking forward, eyes scanning the crowd behind you like he was expecting someone to follow.
But his voice had broken, just a little, on the word okay.
You nodded once. Not convincingly.
He didn’t buy it.
"Want to leave?"
You hesitated.
He looked at you then.
God. Those eyes. Still so blue it hurt.
You whispered, "Yeah."
No one noticed you slipping out the back entrance.
Or maybe they did, but didn’t care.
The two of you walked in silence for a few blocks. No words. No small talk. Just the sound of your heels on pavement and Bucky’s calm footsteps beside you.
The cool night air hit your lungs like medicine.
Eventually, you stopped near the edge of a quiet park.
You took a breath. "Thanks."
He didn’t say you’re welcome. Just nodded.
Then, finally: "Did he touch you?"
You looked at him.
He was staring straight ahead again, jaw locked.
"No," you said. "He didn’t."
"Good."
You waited. "But if he had?"
His knuckles flexed.
"I’d break his jaw," he said plainly.
You believed him.
"You’re not supposed to do that anymore, remember?" you teased gently, trying to ease the weight.
He shrugged. "Doesn’t mean I forgot how."
You smiled. "Still got that winter in you."
He finally looked at you again.
And then, softer than you expected:
"Not with you."
You blinked.
There it was again. That thing in his eyes. That ache like he didn’t know how you hadn’t left yet. That guilt he wore like a second skin.
You didn’t know how to answer that.
So instead, you sat down on the nearest bench.
He followed.
The silence stretched.
Then, carefully:
"You looked uncomfortable in there."
You gave a soft laugh. "You looked like you were going to crawl out of your own skin."
"Was thinking about it."
You glanced at him. "Why were you there?"
He shrugged. "Sam asked."
"Since when do you listen to Sam?"
He sighed. "Since he became Captain America and I ran out of reasons to argue."
You nudged his knee with yours.
He let it happen.
You didn’t move your leg away.
"You really okay?" he asked again, quieter this time.
You hesitated.
"I don’t like crowds. Never have. Feels like too many people trying to get pieces of me all at once."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then said, "Yeah. I get that."
You looked at him.
He was watching the streetlight across from the park. His profile caught in the amber glow. Shadowed and soft at once.
"You always ask like that?" you asked.
He turned his head slightly.
"Ask like what?"
"Whisper it. Like it’s a secret."
His eyes met yours. "Only when it matters."
Your breath caught.
He looked down again, like he hadn’t just said something that sat heavy in the air between you.
"Bucky," you said.
He didn’t look up.
You tried again. "Why did you come over to me?"
He was still for a long time.
Then, finally:
"Because I saw the way you froze. The way your hands clenched. I saw your eyes. It’s the same look I get when I feel like I’m not really in my own skin."
You swallowed.
"I don’t know what you saw," you said quietly. "But thank you. For seeing it."
He turned then.
Fully.
Body angled toward you. Face open. Vulnerable.
"You’re the only person who looks at me like I’m still human," he said. "Not a weapon. Not a headline. Not a ticking time bomb."
You opened your mouth to answer, but he kept going.
"I didn’t say anything in Madripoor. I should have. I wanted to. But you left."
"I didn’t leave you," you whispered.
His jaw clenched.
"I know."
Another silence.
Then you said it.
The thing you hadn’t dared say before.
"I missed you."
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
But the way his hands twitched in his lap told you enough.
You reached out.
Fingers brushing his.
He didn’t pull away.
Not this time.
The noise from the city buzzed behind you. Cars. Horns. Distant sirens.
But none of it touched the moment.
None of it mattered.
Because in the middle of a crowd, you’d frozen.
And in the middle of that stillness, one voice had cut through.
Are you okay?
Not shouted. Not demanded.
Whispered.
Like it mattered.
Like you did.
And now, sitting beside him in the quiet after the storm, fingers tangled and hearts stumbling forward, you realized something else.
I saw a PSA recently about a scam going around with spoofed official numbers calling and asking for information, and how you should hang up and call back using the correct number rather than just go along with what the caller is telling you. But this is Tumblr, so I'll never be able to find the post again.
I decided to make my own, because this literally just happened to me an hour ago. Hopefully my story can spread some more awareness and save other asses the way mine was saved.
Around 7:30pm tonight (Friday), I got a phone call from a 1-800 number. I almost didn't answer it, then I saw it was 1-800-465-4___, and I recognized that as the start of the CIBC phone number, so I picked up.
Me: Hello?
Guy: Hi, is this [MrsD]?"
Me: Yes.
Guy: Hi, [MrsD], this is _____ from CIBC, how are you tonight?
I thought, okay, this is a sales call. Right before I'm about to sit down for dinner. Typical. Mentally, I'm already putting together an exit strategy, preparing to say no to everything and get off the phone ASAP. But then—
Guy: We've just flagged suspicious activity on your CIBC Visa card. It was an online BestBuy transaction for $980.00. Was that your transaction?
Me, flustered: Uh. What? Sorry, how much?
Guy: $980.00 at BestBuy, was that you?
Me: Oh. At BestBuy?
Guy: Yes, your card was used at a BestBuy in [town nearby]. Was that you? Did you go to [town nearby] today? You don't live in [town nearby], right?
Me: Uh. No?
Guy: Okay, so I need some information to verify this transaction.
By this point, my brain had caught on that something about this was hinky. First of all, I thought he said it was an online purchase, then he said it was in person. But maybe I'd misheard, he was talking fast. My second thought was that every other time there was a suspicious transaction, I got an automated phone call and a text message with instructions to call back. I've never had a person call me directly.
My third thought was, well, the phone number on the caller ID was right....
THEN! I remembered a Tumblr post I saw recently, and I remembered what it told me to do.
Me: I'm skeptical about this call. I'm going to call CIBC myself and look into this.
Guy: What? Ma'am, you can just tell me, I can verify—
Me: No. Thank you, but I'll call the number on the back of my card.
Guy, getting more agitated: Ma'am, if you look at the number on your card, you'll see it's the same number.
Me: You know that can spoofed, right?
Guy: Uh— but ma'am—
Me: Sorry, but I need to make sure. I'm going to call CIBC directly.
The guy kept sputtering, but I hung up on him. In that moment, I really didn't think that he was a scammer. In fact, I thought I was being paranoid and was maybe kinda rude to the guy. I wondered if I was being overcautious, and I felt a bit guilty.
I called the number on the back of my credit card, waited 15 minutes for an agent, and told him what just happened.
IMMEDIATELY—
Agent: You didn't tell him anything, did you?
Me: No. I said I wasn't in [town nearby] today, but that's it.
Agent: Good. You did the right thing by calling us, let me look into the transaction for you.
Then, a minute later:
Agent: I'm not seeing any transaction like that. There's no flags on your card, nothing suspicious at all.
Me: So it was a scam?
Agent: Yep. Entirely fake.
I was honestly surprised. I really thought that there was some kind of mix-up and that I would be apologizing to this guy for being rude to his colleague.
Looking back on it now, I can see all the telltale signs of it being a scam call:
Time of day. Early evening on a Friday, chances are people are either sitting down for dinner or in a hurry to get somewhere. In this situation, a lot people probably wouldn't think twice about giving "the bank" some information just to get off the phone. (Joke's on them, I have no life!) But the way that I reacted to his introduction did evoke the desired reaction of Ugh, what now? Leave me alone! that the scammer was banking on (pun intended).
Sense of urgency. The scammer spoke fast, threw details at me quickly, and made sure I knew that I had to give him my information right away. This honestly threw me off. It was overwhelming, and I felt concerned and a bit frantic for a few seconds until I thought about what I know about scams and what I'd just read in that Tumblr PSA.
Complete lack of empathy or understanding about my skepticism/anti-fraud precautions. The last time I had to get a new credit card number due to fraud, the agent I spoke to said things like "I know this is frustrating", "I'm sorry this is a hassle", etc. And of course the CIBC agent I spoke to tonight was immediately grateful that I'd called them directly and reassured me that CIBC would never ask for information. By contrast, the scammer was outright dismissive of my concerns and got agitated when I wouldn't just trust him right off the bat.
Emotional provocation. Similar to #2 & #3 above, the scammer was very good at making me feel things. Worried and fearful at first, then guilty about being suspicious, to the point where I actually apologized to the guy. (Granted, I am Canadian, but still!)
And finally, I cannot stress enough: the spoofed phone number. I am a pretty well-informed person. I keep up with news about scams and whatnot. I know that phone numbers can be spoofed. I've been in front of my phone when it just starts to ring and I can see the auto-dialler number appear briefly before it gets replaced with a number that has my area code. But tonight—early evening on a Friday—I was cooking dinner and my phone was across the room. It had rung several times by the time I got to it. I only picked it up because I recognized the CIBC number. And when the scammer started his spiel, the fact that the number was the same was enough for me to give him just a tiny moment of trust. Had he actually gotten past that first barrier and started requesting my information, I think I would have caught on, because people asking for sensitive information over the phone is a huge obvious red flag. I like to think I would have caught on, anyway. But maybe not! That fake number almost had me.
TL;DR: No matter what the number on your caller ID says—that it's your bank, your energy company, your internet provider, whatever!—if the person on the other end is requesting sensitive information urgently, don't panic. Stop. Think. Then tell them nothing, hang up the phone, and call your service provider yourself using a verified phone number.
Prompt: "Pet Sitting" Day 2 of @flufftober
Pairing: TFATWS Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: 6.3k
Synopsis: When Bucky Barnes needs to leave town for work, he turns to a pet-sitting app to keep his stubborn cat Alpine company. He expects scratched furniture, daily guilt, and a frazzled sitter, but what he gets is daily photo updates, a blossoming connection, and the warmest surprise of all: maybe he’s finally ready to trust again.
Tags/Warnings: Alpine mention! (duh), awkward flirting, Sam Wilson, bookworm reader, canon divergence from TFATWS show to fit my narrative, Bucky falls first and hard
Flufftober 2025 | Main Masterlist | AO3
There truly was an app for everything. At least, that’s what Bucky had deduced after spending the better part of his day trying to figure out how to hire someone to keep his cat alive.
When Sam Wilson had called with a new lead on the Flag Smashers, Bucky had said yes before he even really thought about it. Normally, he would have been on a jet to wherever he was needed to stop the anti-nationalist supervillains immediately.
But now? Now he had Alpine. A small, white cat he had adopted when his therapist said he needed connection. Something warm that didn’t involve punching people in the face and a companionship that wasn’t born out of a battle.
So why did it feel like such a battle to figure out how to save his sanity and furniture? Because he was not about to leave his cat alone with a bowl of food and a promise that he might be back in a week. Sam didn’t even know how long he would need to be gone.
And now here he sat, scrolling through an app called ‘Rover’ that Sam had deemed ”Tinder, but for animals”. Which already filled Bucky with dread considering his track record with the dating app. Nevermind that his cat was like him in the way she didn’t much care for strangers. So this almost felt like picking out a victim that was going to have to deal with her mood swings.
“What about this one?” Bucky asked Alpine, turning his phone so she could see a photo of a sitter. He figured that if whoever was going to be tasked with watching her, she may as well have some input. Maybe then she wouldn’t tear them to shreds. Not that she could really answer save for a slow blink, a flick of her tail, or an unimpressed yawn. She sniffed the phone, but the look of disgust was unmistakable in those bright blue eyes.
Bucky sighed again, continuing his scrolling. “We’ll have to pick someone you know. I can’t leave you alone. Not because I don’t trust you, but someone has to make sure you don’t starve or dehydrate while I’m gone.”
Alpine stretched her paws out in front of her, tail in the air curled like a question mark before hopping up to snuggle onto Bucky’s lap. She watched his thumb flick across the screen, ears perked high like she was now just as invested. Until she let out a quick mmrp and tapped her paws on his thighs.
“Her?” Bucky asked, pausing on a picture of a woman, a giant smile on her face as she cradled a dark grey cat and a golden-colored puppy in her arms. She had hundreds of glowing reviews, something called ‘Star Sitter Status’, and over 10 years of experience.
She was also – Bucky held the phone closer to his face – yeah, okay, she was kind of attractive. The kind that made something defrost in his chest.
“I really need to get out more,” he muttered. “Getting flustered by a woman holding an animal and talking to you like you can actually answer me.”
Alpine kneaded her paws again like she was confirming both his statement and choice of sitter.
“Alright, you know best.” He murmured, scratching behind her ears and already typing out a message.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
There hadn’t been time for a meet-and-greet – whatever that meant – not with Sam basically breathing down Bucky’s neck that their window for this lead was rapidly shrinking. You, thankfully, hadn’t seemed fazed. Bucky initially apologized for the awful timing, sending over a picture of Alpine as a bargaining chip, asking if you had any last-minute openings. You had responded nearly immediately.
Oh, she’s adorable! I had a cancellation last week, so the timing is actually perfect. I’d love to take care of her.
After a bit of back and forth that mostly consisted of payment methods and shot records, Bucky ended up standing outside a stranger’s apartment with Alpine in her carrier, and a duffel bag packed like he was expecting to be gone months instead of just a week. The guilt nagging at the back of his mind as he felt more like a deadbeat cat parent abandoning his fluffy child to someone he only knew through text message.
The door swung open to reveal you in an oversized blue pastel sweater and leggings, and a smile warm enough to melt asphalt. “Hi there!” you said brightly. Confident and friendly, like you’d known Bucky and his cat forever instead of less than 24 hours.
“You must be James, and this must be Alpine.” Your voice had a calming lilt, breezy and dangerously charming as you bent slightly to peer into the carrier.
You stepped aside so he could enter. The apartment was bright and cozy, pastels just like your sweater dotted every throw pillow, blanket, and fuzzy accent. Bucky hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this much color or comfort. His apartment barely had a rug and a couch. But here? Every spot had a soft place to curl up.
“I set up a space for her by the window, a lot of the cats I care for like to watch the birds in the garden.” You added casually, closing the door behind him.
Bucky nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction as he took in the space. He loosened his iron grip on the carrier once he realized it was creaking under stress. The quiet warmth of this place was the complete opposite of the dreary New York City sidewalk. It smelled like vanilla and citrus, like someone had just baked and then did a deep clean. There was a faint hum of music, something soft and instrumental, that made it feel less like a stranger’s apartment and more like an upscale spa reception area.
A cream colored cat tree was set up right where you pointed, bowls were laid out along with a host of pillows. A basket of toys proclaimed “A house isn’t a home without a pet” in calligraphy in the corner.
“If you want to set the carrier down, and open it, we can talk while she gets acquainted with her surroundings.” The suggestion was gentle, with a confidence that may have been misguided considering the fluffy menace in the carrier wasn’t reacting the way Bucky had expected. He was fully prepared for mewling and screeching, though this could be the calm before the storm.
Still, Bucky did as instructed, maybe grimacing more than he meant to as the hinges to the carrier creaked open. “She…really doesn’t like strangers.”
And she really didn’t. He’d seen full-grown men flinch when Alpine got into one of her territorial moods. So Bucky was bracing himself for the worst.
You smiled, relaxed and completely nonchalant, “That’s okay, I get it. It’s weird being in a new place. I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends by the time you come pick her up. How long were you going to be gone again?”
Bucky rubbed at the back of his neck, “I know I said a week, but my…work trip may get extended.” He hadn’t wanted to tell a stranger where he was going or what he was doing. He figured a small white lie was best instead of saying ‘I’m going to go do some illegal shit and get shot at.’
Nodding, “That’s fine, just let me know. I have another client coming in 10 days, so if you’re still out I’ll make sure to keep them separate. And I work from home so I’ll always be around. Any medications or special instructions?”
He cleared his throat, now sheepish as he produced a paper with everything he thought you would need to know. Alpine had been kept on a strict schedule ever since Bucky had adopted her, finding it grounded him. “Figured this was easier. I know it’s kind of a lot,” he muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “The schedule helps…both of us, I guess.”
To his surprise, you didn’t laugh or tease him. Instead, your eyes lit up, taking it, but Bucky had noticed Alpine creeping out of her carrier. She padded right to your feet, sniffing at the socks you were wearing. He held his breath, waiting for the flurry of scratches and yowling, the puffed tail, or for her to bolt back into the carrier.
But it never came.
Alpine weaved around your legs like she had known you forever. And you? You stood unbothered as you read through the care instructions.
“Promise I’m not ignoring her,” you said without looking up, like you could sense his question before he even asked. “With cats I always try to have them investigate me on their own terms before I start showing affection. I’m just letting her warm up to me first.”
“Smart.” Even though Bucky didn’t know if it was or not. Too busy transfixed on the way your lips barely formed the words as you read silently. He shoved his hands back into his jacket pockets, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting over your face.
“Food and everything in the bag?” You asked, looking down as Alpine brushed her head against your calf, leaving a streak of white hair on your leggings.
“Extra in case I am gone longer.”
You bent at the knees then, sitting on the ground. “I wish all my clients were as prepared as you.” Your smile could disarm a nuke with the softness behind it. Bucky grappled with the strange surge of feelings pushing behind his ribs. And then Alpine hopped into your lap, curling instantly against your thighs, and purring loud enough Bucky was sure the neighbors could hear.
“See?” You offered, two fingers lightly stroking down Alpine’s fur. “No longer strangers.”
Bucky was rendered speechless at the sight of his cat who had hissed and puffed up at anyone he brought into his apartment laying in your lap as the picture of contentment. A part of him felt relieved, that this wasn’t going to end up with you – a complete stranger – bloodied from sharp claws and teeth. But the other part? Softened completely at the sight of Alpine burrowing deeper into your arms like she’d known you her entire life.
Your arms shifted under Alpine’s body, scooping her up as you easily came back to standing. “We’ll be fine, I promise. I’ll send you updates, even hourly if you like. And if anything goes wrong, which it won’t, the first call will be to the vet, the second will be to you on the way to said vet.”
“Thanks.” Bucky fidgeted with the edge of his leather jacket, not sure if he should just…leave or stay to make sure Alpine wasn’t going to pull a complete bait and switch. You noticed the way he was lingering by the door awkwardly immediately.
“You want a minute to say goodbye?” You offered, holding her out to him.
“What?”
“To Alpine.” You grinned, lifting one of her paws. “I can step into the kitchen, let you have a moment. There’s no shame in crying, I totally get it.”
Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Was not going to cry as he dropped off his cat. His eyes were just…a little scratchy from the scent of vanilla. That was it.
Alpine let out a soft mmrp, completely unbothered as you handed her back to Bucky. “Just yell if you need a hug after.” You winked, disappearing into the kitchen like that was the most normal thing to offer a man with a vibranium arm and what Sam called ‘a resting murder’ face.
Bucky didn’t even dignify that with a response. Mostly because no one had offered him something like that in a long time, and the softness behind it had caught him completely off guard. It wasn’t with a trace of pity, more like…you actually cared about him too, not just his cat. Maybe you just weren’t aware of who he was. Instead of pondering too long on what an actual hug would feel like from someone who seemed to be sunshine personified, he scratched Alpine one last time behind the ears. “You be good, okay? I don’t want to hear how you became a terror after I’m gone.”
She yawned like she’d already forgotten who he was, and hopped down from his arms, trotting off to wherever you disappeared.
“She’s in good hands, I promise.” You reassured again, returning to the entry way, Alpine hot on your heels like a white magnet.
Bucky hesitated at the door still, fingers hovering just over the doorknob. He glanced back, not at Alpine this time, but at you. It had been a long time since he’d left something – or someone – he cared about in another person’s hands. Let alone a stranger. But something about the way you were looking back, casual and steady, made the guilt that had been in his chest loosen.
Then his gaze drifted, looking at how his normally standoffish cat sat obediently beside your feet, gazing up at you like she picked her new favorite human, Bucky couldn’t help but believe you when you said everything would be fine.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The first few updates Bucky got from you were standard. Or…at least he guessed they were. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was in this situation. But you sent things along as promised to show that Alpine was settling in nicely. A picture of her, lounging on the cat tree by the window with the caption: ‘The queen has claimed her throne.’
A short video of her cautiously sniffing a piece of salmon you were cooking. Typical cat things. Though now he was mildly concerned he’d have to start buying fish to keep her happy.
Now, he was halfway around the world, holed up in a warehouse that reeked of mildew and rust. Sam was at a makeshift table, covered in blueprints and dossiers muttering to himself. Bucky was meant to be keeping watch. And he was, leaning near a window, eyes on the quiet street, trying to catalog anything remotely out of place. Until his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he just had to check it immediately.
A selfie. You and Alpine curled up on the couch, her paws mashed into your jawline and a smug expression on her face, while you looked a little helpless and amused. You’d captioned it: ‘She’s refusing to move. Guess I’m stuck until dinner at 5 pm sharp.’
Another ping.
‘Also, she loves instrumental jazz. Didn’t expect her to have such good taste in music. She may wear out some of my records by the end of this.’
Bucky exhaled through his nose. Not quite a laugh, and closer to it than he’d like to admit.
He scrolls back to look at the photo longer than necessary. Not at Alpine who was really meant to be the focus of it. But at you. How you had a halo of soft light around your shoulders, hair a little messy, and an oversized hoodie. There was a record player in the background, a little blurry, but Bucky could make out a few of them. Chet Baker, Ella Fitzgerald, John Coltrane. He really didn’t expect that. You with your pastel colors and sunshine smile screamed bubblegum pop music, not old jazz.
It didn’t match, and that somehow made whatever feeling Bucky was having about these updates worse. Or better, he wasn’t sure yet.
Another ping, another photo. This time, a close-up of Alpine who had buried her body halfway inside your hoodie, paws sticking, and her head pushed into your chin. The caption read: ‘Resistance was futile.’
And maybe it was the fact that Bucky knew once Alpine got comfortable she was an immovable object that got him. Or maybe it was finally having someone else know what that feels like that knocked something loose behind his ribs. But he smiled, full and unguarded.
Across the room, Sam’s head snapped up. “What was that?”
Bucky didn’t move, schooling his features back into his normal glower. “What was what?”
“That little…smirk.” Sam stood then, waving a pen in his general direction. “You’re smiling. We’re about to infiltrate a den of mercenaries and you’re smiling about it.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You are too, is this a cat thing?”
Bucky pocketed his phone, “Just focus on making the plan, Wilson.”
“Who could you possibly be texting? Last I checked you only had like three numbers. And none of them should put that big of a smile on your face.”
He clenched his jaw, “I’m getting updates about Alpine. That’s it.”
“Oh, since when did Alpine learn to text?”
“I’m not – ” Bucky sighed, running a hand over his hair. “Just…let it go.”
Sam narrowed his eyes, “You’re acting weird.”
“I am not.”
“She’s cute isn’t she? That’s the issue, you picked an attractive sitter.”
“Alpine picked her.”
Sam chuckled, “Whatever you gotta tell yourself man.”
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The mission in Madripoor took a toll, both physically and mentally, and somewhere deeper Bucky didn’t want to even name. Zemo’s plan to infiltrate Selby’s bar to get information had worked, sure, but it had meant slipping back into a version of himself he’d worked so hard to bury.
That part didn’t necessarily scare him. What did was how easy it was without the trigger words. That even without the Winter Soldier programming, violent instincts still lingered.
Bucky found himself scrolling through the updates he had missed, the room dissolving around him while Zemo and Sam argued about their next steps.
The most recent one was a photo of Alpine, but just her little white ears sticking out of the duffel bag Bucky had brought her supplies in. The caption read: ‘She found the snacks. I had to move them, but…she can also open drawers.’
“See? He’s texting his cat again.” Sam’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Can you focus up, man?”
“Again, I’m getting updates about my cat. She’s just…giving the sitter a hard time.” Bucky tried to make it sound casual. Like he wasn’t using these little check-ins and updates to keep himself tethered to something that wasn’t sharp and riddled with blood. Something normal despite how his day had gone.
He thumbed back up to a previous picture. You had Alpine swaddled tightly in the blanket Bucky had brought, only her nose and barely one paw sticking out, eyes half open. Her head was tipped back, looking up at the camera with adoration. ‘One of the only ways I could keep her from gorging herself in the treat drawer. But she seems to like it when I hold her, more so when I sing her lullabies.’
And just when Bucky was about to put his phone away, a new photo came in. You, curled up on the floor beside the cat tree. A book was open on your lap, and Alpine was perched like she was reading along with you. The angle wasn’t great, like you’d balanced your phone on the coffee table, but Bucky could just make out the title. The Hobbit. Well-worn and curling along the edges from use. You captioned it with: ‘Story time is mandatory in this household. She picked this one out herself. We’re starting a new chapter tonight.’
Bucky stared at the photo longer than he meant to. Not at Alpine this time, though it was cute how she seemed so invested. But at the way your fingers held open the book. At the way the light from the window provided a soft, dreamy glow to your figure. At the fact that you even owned a copy of The Hobbit, let alone one that looked like it had been read so often.
He was certain he had had you figured out, but the more accidental glimpses he caught into your life, the more he realized how wrong he was. The fact that you liked jazz. Enough to have vinyl records of albums. The fact that you were reading to his cat from one of his favorite books without even knowing.
He opened the message field, poised to type something. But the words just wouldn’t flow from his brain to his thumbs. He clenched his jaw, rolling his shoulders out like he could work the words free somehow. Started with: “She likes fantasy stories. What do you think of it?”
He deleted it with a grimace. Obviously you liked it or you wouldn’t have such a well-worn copy. You were watching his cat. He shouldn't want to ask about the book like it was a normal conversation with a normal person in a normal life. But that’s what you somehow felt like. A snapshot of a life that had nothing to do with mercenaries or war criminals or super soldier serum.
'Good choice. That’s one of my favorites too.'
Deleted that too. Because why would you care?
Eventually, he settled on 'Thanks for the updates. Looks like she’s having a great time.' Before locking his phone and letting it rest on his knee.
Zemo looked up from where he was lounging with a drink. “You have the smile of a man caught between two worlds.”
Bucky groaned, “Stop talking, Zemo.”
“I’m only observing, James. You have a particular softness in your eyes I never really thought possible from a man who just punched his way through a bar. It’s easier to smile for people who don’t know your sins, no?”
Bucky felt a muscle in his eye twitch. “You’re just really itching to get thrown back in prison, huh?”
Sam snorted from the corner. “Are you two done? We’ve got leads to chase. Sharon says she knows where Dr. Nagel is.”
Bucky said nothing in response, tucking his phone back into his pocket. But not before he stole one last glance at the photo. You and Alpine in the warm halo of afternoon light. A quiet reminder that maybe the world wasn’t as far gone as he’d been made to believe.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
“Can’t believe he pulled an El Chapo.” Sam muttered, staring at the open hole in the tiled bathroom.
“Yeah? I can.” Bucky sighed, still reeling from the fight with the Dora Milaje. He had tried to keep it civil, tried to act as a mediator, but when the Wakandan guards want something, there’s usually no sense in fighting back.
He found himself rolling his vibranium arm at the shoulder, testing to make sure it was still attached. He shouldn’t have been that stupid to think this piece of weaponry didn’t also come with stipulations. But having a person he trusted show that they had a fail safe if anything went wrong messed with his head a little bit. That even though he wasn’t the person he used to be, people still treated him like he was.
“I’m gonna make a call,” Bucky called over his shoulder as Sam typed out a message to Joaquin, who he thought would have some new leads.
He opened the messaging app, a new update from you had just come across. Alpine sitting on the cat tower, one paw pressed against the glass at a blurred spot of color in front of her. ‘She made a new friend today. Didn’t get a good picture, but it’s cardinal. Only hissed at it once.’
His thumbs hovered over the letters to type out some message. Anything to form a connection. Asking for another update, but that felt too demanding. You’d been amazing at sending photos and updates so far, he didn’t want you to think you weren’t doing enough. He did, however, see the little green icon next to ‘Online’. An option for ‘video chat’ was right next to it.
Leaning against a brick wall and out of the sunlight, he hesitated. He just wanted that glimpse into that life. Something that wasn’t life or death to counteract the thoughts pingponging around his brain. He hits the button before he can continue second guessing it and the one thread he can pull to ground himself goes offline. He didn’t know what he was hoping to get from this. Just…something steady. Someone who didn’t look at him like a time bomb or a weapon.
“Oh, hey! I was just about to send you an update saying Alpine was about to get tucked in for bed, but this works too.”
Your face filled the screen, only the glow of fairylights behind you. A soft shuffling followed by an unimpressed mmrp could be heard as you adjusted the screen. “Sorry, it’s dark in here, I was just about to head to bed.” Followed by the flicking of lights one by one until Alpine could be seen, cozied up in a makeshift box under a canopy of pastel sheets.
“I built her a little fort today,” you continue, likely trying to fill the silence as Bucky just…watches. Mostly in awe of how calm Alpine looked, her tail flicking lazily in the soft glow of the room. “But she hated having her cat bed in there, so…random box it was.”
You turned the camera slightly to show Alpine more, curled up in a perfect loaf inside the cardboard box you had lined with pillows. Again, Bucky could hear the soft jazz playing in the background. Something he couldn’t quite place, but gentle and melodic.
“She misses you,” you added gently, fingers scratching behind Alpine’s ears. “She keeps going to the door like she’s waiting for you to come back. Paces a little just before dinner. But the second I start preparing her food, she’s racing to the kitchen.”
A small throb pulsed behind Bucky’s ribs. He leaned further into the brick wall, tucking his chin down to try to hide the look on his face. He wasn’t even sure what the feeling he was having was. Fondness? Heartache?
You hesitated before speaking again. “So, how's the work trip?”
That did something that somehow caught him off guard. You asked like you cared. No agenda. No digging for leads. Just…asked unprovoked. He studied you for half a second, “It’s…fine. Just been a long day.”
“We’ve all been there. But Alpine will be here ready to bug you for salmon when you get back. I really shouldn’t have given it to her. That’s on me.”
Bucky tried to respond, but words seemed to fail him. Eventually he settled for a quiet: “Thanks.”
He stared at the video on the screen, Alpine, purring loud enough to be heard over the tinny speaker quality curled in her stupid little box fort, and you beside her. No expectations behind your expression – well, maybe just the promise to come pick up his cat – just…there.
He rubbed the back of his neck, forcing out a laugh. “Alpine’s really out here getting the royal treatment isn’t she?”
You chuckled in response, “Only the best for the princess. But don’t worry, I’m charging her ‘meowster’ card for the additional fees.”
That earned the closest thing to a laugh Bucky had managed in days.
“Glad to hear it’s at least going through, they must have upped her limit.”
You devolved into laughter then, with Alpine turning away from you with an unamused expression.
“Anyway, I should let you go.” Bucky said, seeing Sam waving at him from the door. “I just wanted to actually see if she was behaving or if she was holding you hostage and making you send those updates.”
“She’s been a perfect angel.” You reassured. “I’ll send more pictures in the morning.”
“Thanks.” Bucky said before ending the call.
Sam walked up, a quizzical look on his face. “Were you flirting with her? Is that what that was? If we weren’t having to chase leads, I’d be flabbergasted.”
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The sun was dipping low on the Louisiana horizon, casting golden streaks across the dock. Bucky sat on an overturned bucket, a wrench flipping loosely through his fingers as he looked out over the water. Sam was beside him, leaning back on his elbows, eyes closed in the sunshine.
The day had been filled with boat repairs and dancing around the looming fact that the Flagsmashers were still out there, and that all of their leads had dried up. The least Bucky thought he could do while Alpine was safe in your care was make sure Sam, his sister, and his nephews stayed safe until something came up after the threats on their life.
His phone buzzed in his back pocket. He pulled it out, already knowing who it was. Another update from you. This time, a video of Alpine batting at a feathered toy that twitched in response to something you had hooked onto her collar. A familiar mmrp and the scratching of claws on hardwood echoed from the speakers.
“Sorry, I had to keep her distracted somehow. I was in the middle of an email and she deleted the whole thing. She’s kind of an attention hog.” Your voice flowed out.
Bucky bit back a smile before typing out a message in response. ‘Sorry, she gets like that. Hope it wasn’t anything too important.’
Your reply came quickly: ‘Nah, I’ll survive. Hope you’re doing okay.’
Bucky stared at the message longer than he meant to. The water lapped quietly at the dock while cicadas hummed somewhere in the trees behind them. A part of him wanted to say more, do something more for you after Alpine had disrupted your day.
He typed out a message ‘I really owe you dinner or something for putting up with her for this long.’
No, that seemed too forward. Delete.
‘I know a good salmon spot.’
What was he doing, asking out a grizzly bear? Delete.
He let out a frustrated sigh and leaned back, squinting into the light like the sun was the main source of his problems. This wouldn't have been an issue in the 40s. That version of him would have already asked you out and he knew it. The issue was technology.
Then, with as much forced casualness as he could muster – because he definitely hadn’t been rehearsing the question in his head for days – Bucy asked, “Hey…how do I ask out my cat sitter without it being weird?”
Sam’s eyes snapped open. He turned toward Bucky slowly, eyebrows raised. “You’re asking me for dating advice?”
“No, I can get by on my own.”
Sam barked a laugh. “Clearly not if you can’t even figure out how to ask her on a date.”
“There’s too many rules nowadays.” Bucky muttered, running his hand over his hair. “I can’t figure out how to not sound creepy texting on this thing.”
“Okay, then call her.” Sam said it as if it were that simple and Bucky hadn’t already deleted tens of iterations of ‘let’s go get dinner’. He could only imagine how awkward a phone call would be.
“No, that’s not – look we’ve only talked through cat updates. Is that enough of a connection to ask someone to dinner?”
“Well, do you want to ask her?”
As if summoned by the mere notion of romantic idiocy, Sarah Wilson appeared. “You two are just getting nowhere fast.”
She stepped down onto the dock with a tray of lemonade, raising one brow as she caught the tail end of the conversation. “What’s this about a cat sitter?”
Sam grinned, “Bucky’s got a little crush and he’s trying to act like it’s a hostage negotiation.”
Sarah nodded at the phone still in Bucky’s hand. “You like her?”
Bucky nodded, half-shrugging, the tips of his ears now turning pink.
“Then stop overthinking it and just ask her to dinner.” She waved a hand at him. “You’re a grown man. And she’s clearly into cats, so there’s your icebreaker.”
“But do it when you pick up Alpine,” she added, pointing a finger at him as she set the tray down. “Women like a face to face thing. Plus that way, if she says no, she can’t just dump your cat somewhere.”
“She wouldn’t do that.” Bucky defended immediately, turning the device over in his palm.
“Oh you’re so far gone, Barnes.” Sam chuckled, sipping on a drink. “You sure talk like you know her already.”
“I’m going to push you into the water,” Bucky grumbled, rewatching the short clip on mute.
Sarah huffed a laugh, “You’re both hopeless.” She turned then, and headed back towards the house. All the while muttering something about the “men” under her breath.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The Flagsmashers had been dealt with, all either arrested or…otherwise indisposed. The world, for once, didn’t feel like it was actively ending. And Bucky finally had the space to breathe again.
Which meant it was time to go get his cat.
He didn’t send much when he let you know he was ready to pick Alpine up.
‘Alpine’s going to be mad when I mess up her new schedule isn’t she?’
Your reply came almost instantly. ‘She’ll forgive you if you bring extra salmon.’
Now, standing in front of your door again, Bucky shifted from foot to foot, trying to give himself a pep talk. He had salmon – some fresh, some precooked – depending on what kind of night this turned into. He’d debated bringing a classic, like a bouquet of flowers, decided they were too forward, and instead settled on a thank-you gift bag Sarah helped him put together. Chocolate, a pastel pink pair of fuzzy socks, a lint roller because he remembered how Alpine’s fur had clung to your leggings, and a small hand cream in a scent Bucky thought might match the vanilla-citrus of your apartment.
He knocked once, and the door opened immediately. Like you had watched him fidget through your peephole in an effort to calm his racing heart.
You looked just as he remembered. Soft and bright, that sunshine smile still present, but a little more guarded. “She’s been clingy all morning,” you sighed, opening the door wider. “I think she knew you were coming.”
And as if on cue, Alpine strutted lazily into view, stopping two feet from Bucky, and sat down like a statue. No meow. No chirp. Just one very pointed glare and tail swish.
He had expected Alpine to be a bit…disgruntled and standoffish. He had left her a little longer than he had said with a total stranger. But a stranger that she had picked.
Bucky crouched down and reached a hand out, only for her to turn her head and dramatically sigh. But a moment later, she pushed forward, headbutting his knee and letting out a long mmrrrp like she’d absolutely suffered in his absence.
“She missed you,” you said softly.
“I can tell,” Bucky huffed, scratching behind her ears. “She’s laying on the guilt pretty thick.”
He straightened, handing you the gift bag awkwardly. “For you, just a thank you. I know she can be a little demanding.”
You peeked inside, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Is…are these pink fuzzy socks?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up into his cheeks, “They matched a blanket I saw. In one of the photos. I figured…y’know, you like that color.”
“That’s dangerously observant,” you said, smiling. “Thank you, this wasn’t necessary. She really was great, once she warmed up to me. She just kinda started following me everywhere.”
Bucky glanced down at Alpine, now doing figure-eights around his boots, occasionally sniffing at the other bag in his hand. “She chose you. I was scrolling for ages trying to figure it out until she just…tapped on your picture.”
“Well, she’s welcome anytime.” You hesitated, like you wanted to say more. “Though…hopefully next time it’s just a vacation, not an international incident.”
Bucky must have looked shocked, because for all intents and purposes, you thought he was just on a work trip. He had mentioned nothing of what he was up to. He didn’t even think you knew who he was.
“Saw you on the news with Captain America,” you said sheepishly, shrugging like it was no big deal.
He tilted his head in surprise, “You mean Sam?”
“Yeah,” you said matter-of-factly. “He looked real good in that flying suit. People should stop giving him so much shit about it.”
That landed harder than it should have. Most people were unsure when John Walker was labelled Captain America, and even more people were hesitant and skeptical when they saw Sam holding that shield. You’d just said it like it was obvious, without a shadow of doubt.
Bucky cleared his throat, “I won’t tell him you said that. It’ll go right to his already inflated ego.”
You laughed softly, nodding. “Noted. If I meet him, no more compliments.”
“Yeah,” he chuckled in return. “So…have you eaten yet?”
You blinked in surprise, eyes widening slightly. “No, not yet.”
Bucky lifted the second bag slightly. “There’s some food in here. I did bring extra salmon for Alpine, but also potatoes, broccoli, I think some kind of salad. Sam’s sister sent me off with enough to feed a family of six. I was just gonna reheat it at home, but…if you’re hungry, I thought maybe…”
“Yes,” you said, before he could finish. “I mean, sure. Yeah. Sounds good.”
Bucky relaxed a little, cracking the smallest smile. “Cool.”
Alpine let out a loud, impatient meow from between the two of your feet, rubbing around your ankles. You looked down at the little cat, “I think she either approves, or just wants her salmon.”
“Well, guess we shouldn’t keep her waiting.” Bucky said, nodding towards the kitchen.
“Right,” you agreed, taking the bag from his hand. “But just so we’re clear, I really enjoyed having Alpine around. I might demand visitation rights when I realize I miss her too much.”
Bucky followed, smirking, “We might need to get her approval first, but we can negotiate terms over dinner.”
Please drop a like or comment if you enjoyed! This author thrives off of words of affirmation. :3
Banners & Dividers made by me
Summary: He knew you were the one four years ago, now he can finally propose to you.
It was nearly dark, but Eddie didn't care. Tonight was yalls four years anniversary. He was going to do it tonight, he had to. He had worked too hard the last two years to to get this ring, black banded snakes that held a coffin cut Moss Agate. Perfect. It just screamed you and he knew you loved Moss Agate.
You two met four years ago at the Hawkins Record Shop, bumping into eachother on pure accident when you both reached for the new Metallica Record. He was just as much as the 'freak' they called him then as he was now, just... a lot less feminine. That's what set you apart from so many, you didn't care that he was a trans man. That whole conversation was maybe five minutes long. He had fretted for so long that you'd be turned off by it amd leave him till he managed to spit it out during a smoke session at 3 am. He could still remember how you just smiled and said 'So?' Like it didn't matter that he was becoming a man, not born one. You helped teach him how to bind properly, you've helped administer shots for testosterone, and you always made sure he wasn't dysphoric. What else could he ask for in a partner. Plus sex with you was mind blowing.
Tink, Tink, Tink
He threw the smaller pebbles, he knew he could just walk inside, your parents loved him, surprisingly, but he wanted to make it more special, more just you two. You smiled as you slid the window open, "Eddie? Why didnt you just come in?" He laughed, "Just get dressed and come down. We have somewhere to go." He didn’t even give you a chance to ask where, he was already walking to the van to wait. You huffed, smiling. Of course your chaotic ass boyfriend would cook something up, you just had no idea how special it'd be yet. Dressing in a baggy pullover and jeans with your usual converse, you did a once iver in the mirror before deciding to throw your hair up. It was easy to escape your bedroom through the winodw, it wasn't the first time and probably not the last.
His van smelled just like he did. Cigarettes, sweat, and metal. Home. That's what he smelled like. "Okay, mister. Where are we going?" You asked, sliding into the passenger seat. "Nope. Not ruining it. Here." He all but giggled as he tossed one of his black eye covers into your lap. "Please?" You couldn't resist Eddie's puppy dog eyes so you slid the cover in and laid back into the seat. It was a mostly silent ride, the radio played some song from Ozzy low enough for distraction. When the van stopped, you sat up "Now?" "No. You gotta let me lead." Eddie protested quickly, hoping out the van and coming to your side to help you out. Crickets, pine, and something distinctly old. "Eddie are we in the damn woods?" You asked, holding his ring calded hands, letting him lead you deeper, you could feel the rough path of rocks ans roots under your feet, but even that eventually grew softer. "Ok, ok." Eddie smiled, standing behind you as he took the blindfold off.
Right infront of you was a few pillows on one of his old comforters, a lantern to see, a basket of snacks and..wine? Eddie didnt drink wine. "Surprise?" He asked more than stated, hoping you liked it. "I love it, Eddie." You beamed as you turned to him to kiss, his hands on your hips, pulling you closer. "Happy anniversary, baby." He mumbled along your lips and you echoed the sentiment.
As you both sat, he poured the wine in two glasses and chatted about everything and nothing. It wasnt hard to love Eddie. Never was, never would be. As you talked and talked, he became progressively silent. Eddie didn’t get quiet unless he was nervous or scared, so what was wrong? "Eddie, my love, what's wrong?" You grabbed one of his hands, waiting, wondering. "Marry me." He shoved out, "What?" One blink, two. "Shit I-i had this whole talk planned out for you, but just...marry me, sweetheart. There's no one else for me." He fumbled as he took out a black velvet box and opened it. "I cant do life without you, mama." The ring was beautiful, the light from the lantern light catching on the ring. Coffin cut and Moss Agate? Damn your boyfriend knew you. "You...you wanna get married?"
"Hell yeah I do. You are everything I want and need." Eddie reassured, "So please, be my wife." He was a tad worried now. You've never hesitated like this before. "Yes. Fuck yes, I'll marry you." You whispered and had not an ounce of time till he was toppling you over to kiss you hard, happy tears smearing on both of your face. When he let you get some air, he slid the ring onto your finger with shaky hands.
"My wife. From here on out, you're not Ms. L/N. You're Mrs. Munson, you hear me?" Eddie was kissing at your face, happy, content. The stars above you two and the crickets singing a soft song. The rest of the forest and world was irrelevant as of right now. "Okay, Mr. Munson." You teased, heart full of love and stomach full of butterflies at the fact that you were now engaged to the most perfect man.
NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.
Okay so bad news for everyone on YouTube right now
Starting the 13th, we will have an AI determine if we are children or not and if you are a child, than you are forced to send your ID, send a selfie or a credit card
This has the obvious cons of having your privacy being revoked from you and and in case there is a security breach, major identity thefts.
So what do we do in this scenario?
Well right now I have real idea as this is relativity new to me, but I do have two plans
Plan 1. Bug the shit out of them, send letters and send emails about how much of bad idea this is.
Include why the AI will mess up and target adults who watch cartoons, include privacy issues, censorship issues, anything you can think of that relates to this. I want you guys to bug the hell out of YouTube until they reverse this idea
Plan 2. Blackout.
Since the thing is coming out on the 13th.
The plan will be to completely avoid YouTube at all cost for that day, no watching, no sharing, no uploading, no nothing.
Download videos before things go down, watch Netflix. Whatever you do, don’t touch YouTube.
That’s all I can say right now, I also want you guys to let YouTubers know of this situation cause if it’s important for everyone on the website to talk about this immediately
Spread this stuff around, let people know of YouTube’s upcoming policy and how it’ll hurt everyone
Summary: Bucky tells Steve and Sam about his encounter with you.
Word Count: Over 1.5k
Warnings: Mention of drunk reader, humor, attraction, Sam and Steve are good friends, a bit of grumpy!Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay? And he has a crush).
A/N: Based on an anon ask and a continuation of Late Night Shenanigans. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Steve and Sam sat across from Bucky on the couch, blankly staring at him once he finished his story. He stared back with a scowl and was pretty sure Alpine was scowling at them, too, daring them to tell him that he was making the whole thing up about what happened earlier. That he didn’t encounter a beautiful drunk stranger snuggling with his cat. That you didn’t seem at all intimidated by his presence. That he couldn’t get your smile or voice out of his head.
Wait, he didn’t tell them that last part and he sure as hell wasn’t going to.
Steve cleared his throat after exchanging a look with Sam. “So, to recap, you were looking for Alpine and she was just… snuggled with a complete stranger?” He waited for a beat. “In the middle of a sidewalk at night?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what she did,” Bucky said through his teeth. His friend was old, but not hard of hearing.
“A sweet stranger who said you were the hottest man she had ever seen in her life?” Sam smirked. Yes, that was what you said and Bucky hadn’t forgotten it. Nor would he admit to his friends how nice the compliment made him feel the more he repeated your words in his mind. “And she snuggled with Alpine? Pictures, or it didn’t happen.”
Bucky made a face. Why would he make something like that, or you, up? Did he really not believe him? “Why the hell would I take a photo of her? That’s something a creep would do, and I’m not a creep,” he snapped, thinking about it while Sam chuckled. Grumpy with his share of issues, yes, but he was not a creep. “But there were security cameras outside of her building. Hacking the system wouldn’t be too difficult if you really wanted to see what happened.”
Was that creepy? It wasn’t like he was trying to get feed to watch you or to see your beautiful face again. It was to prove to Sam that he wasn’t lying about what happened, nothing more. Not that he had anything to prove. He was telling the truth. It wasn’t his fault if Sam didn’t believe him.
“You’re not going to hack anything,” Steve said, trying to be the voice of reason. It wouldn’t be the worst crime committed if he did. “I think Sam meant the picture thing as a joke.”
“No, I didn’t,” Sam said.
Steve held a hand up when Bucky’s fists curled. “What he means is we’re surprised because, besides you, Alpine doesn’t usually cuddle with people right away. She likes us, but it took her time to do that.”
Alpine purred in agreement, bringing a small smile out of the former assassin. Though part of him still wondered if you put some sort of spell over his cat to get her to warm up so quickly, he knew that wasn’t it. She was a good judge of character, so she had to take a liking to you since you were a friendly person. It was either that or she decided that you needed her to look out for you. And by extension that meant he had to look out for you, too. Someone had to.
Fuck, now he did feel like a creep with that train of thought.
“Listen, I’m not saying this… dream girl or whatever you want to call her doesn’t exist, but I do have to ask.” Sam had a shit-eating grin on his face. “Did she really boop you on the nose?”
If Bucky clenched his jaw any tighter he would’ve cracked his teeth. “She did. Twice.”
Steve looked like he was trying not to laugh and Sam didn’t bother hiding it. Why did he trust these punks with anything? “Okay…” Sam held his side as his laughter died down. “I have to meet her so I can ask where she got the balls to do that and say ‘you’re welcome’ for accidentally letting Alpine out so you two could meet.”
“You’re not going to meet her or ask her anything,” Bucky said, looking up at the ceiling. “Because I probably won’t see her again.”
It didn’t make sense why his heart ached so much at the thought of not crossing your path again. He didn’t know you, and you didn’t know him. Fairy tales and meet cutes or whatever they were called didn’t exist in his world, not for people like him.
“Well, with that attitude…” Sam mumbled, which Bucky pointedly ignored. It wasn’t like he was trying to be pessimistic, but getting his hopes up wouldn’t help either. “If I didn’t know any better, it sounds like Alpine isn’t the only one who liked her.”
Steve tried to catch his eye. “Do you like her, Buck?”
Bucky bit the inside of his cheek. Of course, his friends would latch on that he was possibly interested in someone. He hadn’t dated anyone since Leah, and his relationship with her hadn’t lasted long. Was the universe giving him a chance by putting you in his path, or was he reading too deeply into it? It had to be the latter.
Sam sighed when Bucky didn’t respond. “Can you message her? Tell her Alpine’s trying to get out to see her?”
Bucky almost laughed because he could see the feline trying to sneak out to find you. “I didn’t get her number.”
“Wait, you didn’t ask for her number or give her yours?” Steve asked.
Bucky finally lifted his head and fought the urge to say that he wasn’t the suave guy he used to be. “She was drunk, Steve. I didn’t ask since there’s a good chance that she might not even remember me,” he answered, which somehow felt worse than the thought of not seeing you again. Call him crazy or selfish, but he wanted you to remember him. It was only fair since you were affecting him so much.
“Well, you know where her apartment building is,” the blonde smiled. “That’s a start.”
“But not her apartment number,” he sighed.
You were alert enough not to give away that piece of information, which he appreciated. Though you joked that it was how “true crimes” began, did you have any idea how many laws he had broken over the years? No, how could you? If you knew, there was a chance you wouldn’t run straight inside.
Regardless of what he had or hadn’t done over the years, it didn’t change that he didn’t get your phone number or your apartment number before you parted ways.
Alpine batted her paw against his chest and meowed, sensing the subtle shift in his mood. “What would you suggest, Al? That I just walk you up and down her sidewalk with you until she comes out?”
Silence filled the living room. Was he really asking his cat for advice on how to see you again? Jesus fucking Christ, he needed help and he was already seeing a therapist.
Steve shrugged after a minute went by. “...It’s not a bad idea.”
Sam snorted. He was enjoying this way too much. “Or you could just start by finding her on social media like a normal person since she at least gave you her name.”
Bucky sat up, his cheek twitching. You had given him your name. “But wouldn’t that be weird to add her as a friend?” he asked.
Because, again, there was a chance you wouldn’t remember who he was. It would give him a chance to see photos of you if you shared them. Maybe get a feel for some of your likes and dislikes. Where you hung out. If your relationship status said “single” like he hoped.
…Was he venturing into creepy territory again?
Sam’s smile fell. “It’s weird to add her on social media, but it’s not weird to walk up and down her sidewalk like a wolf stalking its prey or talk about hacking the cameras of her building?”
“And that’s the end of this conversation,” Bucky said, shooting both of them a glare to drop it.
“You’ll see her again,” Steve smiled, quickly adding, “Now that’s the end of the conversation.”
Bucky wasn’t an idiot. It would not be the end of that conversation, not now that Steve and Sam knew he was interested in someone. He should’ve kept his mouth shut and said that he found Alpine all by her lonesome, but he didn’t want to keep you a secret.
He wondered how you were doing. Did you have your water and aspirin like he suggested? Would you feel okay in the morning? Did you hope to see him again? He just had to find a way to see you, if only so you could see “Queen Alpine” while you were sober.
And if he couldn’t figure out a way himself, he had a feeling Alpine would take matters into her own paws.
I swear, he will see his girl again. Because, yes, you are his girl. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Pairing: Trailer Park!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: Your neighbor helps with a small repair, and you'd like to repay him.
Word Count: Almost 4k
Warnings: Flirting, swearing, dirty talk, tension, sexual chemistry, world building, bits of insecurity, smut mention, Bucky Barnes (he's very forward and a warning, okay?)
A/N: More of our trailer park!Bucky! I hope you like it!❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The light had barely broken through your window when you decided you should work on the outside of your trailer. As much as you wanted to sleep in, your new chapter wouldn't continue if you didn't put forth the effort. Getting out of bed and distracting yourself would hopefully help forget about your dream of your bold and handsome neighbor. You didn’t want to think about it. You wouldn’t think about it.
But the wetness between your thighs served as a stark reminder that you dreamed of Bucky and his cocky smirk. How he said in a low voice that he was going to have you and that you’d enjoy every second of it. How he stripped you down and wrecked you with his mouth and cock, muttering filthy praise that still had heat flowing in your veins. You felt the burn between your thighs, which you didn’t think was possible in a dream. What was worse was that he held you after, whispering how well you took him and how lucky he was to have you. The tenderness was enough to break you from your slumber and make your eyes burn with unshed tears.
It was silly to get worked up in any capacity. The dream was just that… a dream. It was a fantasy, an illusion. There was no reason to cling to it, especially when it was too much and too soon.
“Don’t think about him. Just get up,” you mumbled.
You didn't jump out of bed, but you didn't drag yourself out either and that was already an improvement to your recent past. Waking up and facing the day should never feel like a burden. You shouldn't feel like a burden.
“I’m strong and capable.”
You went through a checklist in your mind as you showered and dressed for the day. You needed to fix the door, fill out applications, bake for the potluck, and unpack more. After the furniture was delivered, you had spent the rest of the previous day emptying some of the boxes. You stilled at times as you went through your past and memories, like something you had witnessed instead of being a part of. It was the life you lived, but it wasn't meant to be yours. You didn't cry, even when your chest tightened to the point that you felt something crack.
And for a second, you thought you spotted a pair of blue eyes watching you from across your trailer before you went to sleep.
“What am I doing?” you whispered when you walked out the screen door that was still hanging on its hinges.
After going through your toolbox, you managed to get the door off completely without hurting yourself in the process. But once you set the door down and listened to the instruction video you found online, your cheeks burned with shame when you couldn’t get the screen quite right. You stopped and started the video again. The tips didn't make any sense to you and your heart sank as you stared at the door. You prided yourself on being a smart and capable woman just like you told yourself earlier, but you couldn't begin to fix a simple screen. You could almost hear your ex laughing in your mind.
“You're pathetic.”
You silenced his voice. It wasn't fair to beat yourself up over it. While it was never too late to learn something new, you had to give yourself grace and remind yourself that you wouldn't be an expert overnight. Not to mention, the skills you learned growing up were different, but it didn't mean you were hopeless or less of a person because of it. You wouldn't let previous influences in your life make you feel bad about yourself.
You heard the footsteps before you turned your head, your heart picking up at the sight of Bucky. He was in an outfit similar to the one he wore the day before, except this time he had a denim vest on. You wanted to be angry at him for being so enticing, but that wasn’t his fault… or was it? And how were you supposed to stop thinking about him when he was right there?
The signature smirk was on his face when he said, “Morning, Sweet Cheeks.”
You snorted and pushed yourself up, wiping your knees off in the process. That nickname wasn't going away. “Good morning,” you said.
“It is a good morning since I’m seeing your beautiful face,” he said with the utmost sincerity.
You mentally scolded your heart for the funny flip it did. “Do you ever stop?”
“I would if you asked me to,” he answered just as sincerely.
You remembered how he backed off when you mentioned harassment and that brought you comfort. “Good to know.”
He looked relieved in a soft sort of way and you wondered if he had thought about you after you parted ways. “Did you have a good night?”
“Uneventful, which is good,” you replied. You slept much easier than you anticipated considering it was brand new and unfamiliar. You were not going to tell him you had a wet dream about him. Nope. But had he dreamed about you? “How was your night?”
“Same. Uneventful.” That mischievous look said something was up. It wasn't like he had visitors that you knew of. Not that you were looking or paying any attention to that. “Except for the dream I had about you.”
You bit your lip without meaning to. “You dreamed about me?”
You dared to look him in the eye when he moved closer. He looked like he was ready to eat you alive. “Happy to give you the vivid details if you’d like.”
Your breath hitched, but you maintained some sense of control. “Not until after I’ve had my caffeine,” you teased. You mentally kicked your own ass. Why not let him tell you?
“Fair enough,” he chuckled. It wasn’t fair how easily his laugh made you smile. “Oh. And I told my sister and my best friend about you.”
That made you pause. “You did what?” you asked. He told a family member and a friend about you?
“Said I met my future wife and that you have Alpine’s approval.” He winked and you glanced away to hide your smile.
“You're ridiculous,” you said with no heat behind it. He probably told them that a new neighbor moved in and nothing more. Maybe he mentioned that he flirted, but the future wife comment? Wait, weren't his parting words to you that you might be his future wife?
Bucky was trouble with a capital T.
“And you just glared at that door like it stole something from you.”
You were thankful for the subject change. “It did kind of steal something.”
He tilted his head. “What did it steal?”
“My pride,” you half teased. “And by stealing my pride, I mean… I don’t know how to fix the screen. I don’t… even know where to start.” Your fingers wrung together before you put your hands before your back. “I tried watching a video, but it didn’t help me.”
Admitting that this was a shortcoming was somehow a relief as painful as it was. That didn’t make sense since you felt so embarrassed by the thought before he walked over. If it had been anyone else, you would’ve folded in on yourself. Why didn’t you with Bucky?
Maybe it was because there was no judgement in his blue eyes. There was almost an understanding, the kind that had you choking up for no good reason. “I can help,” he offered, like it was no big deal. “I don’t mind.”
You had to turn your head away and will away the burn from your eyes. “I can’t ask you to do that,” you softly said. It wasn’t easy to ask for or accept help when you wanted to stand on your own two feet. Accepting a helping hand wasn’t a weakness though, and having help didn’t mean you couldn’t maintain the sense of independence.
“You didn’t ask, and you don’t have to since I offered.” He shrugged and offered you a smile. “Told you I’m good with my tools.”
He had said that in a very sexual sort of way. “I’d really appreciate it if you could, but if you're busy…” He was already jogging away, leaving you there to stare after him. He didn’t leave you hanging for long, his toolbox in hand as he came back. You didn’t question why he was using his own instead of yours. “Wow, you’re really going to fix it?”
“You sound surprised,” he said, setting the toolbox down close to you and allowing you to pick up the scent of his soap. It was a scent you wouldn’t mind having on your skin. “It’s what good neighbors do.”
You crossed your arms as he crouched down to go through his tools. “You do this for all the neighbors?”
“Pretty much,” he replied.
A smile tugged at your lips. While part of you wanted to feel special that he was helping you, you respected that he did this for everyone. “I feel bad. I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself,” you said. No one with the exception of Bucky had stopped by to say hi either. You wouldn’t take that to heart.
“They’re letting you get settled before the potluck,” he said. Did he somehow spread the word to give you some peace until then? “But they’re anxious to meet you.”
That had your stomach turning with excitement and nerves. “I am, too.” You hoped you made a good impression. “Do you mind showing me and explaining what you’re doing?” you asked, your smile widened when he looked up at you. He looked good from this angle, and you wouldn’t think of him kissing up your legs. “Just in case I ever have to fix another screen.”
He pointed at you with a screwdriver. “You mean so you don’t have to rely on anyone,” he guessed. Once again there was no snark or humor, just that quiet understanding that made you want to know more about him.
“You got me there.” It was difficult to depend on people when you were made to feel invisible. “But before you get started, do you want some coffee?” It was the least you could do since he offered to help.
It was his turn to look surprised. “I wouldn't mind, please and thanks.”
“Cream and sugar?”
He smirked and you awaited whatever dirty comment was about to leave his wonderful lips. “I’ve got plenty of cream, but you can provide the sugar.”
You burst out laughing and stepped back. “Yep. You're ridiculous.”
“Maybe just a little. If you're offering though, I would like some cream with that sugar,” he said.
“You got it.” You paused and winded. “I’d invite you in, but it isn't ready yet,” you said apologetically. It was going to be a warm and cozy place. You had already begun to leave little touches around, like vases and knickknacks, but it was far from visitor friendly.
It didn’t phase him since he had a smile on his face, likely sensing he’d be in your home sooner rather than later. “Your home, your rules.”
“So you won't come inside without permission?” Your face felt like it was set ablaze the second the words left your mouth and Bucky looked all too pleased. “Not. A. Word.”
He threw his hands up with laughter in his eyes. “Aww, c’mon, Sweet Cheeks. That was the perfect setup!”
“Not a word!”
“I won't come inside without your permission…” He smirked again and your knees went weak. “And you’ll beg for it.”
“Bucky!” You could hear his laughter when you rushed inside and you started giggling, too. When was the last time you laughed like this so early in the morning?
You sobered up quickly when you began to make the coffee. Bucky was being a kind neighbor and helping you fix the screen door, nothing more. Even if he was flirting and looking at you like you were the reason that the sun rose today. You needed to focus on your to-do list and he wasn’t on that list.
Not yet at least.
Bucky grinned the second you walked back outside. “Just made my morning all over again by seeing your beautiful face.”
You snorted so you wouldn’t swoon. “My face isn’t worth getting that excited about, but caffeine is worth it.”
He took the mug with a frown. “You think your face isn’t worth it? Tell that to my racing heart,” he said, gently blowing on the drink. The man was smooth like butter. The pleased groan he let out when he took a sip sounded smooth, too, and had you heating up. “Fuck, this might be the best coffee I’ve ever had.”
“Liar,” you smiled, not-so-secretly pleased that he liked it.
“I’d never lie to you. Anything I ever tell you will be the truth,” he said so seriously that your breath caught in your throat. You lived your whole life around fake smiles and people prepared to stab anyone and everyone in the back. Was Bucky the type to stab while looking someone in the eye and making them face the ugly truth? “What’s the pen and paper for?” he asked, nodding to where the pad was tucked under your arm.
“Oh. For the instructions for the screen. I like to write things down,” you replied, gripping the pen a little tighter. You relaxed when you realized he wasn't going to poke fun at you.
“Gimme.” He gently pried them from you and jotted something down on the sheet, your fingers tingling from where they touched. There was a soft smile on his face when he handed the pad back.
“‘How to fix a screen. Step one… Ask Bucky. Step two…’ Wait. Is this your phone number?” You giggled when he wiggled his eyebrows. “Seriously?”
“Yep. And I’m going to watch as you put my number into your phone before I leave,” he said, smugly taking another sip of the coffee.
You stared at the sheet to avoid his watchful eyes. “So, the neighbors all have your phone number, too, to help with repairs?”
“Everyone knows they can reach out to me for help, but I’m giving you my number because I want you to have my number.”
You lifted your gaze to see him scratch the back of his head. Was he worried you wouldn’t want it? It was sweet. “Tell me how to fix the screen and I’ll put your number in my phone.”
You held your breath when he leaned close to your ear. “Say ‘please, Bucky’,” he whispered.
Your brain nearly short circuited and you shivered when you felt his warm breath against your skin. He was driving you crazy. “Please, Bucky,” you whispered.
“‘Atta girl,” he whispered, quickly pulling away and giving you a chance to exhale. “Okay. Let’s get started.”
Watching Bucky work was admittedly a joy. The ways his brows pinched when he concentrated was adorable and he couldn’t seem to keep his tongue in his mouth. He didn’t roll his eyes or seem at all agitated when you asked questions and he paused every so often to drink his coffee, which gave you a chance to look at him between taking your notes. What you really appreciated was that he took the time to explain what he was doing and why in a way that was easy to understand without making you feel dumb. It was nice.
“Wow. It looks amazing,” you said once he was done. You could cross it off your list. “It looks as good as new.”
You thought his cheeks turned pink for a second when he picked up the door to put it back where it belonged. “Just about.”
“Thank you so much,” you said above a whisper. “Not just for fixing this, but for not making me feel bad about it.”
It would’ve been easy to shove it in your face that you didn’t know what you were doing, but Bucky didn't seem like that kind of man. Flirty, bold, but not cruel or discouraging. He wasn’t the type of person who would demand perfection from you. It comforted you like a warm blanket.
“Nothing to feel bad about,” he said, tenderly smiling. “I’m glad you accepted my help.”
Something soft passed between you before he put the door back on. He carefully tested it and while you didn’t feel any sense of pride since you didn’t fix it yourself, you were happy. That was a start.
“How much do I owe you?” you asked.
Bucky’s eyes narrowed and you realized how quickly you made a mistake by asking. “Not paying me, Sweet Cheeks. I said it’s what good neighbors do.”
“I need to do something,” you said, holding up a hand when he tried to argue. “And don’t say giving you a coffee counts. It took you a lot more work to fix my door than it did to make your coffee.”
He brushed his hands off with a huff once he put his tools away. “You don’t ‘need’ to do anything. I’m not an obligation.”
“That’s…” Guilt filled you and you didn’t want him to think you were trying to do something because you had to. “Bucky, I’m not offering anything out of obligation. I want to, okay?”
A heartbeat passed and a smile slowly crossed his face. “Oh, yeah? Have a drink with me.” He waited for another beat. “Tonight.”
You took a breath, only somewhat surprised by what he wanted. That sounded dangerously like a date. It wasn’t. It was just a drink with your neighbor. Your very hot, sexy, flirty neighbor.
“A drink?”
“A drink. Maybe two.” He shrugged, but his stance was anything but nonchalant. “Whatever you want.”
You considered it and slowly nodded. “Okay.” It wouldn’t hurt to hang out, especially with how happy he looked that you accepted. “Where do you want to go? Is there a bar around here?”
“Yeah, but it’s a total dive and everyone will hit on you. We can stay here.”
That had you laughing, but he wasn’t. “No one will hit on me,” you said. Whenever you went out with your ex and friends no one paid attention to you. Minus Bucky, you were invisible to people.
“Yeah, they will. Remember how I reacted when I saw you? It’ll be like that, but worse.” He looked you up and down. “Trust me. I’m a gentleman compared to them.”
You laughed harder. You couldn’t imagine anyone hitting on you the way Bucky did. “Fine, fine. We’ll stay here,” you agreed.
You were already thinking about what you were going to wear. Would perfume and makeup be too much? Yes, it would. It wasn’t a date, so there was no need to dress up. A casual drink meant casual wear.
“And we won’t have to yell over music to talk to each other.”
“Good point,” you said, tilting your head. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Because you still need to put my number in your phone.”
You playfully shook your head and grabbed your phone, but didn’t program it in just yet. “Say ‘please, Sweet Cheeks’,” you said, giving him the same order he gave you earlier. It didn’t sound anywhere near as sexy coming from you, but he seemed to like it since his eyes went dark. And you didn’t back up when he invaded your space, holding your gaze.
“Please, Sweet Cheeks,” he whispered, wrapping a calloused hand around yours. “Please, put my number in your phone and message me before we have that drink tonight.”
You thought back to your dream, how he had his hands and mouth on you, how husky his voice was… You needed to get a grip and fast. “Message you?” you asked breathily. “I have a lot to do today. I have to fill out job applications and-”
“Message me,” he interjected, cupping your other hand.
“Bake for the potluck,” you continued, your heart racing.
“And message me,” he said again, taking another step forward.
You exhaled. Was he going to kiss you? He wouldn’t. “And unpack some more.”
His forehead touched yours for a brief moment, but he backed away before you could blink. “And message me.”
It was dizzying that this man not only paid attention to you, but seemed to want your attention. Why? What was so special about you?
“You’re going to drive me crazy,” you said, pulling further away so you could breathe without taking in the scent of him. “I’ll send you a message, okay?”
He put his hands over his chest.
With a smile, you glanced at the pad and put his number in. “Did you really tell your sister and best friend about me?” you asked.
“I did.” His smile was gentle and easy. “They’re great. You’ll like them.” Your heart turned over at the fondness in his voice. They were clearly special to him. And if he thought you’d like them he clearly intended for you to meet them. “Do you really not want to rely on people?”
You looked at the door he fixed with a sigh. It was personal, but it didn’t feel like he was being nosy. “The people I should’ve been able to depend on let me down one too many times. I’m trying to be more careful going forward,” you explained, trying to keep your tone emotionless. It was difficult to pretend that you didn’t care because the truth was you cared too much.
“I get that.” His hand brushed yours again. “I’ve been let down before, too, and it sucks when the person should’ve had your back,” he said. Who did that? Who hurt him? “But we’re both still standing.”
“Yeah, we are,” you said. Bent but not broken.
“And I’m not saying you should depend on me since you don’t know me that well, but I will be an open book for you. No secrets, no bullshit,” he promised.
You blinked. Your ex fed you poison coated in sugar. Bucky was promising that he wouldn’t and you wanted it to be true, that he would be honest even when it was easier to lie. Because the truth hurt at times, but pain was real and you needed something real.
“I’ll be an open book, too,” you replied. You were rewriting your story and there was no reason to hide.
“Good,” he smiled, taking out his phone. “Now, I need to pick a ringtone for you once you message me. Let’s see… Pour Some Sugar on Me… Honkytonk Badonkadonk… Cherry Pie…”
“Oh, my god,” you groaned, but you smiled. He was ridiculous and wonderful.
“Milkshake… Fat Bottomed Girls…” He looked up when you gathered up the empty mug, pen and paper, and went back to your door. “Hey, where are you going?”
“I told you, I have things to do,” you answered.
His pout could make anyone lose their resolve. “You can do me between your other tasks,” he called out.
You could, but you had to maintain some of your dignity and not fall into his bed right away. He could work for it. “Another time, if you're lucky.”
He groaned a little. “You’re breaking my heart, Sweet Cheeks.”
“You’ll live. Say hi to Alpine for me! I’ll see you tonight for that drink!” You giggled to yourself and stared at his number before you shot off a text. “Hey, Bucky. It’s Sweet Cheeks. Thanks again for your help with the door. Looking forward to that drink. And by the way, I dreamed about you, too.”
You tucked your phone away, refusing to sit and watch for his response. You had work to do, but you were looking forward to tonight. What kind of questions would you two ask each other tonight? What were the stories behind his tattoos?
And who let him down?
Okay, lovelies. What are they going to discuss over drinks? And who let 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Synopsis Bucky retreats to a quiet town. You’re the barista, The first time you meet, he doesn’t know what to order, so he asked you for a recommendation. He’s soft-spoken, but there’s gentleness behind the tired eyes.
He smiles—just barely—and says:
“Hi. I’m Bucky.”
And you’re like: I’m done. That’s it. I’m yours.
Word count 8.8k
Themes + Warnings POST TFATWS!! Barista!reader , Fluff angst but not for long , FLUFF! , Misunderstandings , gentle healing Bucky era , did I mention fluff
— You had me at hello don’t say. Don’t say goodnight you know you had me at hello
M. list | Request (open)
The door creaked open at exactly 7:42 a.m.
You noticed because it was quiet—too quiet for this hour in early fall when regulars shuffled in with tired eyes and worn travel mugs, rustling newspapers and complaining about the cold. But this time, no one said anything. Not a single familiar boot scraped across the tile. No jacket slung onto a stool. Just a hush, like the whole place was waiting for something.
Or someone.
You didn’t look up right away. You were halfway through stacking cinnamon scones in the front display case, half-tuned to the hum of the café’s old indie playlist and half-cursing the crooked chalkboard sign that kept tilting like it had a grudge against gravity.
The bell over the door gave a quiet chime. And then: stillness.
Your eyes flicked up.
He didn’t look at you first. He was reading the chalkboard, lips slightly parted like he wasn’t just scanning for caffeine options—he was reading it like he needed to decipher it. Like he was trying to understand this new terrain: small-town morning rituals written in curly white lettering, soaked in too many exclamation marks and too much optimism.
He wore a leather jacket—worn at the collar, creased at the elbows. One hand in a pocket, the other gloved. The shape of it struck you: not thick winter gloves, but one singular dark glove. The other hand was exposed—metal, black and gold glinting under the weak light as if it breathed differently than the rest of him.
He was too still. Still in a way that told you movement cost him something.
And then he looked at you.
That was it.
That was the moment you felt the pull. The drop.
No romantic swelling music. Just your breath, catching somewhere behind your ribs. And a thought that came uninvited:
He looks like someone who hasn’t been warm in a long time.
His eyes were the kind you don’t expect to find in a sleepy town like this—cool, storm-colored, like they’d seen cities burn and hearts close. But they weren’t cold. That’s what undid you.
There was kindness there.
Tired kindness. Tense kindness. But real.
He stepped forward. Careful steps. Measured. Like every inch of him was trying not to occupy too much space.
“Hi,” he said.
Just one word. One syllable.
Rough-edged, but gentle. Like someone who knew what it meant to be feared and was doing everything not to be.
You blinked. Words escaped you. It was ridiculous—you weren’t the nervous type. But something about the way he looked at you, like you were the one unfamiliar thing in the room, shook your center of gravity.
“Hi,” you said back, trying not to sound like your heart had just tripped over itself. “What can I get you?”
He looked at the pastry display. At the coffee list. Then at you.
“I’m… not sure. Whatever you’d recommend,” he said quietly, voice low like it was half apology, half surrender.
Your chest ached.
You don’t have to try too hard, the song in your head whispered. You already have my heart.
You smiled before you could stop yourself. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
He nodded once. Barely. But you saw it. A flicker of trust. Like maybe the world hadn’t completely shut him out yet.
By 7:48, you’d handed him a mug—something warm, cinnamon-laced, not too sweet—and a cranberry scone still steaming from the oven. He didn’t ask questions. Just gave you a faint thank-you that settled over your skin like a snowfall.
He picked the back corner. Away from the windows. Back to the wall.
You watched him go. How he moved like someone who didn’t want to be seen but didn’t want to be alone either. Like the space between those two things was the only place he knew how to live anymore.
You didn’t stare.
Much.
But you noticed.
The way his eyes scanned the café like a soldier in a new war zone. How he sat with both feet flat on the floor, metal hand resting near his thigh like it was ready to act but didn’t want to be.
How he kept looking at the door.
He wasn’t just new to town.
He was unmoored.
You turned back to the counter. Your hands were warm from the mug, but the rest of you felt cold now—like he’d carried winter in with him, quiet and slow.
Still, beneath it all, you could feel something else stirring. Something not cold.
Hope, maybe.
Or the beginning of something unnamed.
You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know his story.
But when he looked up one last time before leaving, eyes catching yours across the café—
It wasn’t loneliness in them.
It was something older. Something deeper.
Recognition.
Like maybe he’d seen this moment before. In a dream. In a memory he wasn’t sure belonged to him.
And just like that, it happened.
The invisible thread. The quiet click.
The knowledge that this wasn’t just a stranger walking into your café.
He had you at hello.
The next morning, he’s back.
You don’t hear the door open—you feel it. That hush again. Like the café itself inhales when he enters.
You glance up from behind the counter, hand wrapped around a still-warm mug. He’s dressed the same: dark layers, leather jacket zipped halfway up, gloved hand gripping the door handle a moment longer than necessary.
He’s rain-speckled. Drops cling to the ends of his hair, darkened by water. The shoulder of his jacket shines where the drizzle hit hardest. He looks like he’s walked through more than just the rain to get here.
But he’s here.
You don’t speak. Just nod, quiet and knowing. Then you turn and start preparing his order without asking.
He notices. You know he notices—because he hesitates.
You can feel his eyes linger on your hands as you reach for the cinnamon scone. You slice it in half—he always eats half, then carefully wraps the other like he’s saving it for someone who never shows up.
You hand him his mug, same way you did yesterday. Your fingers brush his gloved hand for half a second.
This time, he looks at you when he says, “Thank you.”
Still soft. Still quiet. But this time, there’s weight in it.
Like the word itself has to pass through something dark to reach his mouth.
He chooses the same booth. Back corner. Back to the wall. Eyes on the door.
The second he sits down, a few of the regulars filter in, boots squeaking on the damp floor. You catch Bucky’s jaw clench when one of them—Sammy, old local with no awareness of personal space—steps too close behind him while moving past.
It’s not a dramatic reaction. No sharp movement. Just the subtle tension of someone ready for a fight that won’t come.
You watch him try to relax.
Try to melt into the quiet.
The way he flinches—barely—when a cup falls behind the counter and crashes on the tile.
The way his metal fingers twitch when the wind pushes the door open too hard.
The way he always watches the door—not paranoid, just… prepared.
And the way he says “thank you” like it’s foreign on his tongue. Like it’s something he’s still learning how to mean.
He walks like a man who’s afraid of his own gravity.
Not afraid of hurting someone.
Afraid of being too much.
You don’t speak much. Not yet.
But you bring him a sugar packet without asking. And when he struggles to open it, gloved fingers slipping, you slide a small butter knife across the table without looking directly at him.
He stills.
Looks up, surprised. Maybe even a little…embarrassed.
“You’re okay,” you say, quietly.
And that—that is when it happens again.
He looks at you. Really looks. Something unreadable flickers in those eyes. Something worn and bruised, but curious. Not about the coffee. Not about the weather.
About you.
“You don’t have to try too hard…”
That’s what you think as you meet his gaze.
“You already have my heart.”
On the third morning, you finally ask.
“So,” you say, keeping your tone light as you pour his drink, “are you just passing through, or…?”
He’s quiet for a beat too long. Then:
“Trying to be less haunted,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing.
“Thought a small town might help.”
Your chest tightens—not because it’s dramatic, but because it isn’t.
You nod. Like you understand. Because maybe you do.
You don’t ask what haunts him. You don’t ask his name.
But the next morning, you get it anyway.
“Bucky,” he says softly, when you hand him his coffee with that same tiny smile you’ve started reserving just for him.
You blink. “What?”
“My name,” he says. “You should know it. Since you keep saving my life with these scones.”
Your laugh is soft but genuine.
“Bucky,” you repeat, tasting the name.
It feels right in your mouth. Like it’s meant to be said quietly. Meant to be kept close.
Tuesday morning. It rains again.
The windows fog. The smell of cinnamon, espresso, and wet pavement fills the café.
A tray clatters to the ground near the front. A customer curses. You see Bucky stiffen—his hand shoots halfway toward his hip like it’s habit. Instinct. Then stops.
His eyes go distant.
Like he’s somewhere else entirely.
You act fast.
“Careful with those,” you say with a soft smile, stepping out from behind the counter to help the customer. “We’ve only got most of our mugs left.”
Bucky doesn’t smile. But he does come back. Slowly. And when you bring him a napkin a few minutes later, he murmurs, “Thanks,” with something close to relief in his voice.
That’s when you realize: he’s used to protecting himself.
You want to be the kind of place where he doesn’t have to.
He stands to leave. You hand him his to-go drink, as always. Your fingers brush over the back of his glove. Just lightly. Bare skin to fabric.
He pauses.
And then—
That faintest flicker of a smile.
Not the kind people notice. The kind people feel.
“Don’t say goodnight… You had me at hello.”
You smile back. Not expecting anything. Not asking.
But you realize, watching him step out into the soft drizzle again:
He’s not just staying for the coffee.
He’s staying because for the first time in a long time,
this place doesn’t feel dangerous.
He doesn’t know why he keeps coming back.
It’s not the coffee.
It’s not even the scone.
It’s you.
The way your voice doesn’t try to fix him. The way you don’t flinch when he walks in. The way your fingers brush his hand like he’s not made of broken pieces.
He doesn’t have the words for it yet.
But if he did, they’d sound like this:
“She looked at me like I wasn’t a weapon.”
“And for a second, I believed her.”
It starts on a Tuesday. The kind of Tuesday that drizzles instead of storms.
The sky is gray, the sidewalks are wet, and you’re wiping down the counter when he walks in.
You don’t look up right away.
You don’t need to.
You feel him before you see him—like gravity shifting in the room.
The quiet kind. Familiar now.
He doesn’t go to his usual booth.
Instead, he chooses a table one seat closer to the counter. Just close enough to be noticed, not close enough to require explanation.
You raise your eyebrows. “Switching it up?”
Bucky—because you know to call him that now—glances toward the old record player in the corner.
“Better view of the playlist.”
He doesn’t look at it.
He looks at you.
You smile without asking more. And you hand him his drink without waiting for him to order it.
Late morning, it starts.
The café’s playlist is always a little bit yours—an eclectic mix of rainy-day indie, old soul, and songs that sound like they’ve been aching in someone’s chest since before they had a name.
And then it happens.
The old speakers crackle gently. Then:
Close your mouth now, baby, don’t say a word…
’Cause you ain’t saying nothin’ I ain’t already heard…
He stills. Subtle, but you know him now.
His grip tightens just slightly on the ceramic mug.
Plus, all them words get buried when the beat’s so loud…
And the speakers blowin’ up to this dance song…
You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.
The way his eyes shift—not away from the sound, but into it—tells you everything.
You’re wiping down a table later when the chorus returns, and without thinking, you hum it.
Just a bar or two. Soft. Absent-minded.
But his head lifts. Eyes locking on yours.
“You know this one?” you ask, casually.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Then, quieter than usual:
“Used to.”
Like it belonged to a version of him that’s buried too deep to reach most days.
You nod. You don’t push.
But something flickers between you—the unspoken understanding of what it means to lose whole decades, and still show up for the morning.
You don’t mean to tell him.
But it’s one of those late afternoons when the rain comes soft against the windows, and the air smells like cinnamon and wet leaves.
It’s quiet. No customers. Just you, a rag in your hand, leaning on the counter as he sits nearby, elbow on the table, thumb grazing the edge of his mug like it’s something to be studied.
“This town helped me breathe again,” you say, almost too low to hear yourself.
His eyes lift. Watching.
“I lost someone,” you say, because you don’t know how else to phrase it. “And after, everything felt like a fire drill. Like I was going through the motions of being alive.”
You exhale, then glance away. “Coming here… I don’t know. Something in the quiet made it feel okay to be sad.”
You risk a look.
He hasn’t moved.
But he’s listening. Like if he shifts, even slightly, he’ll miss something vital.
He doesn’t respond with a story of his own.
But he stays.
You’ll learn that’s how Bucky says the important things: not with words. But with presence.
The door swings open too fast. The bell clangs sharp—louder than it should be.
It startles you, but it stiffens him.
He doesn’t panic. Doesn’t snap. But you see it—the way his whole body locks. The flicker in his eyes like something deep in him is checking exits.
Without thinking, you step around the counter.
Your hand finds his sleeve.
Just a light touch.
A tether.
“Hey,” you say gently, like the sound of your voice can pull him back. “You’re okay.”
He doesn’t pull away.
In fact… for a split second, he leans into the touch.
Then it’s gone.
You both move on like nothing happened.
But it happened.
And the air remembers.
It’s nearing close.
You’re behind the counter, and he’s finishing the last sip of his drink. Neither of you seems eager to move.
Outside, the rain’s eased to mist.
He stands, slowly. Shrugs on his jacket.
You don’t have to try too hard…
You already have my heart…
The song plays again. The line lingers in the room.
And when he heads for the door, something in your chest tightens.
“Don’t say goodnight…” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.
But he hears it.
He turns halfway. Eyes soft.
“What?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly, brushing it off with a small smile. “It’s the lyrics.”
A pause.
“See you tomorrow?”
It’s a question. Not a promise.
But you nod like it’s both.
As he turns again, you catch him watching you—not like a soldier.
Not like someone surveying a room.
Like someone seeing light.
“You’re staring, Barnes,” you tease, grabbing a dish towel.
He smirks. Almost too subtle to catch.
“You know my name.”
“You told me.”
A beat. A breath.
Then—just before he pushes open the door—he says it:
“Sunshine.”
Soft. Almost swallowed by the wind.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
But he doesn’t take it back.
The apartment is too quiet.
He sets the coffee cup on the small table like it’s breakable.
The song still plays in his head.
Your voice, humming it, somehow louder than the original.
He lowers himself to the couch. Leans back. Stares at the ceiling.
And thinks—
She doesn’t flinch when I go quiet.
She doesn’t push when I pull back.
She makes the silence feel less like punishment.
He closes his eyes.
Lets the quiet wrap around him.
And for the first time in years…
It doesn’t feel like armor.
It feels like breathing.
It happens after midnight.
After the rain has stopped. After the apartment has gone still.
After he’s let himself fall asleep for once without the TV humming low like a safety net.
He dreams in layers.
Not chronological. Not logical.
Just images, sound, sensation.
The dream begins the way most do:
Too loud.
Guns. Screams. Dust in his mouth. He’s running—he’s falling—he’s fighting someone he doesn’t recognize, who wears his face, who calls him asset—
Then—
You don’t have to try too hard…
The song threads in from nowhere.
Like light filtering through broken glass.
The chaos doesn’t stop, but something softens around the edges.
And then it’s your voice—not yelling, not commanding.
Just laughing.
He’s sitting at a booth that doesn’t belong to any place he knows.
Not really.
But there’s coffee in his hand. And you’re behind the counter, humming like the world is simple.
You say something—he can’t make out the words—but your eyes are warm and the light through the window looks like home.
You bring him a scone, set it down gently, brush his fingers when you do.
You don’t got a thing to prove…
I’m already into you…
He opens his mouth to respond, but no sound comes.
That part always breaks the dream.
You’re sitting beside him now.
You’re not saying anything.
Just resting your head on his shoulder. Like it’s allowed. Like it’s safe.
And he doesn’t flinch.
He doesn’t pull away.
He leans into it, just slightly, until—
“Sunshine,” he murmurs.
You look up, smile like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“What?”
He smiles back.
“Nothing.”
But this time in the dream, he doesn’t lose it.
He holds onto the moment just a little longer.
He wakes slowly.
The sheets are tangled. His throat’s dry. The sky outside is still blue-black.
But something’s different.
The weight isn’t gone. But it’s not pressing quite as hard.
And when he turns his head on the pillow, he whispers the word again like a secret:
“Sunshine.”
Not nothing.
This time, he means it.
You’re already behind the counter, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, hair pinned back messily. It’s early enough that the world still feels like it’s exhaling from a bad dream — fog on the windows, street slick with last night’s rain, the air thick with quiet. Your hands are busy, but your heart feels like it’s listening for something.
The bell over the café door chimes.
You don’t look up immediately.
You don’t have to.
His footsteps are heavier in the mornings — not in volume, but in presence. Like he carries gravity in the soles of his boots.
He walks in like he’s still deciding if he’s allowed to.
You glance up as he approaches the counter, his eyes scanning for you — like he doesn’t breathe right until he finds you behind the bar.
You slide his drink across the counter before he can open his mouth.
“Morning,” you say gently.
He looks down at the drink. Then back at you. Something flickers in his expression — not quite a smile, not quite disbelief.
“You remembered.”
He always says it like that. Like remembering him is an act of rebellion against everything he’s known.
“Of course I did.” You tap the lid. “And your scone’s waiting in the warmer. But I left a note.”
You hand it to him on a napkin scrawled with your messy handwriting:
“Wednesdays suck less with pastries.”
His lips twitch. A real smile tries to break through.
He doesn’t comment.
But the corner of his mouth betrays him — and that’s enough.
He moves toward his usual booth, only—
Today, he stops one seat closer to the counter.
“Your usual table’s open,” you say, teasing.
“Better view of the record player,” he mutters.
You catch the faintest flush in his ears.
You don’t point out that the record player is behind him from that seat.
You wipe down the counters. He pretends to read.
He’s brought a book the last few days. You know the title. You know it because he’s had it open to the same page every single time.
Today is no different.
“You know,” you say, tossing a dish towel over your shoulder, “for a guy who keeps coming in with a book, you’re not making much progress.”
He doesn’t look up.
“You timing me?”
“I’m just concerned you might’ve forgotten how to read.”
That gets a snort out of him — low, surprised.
Then, before he can stop it — he laughs.
Not just a breath. Not a polite exhale.
A laugh.
It catches both of you off-guard.
He brings a gloved hand up to his mouth, like it slipped out without permission.
Your chest tightens. Not with worry — with wonder.
“Was that…” You narrow your eyes. “Was that a laugh?”
He mumbles behind his fingers, “Don’t get used to it.”
Too late.
There’s a lull in the rush. You’re both standing behind the counter, pretending not to be watching each other. The song on the record player has faded into some soft acoustic hum.
Out of nowhere, he says, “I used to draw.”
You blink.
You don’t move. Don’t speak.
Just… wait.
“Before everything,” he adds after a beat. “Back when it was just something I did. Before it got… lost.”
“What happened?” you ask, gently.
His jaw tightens. Eyes stay on the wood grain of the counter.
“Forgot how to.”
You consider that. Let the silence stretch long enough that it doesn’t feel like a demand.
“Doesn’t mean it’s gone.”
He looks at you then. Really looks.
And there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t have a name yet.
But it’s starting to grow teeth.
The café playlist shifts. And you feel it before you hear it.
That one track. The one that hit him last time.
And this time, the room seems to still as the lyrics begin.
Close your mouth now, baby, don’t say a word
’Cause you ain’t sayin’ nothin’ I ain’t already heard…
You hum it as you rinse a cup. Barely aware of it.
He’s watching you again.
Not like a soldier scans a threat.
Like a man who’s watching sunlight stretch across floorboards.
You don’t have to try too hard…
You already have my heart…
He closes his eyes.
Not in pain.
Just—like it hurts to be seen this clearly.
You don’t got a thing to prove…
I’m already into you…
And in that moment, something invisible uncoils between you both.
Something heavy and golden and quiet.
You’re both behind the bar again — you asked him to help restock cups, half-joking.
He said, “Bossy,” with a ghost of a smile.
You reach for a ceramic mug at the same time.
Your fingers brush his glove.
And neither of you move.
Not for a second.
Not for two.
His gloved thumb shifts — just barely — over the ridge of your knuckle.
You feel the shape of the moment. Warm and fragile and wanting.
Then—
The bell over the door rings.
You flinch.
He steps back.
But your hand still feels the shape of his.
And for a moment — neither of you say anything.
The mug is in his hands.
The one you let him keep.
Not the chipped ones. Not the plain ones.
The good one.
“It’s just a cup,” you’d said.
But he remembered what he told you in return.
“No one’s ever let me keep the good cup before.”
He didn’t mean to say that out loud.
But it was the truest thing he’d said all day.
He sets the mug on the table, next to the sketchbook.
Open now.
The page is half-filled with a pencil rendering — soft lines, gentle shading.
A face. Not finished. Not labeled.
But it’s you.
Your profile. Your hands. The shape of your jaw when you smile.
The song plays again — on his old speakers. He downloaded the playlist. Needed to keep something from the café with him.
You don’t have to try too hard…
He presses the pencil to the page. Doesn’t draw.
Just holds it there.
You already have my heart…
He whispers it.
Not to the page. Not to the song.
To you.
Wherever you are right now.
He dreams.
For once, it’s not war.
It’s not metal or blood or sirens or glass.
It’s the café.
Afternoon sun warming the floor.
You’re there, behind the counter. Wearing that oversized sweater. Hair up in a clip. Humming. Smiling.
He’s sitting across from you.
No glove.
Your hand is wrapped around his.
You’re calling him something soft.
“James.”
The name sounds safe in your mouth.
He wakes up before he answers you.
As he leaves that night, you pause with the key in your hand, ready to lock the door.
“Same time tomorrow?” you ask.
You’re still facing away from him when he answers.
“Yeah.”
Then—
“I like the quiet here.”
You turn just enough to meet his eyes.
You don’t say it.
But it’s there in your smile.
In the breath between you.
It’s not the quiet.
It’s you.
The morning starts with a missing piece.
No boots at the door. No quiet knock of knuckles against wood. No half-smile from the man who’s come to feel like gravity disguised as routine.
You keep glancing at the entrance anyway, like the bell might ring if you will it hard enough.
It doesn’t.
Still, you make his drink. Just in case. You set it on the warmer, and every few minutes you check it—switching it out for a fresh one before it goes cold.
You tell yourself it’s muscle memory. Not hope.
When he finally walks in—late, soaked in the gray of the day—something in your chest unstitches.
His jacket is damp from the rain. His hair curls slightly at the ends. He looks tired in that way you’ve started to recognize—not from lack of sleep, but from holding back everything he won’t say.
You say nothing about the absence. Nothing about the hour.
Just:
“It’s still hot.”
And when you slide the cup toward him, it feels like offering shelter instead of coffee.
He doesn’t smile, not really, but his eyes soften. And that’s enough.
Outside, the storm hits its stride.
The windows fog at the corners. Rain streaks across the glass like brushstrokes. The world turns watercolor.
Inside, it’s all warm light and the hush of things unspoken.
He stays longer. Doesn’t pretend to read. The book in his hands is open, but the pages don’t turn. Every so often, his gaze finds you like he doesn’t mean it to.
You catch it once. Hold it.
He doesn’t look away.
Later, you say it without planning to.
It slips out soft, like a confession disguised as a comment.
“This place didn’t used to feel like home. Not until recently.”
You don’t say because of you.
You don’t have to.
He stills. Hand around the mug, knuckles pale.
Sets it down.
He looks at you like he wants to say something that would crack his chest open—but instead, he just exhales. Slow. Measured.
His mouth opens.
Closes.
A small shake of the head.
You don’t push.
You just smile.
And something in him shifts at the sight of it—like a fist slowly uncoiling.
Evening falls without fanfare.
The café empties. The storm presses close against the windows.
He’s still there, drying mugs that don’t need drying. Like he belongs behind the counter now. Like he’s forgotten how to leave.
“You know this isn’t your job, right?” you tease.
He shrugs. “I don’t mind.”
You hand him the same mug you let him take last time. No words, no ceremony. Just an understanding.
Then—something different. Something new threads the silence.
You almost say it:
“Wanna come over?”
“Do you want to stay?”
“Walk me home?”
You open your mouth. Close it.
The air between you pulses, like it knows how close you are to saying something that could change everything.
And instead, he says:
“You hum when you’re thinking.”
You blink. Caught.
“I didn’t realize.”
“I like it,” he says. Simply. No pretense.
Like he means it.
The playlist shifts again. A soft beat. Familiar now.
You hum under your breath, not thinking.
You don’t have to try too hard…
You already have my heart…
He hears it. You feel his attention before you look up.
Then—
“You already have my heart.”
It comes so softly, like he’s saying it to the rain. To the empty room. To no one.
But you hear it.
You stop moving. The cloth stills in your hand.
You turn, and he’s standing there, eyes on yours. Unmoving. Unapologetic.
He doesn’t take it back.
And you don’t ask him to.
That night, in a room that’s never felt more hollow, he sketches again.
The mug you gave him rests beside the paper. Still warm from memory.
He draws your laugh—not your face, exactly. Just the shape of your mouth mid-smile. The curve of your eyes when you tease.
He doesn’t show anyone.
He doesn’t need to.
She doesn’t know, he thinks, watching the lines take shape.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing to me.
Then, quieter:
Or maybe she does.
And she’s waiting for me to catch up.
In his sleep, he dreams.
Of you.
Of the café, candlelit and empty. Music curling around the corners.
You’re there—barefoot, swaying. Humming that same song.
He watches from a distance. Doesn’t want to disturb the way you glow in the low light.
Then you turn.
Reach for him.
“You don’t have to try,” you whisper.
And he takes your hand.
Wakes up with his fingers curled into nothing.
The next morning, he opens the to-go bag you packed.
Inside: the spoon. A worn, unassuming one.
There’s a note wrapped around the handle:
“For late-night cereal.
Or ice cream.
Or bad dreams.”
He reads it twice. Once for the words.
Once for what they mean.
Something in his chest cracks open. Quietly.
Like breath through broken ribs.
He walks in earlier than usual the next day.
Doesn’t order right away. Just stands in front of you, eyes full of something steady.
When he reaches for your hand—he doesn’t ask.
He doesn’t need to.
And you let him.
Because this time, you don’t flinch.
Neither does he.
The café hums low, the way it always does after close—like it exhales with you, both of you finally breathing now that the world is gone.
You’re wiping down the counter. It’s habit by now. Not because it needs it. Because it’s how you delay endings.
Bucky reaches for a towel without asking, like he always does now. But today, there’s a quiet about him. Not the guarded kind. The kind that comes from being somewhere you don’t want to leave.
You hand him a fresh cloth. His gloved hand brushes yours as he takes it—leather warm from the air. He starts to wipe the far edge of the counter.
And then it happens.
The glove slips.
Just a bit. Not much. But enough.
The gleam of metal catches in the lamplight—smooth and quiet and unmistakable. Not warlike. Not monstrous. Just… part of him.
His hand stills.
He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t move to hide it.
He waits.
You don’t gasp. Don’t freeze. You just pick up another rag and start wiping the other end of the counter like nothing’s changed. Because nothing has.
He watches you. Long. Hard. Like he’s reading your silence and doesn’t trust it at first.
Minutes pass.
Then, without looking up, he says—quiet, almost like it’s breaking something in him:
“Most people look.”
You pause. Just for a second.
Then you glance over, soft and unshaken.
“You’re not most people.”
There’s silence. A long, soft, waiting kind.
And then he says, low and steady—
“Neither are you.”
He doesn’t smile. But something in his shoulders loosens. Like you just told him he could stay.
Later, thunder growls low, like the sky is thinking of collapsing.
Rain taps the windows, insistent. The lights flicker twice—nothing dramatic, just enough to draw both your eyes to the ceiling at the same time.
You’re at the register, half-laughing.
“Well. That’s a vibe.”
Bucky shifts his stance. Glances out the window. The street outside is ghosted over—wet and reflective, traffic down to a crawl.
You glance at him—then the rain—then back again.
And you say it. Light, no pressure.
“You can wait it out here. I’ve got tea. A really ugly blanket. Probably some old books I lied about finishing.”
He doesn’t answer at first. His jaw flexes once.
Then:
“You sure?”
You nod.
“Of course.”
And maybe he doesn’t realize it yet, but this is the first time he accepts a kind offer without thinking it’s conditional.
He follows you to the back corner couch. You bring out mismatched mugs, light one small candle—lavender, half-burned. You sit cross-legged with your tea. He lowers himself to the edge of the couch like he’s afraid he’ll break it—or worse, break the moment.
But he stays.
And you don’t ask him to explain why.
“You cook?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
He gives a noncommittal shrug. “Used to. Not much opportunity now.”
You hold up a dusty box of pasta. “Well. Welcome to culinary mediocrity.”
The kitchen’s small—barely two people wide—but you move around each other like you’ve done this before. Like you’ve been doing this in dreams.
You hand him the wooden spoon. He holds it like it’s a grenade. Squints at the back of the box like it’s written in code.
“What does ‘al dente’ mean?”
You laugh.
“It means ‘not mushy.’ Stir slowly. Pretend you care.”
He stirs like he’s defusing something.
Then, softly:
“I haven’t done this in a long time.”
You don’t press. Just smile and say:
“You’re doing fine.”
And maybe you mean the soup. But maybe you mean more.
He doesn’t answer. But he stirs with more care than before.
Dinner’s done. Dishes are drying in the sink. The rain hasn’t stopped.
You hand him a folded blanket—soft, a little faded. Your favorite one. You don’t say that, but maybe he can tell by the way you pass it over like it matters.
He spreads it out on the couch. Settles in slowly. Like it’s new territory. Like the couch will reject him if he breathes wrong.
You go to switch off the lights.
He watches you the whole time.
And just as you’re turning away, he says—quiet, but not uncertain:
“You make it easy to stay.”
You don’t know what to say.
So you don’t say anything.
But later—when he’s curled under the blanket, half-asleep—you walk over and tuck the edge of it tighter around his shoulders.
You pause there, fingers brushing the fabric.
And he doesn’t open his eyes.
But you feel it—the way he exhales, just a little easier than before.
It’s past midnight. The storm is softer now—like the world is whispering instead of yelling.
You’re washing a mug at the sink when you start to hum.
You don’t realize you’re doing it until the lyrics slip out, barely a whisper:
You don’t have to try too hard…
From the couch, voice rough with sleep, he answers:
“You already have my heart.”
You freeze, fingers still on porcelain.
You turn, slow. His eyes are open now. Watching you in the quiet.
“You keep saying that.”
He shrugs. One shoulder under the blanket.
“Because it keeps being true.”
And the room is silent.
But everything inside you is loud.
Hours pass. Neither of you sleep.
There’s no light except the soft gold from the hallway and the blue-gray shimmer of moonlight against the windows.
You’re curled up in the chair across from him. He’s on his side now, facing you.
And then, not looking at you, he speaks.
Low. Raw.
“I forget how to be around people sometimes.”
You shift. Watch him carefully.
“You don’t have to try around me.”
His eyes flick to you. Almost searching.
He nods. Then—another breath.
“I’m scared of messing this up.”
You smile, small. Sad. True.
“Me too.”
He studies you. Then he says:
“I never thought someone like you would notice someone like me.”
You lean forward, just a little. Just enough.
“It’s all I notice.”
And for once, he doesn’t look away.
Next morning. The rain is gone. A film of light lays over the floorboards.
He sits at the table while you make breakfast. The good mug in front of him.
And in the notebook he never lets anyone see, he writes:
She didn’t ask what I’ve done.
Didn’t ask who I’ve hurt.
Didn’t even ask what this was.
She just asked how I wanted my coffee.
I think that might be the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.
Later that afternoon, the café’s empty. The air smells like cinnamon and vanilla and something sweet neither of you can name.
You’re locking the front door.
And he reaches out—slow, but certain.
Fingers curl around yours.
Not by accident. Not because you’re brushing past each other.
On purpose.
You look down.
Then up.
And he says it. Soft. Fragile. Weighted.
“There’s something I need to tell you. About before.”
You nod.
“Okay.”
But he doesn’t say it yet.
He just looks at you like maybe he’s scared this is the last moment before it all changes.
Like you’re the thing holding him still in a world that keeps spinning too fast.
And you squeeze his hand.
You don’t ask him to be brave.
But you stay anyway.
And that? That’s braver than either of you has ever been.
It happens just after midnight.
You’re curled up against him on the couch, the blanket tucked under your chin, the warmth between your bodies soft and steady. Your head rests on his shoulder like it belongs there. His gloved hand is draped over your knee.
The movie’s still playing, but you’re asleep now. He can feel the rhythm of your breathing shift.
And he’s not watching the screen anymore. He’s watching you.
He thinks, quietly: This feels like something real.
He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he hears the buzzing—
A low, harsh vibration against the wood of your coffee table.
Your phone doesn’t ring. His does.
He shifts slowly, careful not to wake you.
CALLER ID: Sam Wilson
He answers low. Quiet.
“Yeah?”
“Buck. We need you.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
His gut tightens.
“How long?”
“We don’t know. Could be a week. Could be three. It’s bad. It’s not covert. It’s not clean. We go in fast, we end it faster.”
“I can’t— I need to tell—”
“There’s no time. I’m sorry.”
There’s silence.
Then a breath.
Then:
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
He ends the call. Looks back at you.
You’re still asleep. One hand curled under your chin. Lips parted slightly. Trusting.
He wants to wake you.
To say goodbye.
To say I didn’t leave you, not really. I’m coming back.
But you look peaceful. And part of him—selfishly, stupidly—doesn’t want to see that peace turn into panic.
So he doesn’t say anything.
He just kneels beside the couch for one moment longer, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. He thinks about writing a note. But what would he say?
“I’ll be back.”
“Don’t stop waiting.”
“This was real to me.”
It all sounds like lies when he’s not sure if he’ll survive.
So instead, he kisses the edge of your blanket, whispers:
“Please still be here.”
And walks out the door.
—
You glance at the clock.
9:07.
Nothing unusual.
9:12.
You find yourself checking the door.
9:18.
Still not there.
You make his drink anyway—out of habit, you tell yourself.
You steam the milk exactly how he likes it. You even pick the mug he always pretends not to care about but never fails to use.
It’s warm in your hands. It feels like waiting.
By 10:00, it’s cold.
You throw it out before anyone can ask.
He’s not late anymore.
He’s just not coming.
You still make the drink.
Still pick the mug.
Still set it down in the same spot.
The pastry too.
By the end of the shift, it’s dry. The sugar glaze is hardened and cracked.
You wrap it anyway. Put it in a bag.
You don’t know why.
The coffee smells like memory now.
Somewhere in the Alps, or maybe the Andes. He doesn’t know anymore.
It’s snow. Cold. Gunfire. Broken comms.
He’s crouched behind a ruined truck. Blood on his sleeve—some his, some not.
He should be focused. But instead:
He thinks of your laugh.
The way you hummed around the kitchen.
The softness in your eyes when you told him he didn’t have to try so hard.
The way your hand rested just near his knee, like you belonged there.
And he thinks, too late:
“I should’ve woken her up.”
You don’t want to spiral.
You don’t want to jump to conclusions.
But you’ve never been this wrong about a feeling before.
The look in his eyes when he held your hand.
The way he whispered “you already have my heart.”
None of it felt halfway.
And yet—
Here you are.
No call. No message.
Nothing.
You sit down in the back room of the café, shaking slightly. You don’t know if it’s anger or fear or something worse:
Hope.
Hope that he still might walk in.
Hope that you didn’t just imagine it all.
You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper.
And still—
You make his drink.
He’s back at base. Finally.
Bandaged. Bruised. Bone-weary.
His hands shake as he opens his pack. Amid the gear, the blood, the torn field notes—
The spoon.
Your spoon.
The one you tucked into his bag with that post-it:
“For late-night cereal. Or ice cream. Or bad dreams.”
He presses the note to his forehead.
Fists the spoon in his hand like it’s armor.
“She thinks I left.”
“She thinks I didn’t care.”
“She probably stopped waiting.”
He wants to scream.
Instead, he curls on his side and whispers your name.
You:
Sitting on his windowsill. You came here once, unable to stop yourself.
The place is cold. Impersonal. Like it shut down the second he walked out.
You leave a small mug on his counter.
His favorite one.
Just in case.
Him:
That same night, he stares at a payphone.
Doesn’t dial.
Doesn’t even know what he’d say.
Doesn’t know if you’d pick up.
Doesn’t know if your silence would be worse than the distance.
You:
Lying in bed, the spoon you gave him now curled in your fist. You kept another one. A matching set.
You whisper into your blanket:
“Where are you, Bucky?”
“Why didn’t you say goodbye?”
You stop making his drink.
It feels like letting go of something you didn’t want to admit you were holding.
You tell yourself maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe you read too much into the silences. The glances. The “you already have my heart.”
That one hurts the most.
You tell yourself maybe you dreamed it.
Maybe you wanted something so badly it started to look like love.
The café feels colder now.
You hum less.
The window where he used to sit starts to feel like a bruise.
You sit at his table.
It’s raining again.
The kind of rain he used to linger for.
You make tea just for yourself.
You start to close up for the night when the bell above the door doesn’t ring.
And somehow, that silence feels louder than any goodbye could have.
You look at the empty spot where his cup used to be.
You whisper it, this time, out loud:
“Where the hell did you go?”
You don’t expect an answer.
But you still wait a second longer before turning out the lights.
(Border)
The café is dim. Quiet. Only the hum of the refrigerator and the soft clatter of your nervous hands cleaning cups that are already clean.
You’ve stopped humming.
Stopped looking at the door.
But you haven’t stopped hoping.
That’s the cruelest part.
And then—
The bell chimes.
You freeze. Back turned.
You feel it.
That gravity shift.
That soul-deep awareness that he’s there.
You close your eyes. Grip the edge of the counter so hard your knuckles scream.
Then, a voice. Rough. Ragged. Like it’s clawing its way out of regret.
“…I didn’t know how to come back.”
You turn. Slowly.
And there he is.
Bucky.
Bruised. Dirty. A split lip. A healing gash under one eye. One arm still bandaged.
But it’s him. He’s here.
And he looks like he’s been walking through hell just to reach this moment.
You don’t say anything.
Don’t move.
Your chest rises and falls too fast.
Your throat is tight and your stomach is full of glass.
He takes a shaky step forward.
“I wanted to wake you. I should’ve told you. I—I didn’t think I had the right—”
You hold up a hand.
He goes quiet.
You’re trembling now.
“You left.”
Just two words. But they tear out of you.
“I know.”
“You didn’t say a word.”
“I thought—” he swallows hard, “—it would be easier if I didn’t.”
You shake your head. A harsh, bitter laugh slips out.
“Easier for who?”
And that’s when he sees it.
Not just the anger in your voice—but the hurt behind it. The rawness under the rage.
Your hands are fists. Your chest is heaving. Your mouth quivers.
You want to scream.
You want to collapse.
You want to kiss him until it erases all the missing.
But mostly—
You just want him to hold you like he should have before he walked out that door.
He moves toward you. Slow. Wary.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t care. I never—”
He reaches for your arm.
You smack his hand away.
Then you grab his collar.
Pull him to you.
And you kiss him.
Hard. Desperate. Furious.
Your teeth clash. Your lip splits.
He gasps into your mouth like he’s drowning and your kiss is oxygen and punishment all at once.
He doesn’t pull away.
He leans into it. Hands flying up—one gripping the counter behind you for balance, the other cradling your face like he can’t believe you’re real.
The kiss slows. Softens.
And then stops.
He pulls back, breathing like he just survived a war.
You won’t look at him. You’re crying now. Quiet, messy tears that drip down your chin like shame.
“I hate that I missed you this much,” you whisper.
He presses his forehead to yours.
“I hate that I made you wait.”
You finally look up at him. Red eyes. Wet lashes.
And he sees everything.
“I didn’t want to need you,” you say. Voice breaking. “But I do.”
His thumb brushes your cheek.
“Then need me.”
“Don’t say good night,” you say—almost a dare.
He breathes out—like a man who’s been holding it in since he left.
And then he says it.
Low. Wrecked. Certain.
It’s quiet when you stir. The kind of quiet that feels sacred.
No café noise. No city hum. Just the soft hush of a world not quite awake yet.
You shift beneath the blanket—his blanket. The one he threw over the two of you sometime around 3am. Your back is to his chest, his arm draped loosely over your waist, fingertips curled in the fabric of your shirt like he’s still trying to anchor himself to you in his sleep.
You can feel his breath, warm and even against the curve of your neck.
He doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t dream.
Just rests.
For maybe the first time in years.
You reach down. Lace your fingers with his. Slowly. Gently.
He stirs, but doesn’t pull away.
Instead, his grip tightens slightly, and his voice—rough with sleep and rasp—comes against your skin like something holy:
“Still here?”
You nod, not trusting your voice yet.
“Good,” he mumbles. “Didn’t want to open my eyes and find out I made you up.”
You feel your chest crack open a little at that.
Because it’s not a line.
It’s not pretty.
It’s just true.
You press your forehead against his arm and whisper:
“You didn’t.”
“I’m here.”
He lets out a shaky exhale, then presses a slow kiss into your shoulder—like it’s a thank you.
The kitchen is small. Sun-washed.
The kind of space made for mugs with chipped handles and sleepy morning songs that hum just beneath conversation.
You hand him a spatula and tell him to flip the eggs.
He stares at the pan like it’s a disarmed landmine.
“It’s not going to explode, Bucky.”
He side-eyes you.
“You don’t know that.”
You laugh. “You’ve survived wars. You can survive breakfast.”
He flips the egg—terribly.
You grin and bump his hip with yours. “Good enough.”
He mutters something under his breath about “civilian combat,” but when you glance at him, he’s smiling. Really smiling. The rare kind. The kind that feels like sunlight.
You eat with your knees touching under the table.
He watches you more than he eats.
Like he’s memorizing you.
You raise your brow at him mid-sip.
“What?”
He just shrugs a little, mouth tilted up.
“You’re the first thing I’ve wanted to wake up to in a long time.”
You freeze for a second, your chest rising slowly.
Then you whisper:
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He reaches across the table.
Takes your hand like he means to keep it.
You end up on the couch after breakfast. He’s sitting back, legs spread, arms along the cushions. You’re curled beside him, knees tucked up, one of his arms around your back. It’s lazy. Comfortable. But there’s a hum beneath it—like something unsaid is pacing the room.
You glance up at him.
He’s already watching you.
That same look in his eyes again—recognition.
Not like you’re perfect. But like you’re his.
You blink. Smile softly.
Then whisper:
“Hey.”
He tilts his head, just a little.
“Hmm?”
“You already had me.”
His brows furrow. He’s not confused in the bad way—just a little lost in how honest it feels.
So you elaborate. Eyes still on him.
“From that first day. The way you said hi. The gloves. The stillness in you. It didn’t scare me.”
“I think… maybe that was the moment. Even if I didn’t know it yet.”
He doesn’t speak.
Just blinks. Slowly.
A long pause.
Then—quiet, like he’s offering it from the deepest part of himself:
“Hi,” he says.
“I’m Bucky.”
And it wrecks you.
That he’s still trying to earn it. Still trying to believe this isn’t just borrowed time.
You crawl into his lap—gently, deliberately.
Straddle him with care, your knees on either side of his hips. You’re not rushing.
He looks up at you. Like you’re the answer to a question he never thought he was allowed to ask.
You whisper:
“That’s it. I’m yours.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.
Hands coming to your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
He doesn’t pull you closer.
You do.
And then—
Not urgent. Not desperate.
Just full.
Of history.
Of hesitation finally released.
Of love that’s been blooming in the shadows, now stepping into the light.
You kiss him like he’s precious. Like you’re learning him. Like your lips are asking “Are you ready?” and his are answering “I’ve always been.”
He deepens it slowly, tilting his head, one hand curling up into your hair, the other pressing flat to your back like he wants to feel every breath you take.
You pull back only when you’re both breathless.
Your foreheads rest together.
And in the silence, you hum the song again.
“Hold, hold, hold, hold me tight now…”
His voice is a whisper, matching yours:
“’Cause I’m so, so good to go…”
You smile. Eyes closed.
He brushes his thumb beneath your lip, voice softer now.
“Don’t say, don’t say good night…”
And together, at the same time, you say:
“You had me at hello.”
(You’ve got mail!) DONT SAY DONT SAY GOODNIGHT YOU KNOWWW! YOU HAAD ME AT HELLOOOOO!!! oh my god this is my favorite dcom song every. WELL ONE and I was thinking about it and was like awww omg Bucky with this would be so cute :((( AND THEN I REMEMBERED I MAKE FICS. I promised 3 fics I just forgot to post it. So here’s 2/3!!
Pairing: Trailer Park!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: You're ready to start over, and your neighbor makes a lasting impression.
Word Count: Over 3.7k
Warnings: Flirting, swearing, dirty talk, tension, sexual chemistry, world building, asshole ex, Alpine appearance, Bucky Barnes (he's very forward and a warning, okay?)
A/N: Here we are! My trailer park!Bucky intro. We're calling this AU Diamond in the Rough. Thanks to the nonnies and everyone who has asked about him. He's here, @ellethespaceunicorn, @targaryenvampireslayer, @vunblr, @vesearlee, @startcarvingdarling, @thezombieprostitute, @buckybarnesfic (sorry to anyone I missed)!❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Your life went up in flames recently all thanks to the match you struck. If people asked your parents, your friends, your old boss, or your now ex-boyfriend, they’d likely say it was a mid-life crisis or form of rebellion to get some sort of attention. The truth was that the fuel had spread for years, daring you to light it all on fire, and you did when you finally had enough. You wouldn’t say the old you was dead and that you were reborn, but you weren’t who you were yesterday either.
This was the start of a different, and hopefully happier, version of you.
Staring at the worn down trailer in front of you, you hadn't made your way inside just yet. While your place with your ex had been large and open and new, this place had seen better days. It needed a fresh coat of paint to start, a new door and windows. It was sinking in that this was really going to be your new home, and it made you happy.
“I’ll bring you back to life,” you whispered, determined to give this place the TLC that it deserved. If you poured yourself into this, maybe it would fix something inside you, too. You certainly didn’t need your ex or anyone else to help.
You looked over at your car, your beautiful Mustang, which had everything you thought to pack. Your bed and other furniture wouldn't get delivered until later, but that was okay. It hurt to think so much of your life, what defined you, could be boiled down to material possessions, but weren't you fortunate since so many had much less? Maybe unpacking as much as you could today would occupy your time and thoughts.
Like finding a new job, something you truly wanted to do and not what was expected of you.
Your phone went off and you hesitated to look at the message, not sure who it would be from. It was funny how for years no one went out of their way to talk to you unless they needed something. Now that you were gone they suddenly cared? The thought left a hollow feeling in your chest, one you didn’t want to examine today.
“I have a bet on how long it’ll take you to come crawling back to me. Can’t wait to see you on your knees with those pretty tears when you beg for forgiveness, Pumpkin. And let’s face it, on your knees is where you belong because you’re nothing without me.”
A surge of anger flooded your veins as you reread it. Even now he expected you’d come back with your tail between your legs where he could look down on you. He had another thing coming. “Trust fund prick,” you muttered, your finger hovering only for a moment before you blocked him. You should’ve done that the moment you dumped him, but doing it now in front of your new home, it felt more right.
Your eyes burned when you put your phone away and an empty feeling began to consume you. Why were you close to tears? Because of him? You knew from the beginning what kind of man he was and you lied to yourself to maintain the facade that everyone else wanted. You were tired of living for other people’s expectations. This was your life, you didn’t need a man, and-
“You lost?”
You turned at the sound of the deep voice just feet behind you, trembling ever so slightly when you saw the man that husky voice belonged to. The sight knocked the very breath from your lungs. You were used to being surrounded by guys who paraded themselves as men, but they were little boys playing dress up. But the man in front of you? He was all man.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
He stood tall and proud, but relaxed and at ease in his element. Blue eyes like an ocean, yet he was the calm of the storm. The short dark brown hair matched his thick goatee and you wished you could feel it against your skin so you knew if it was soft or scratchy. The white tank top showed off his muscles and tattoos and the chain around his neck dipped beneath the neckline. The low hanging jeans hid what you knew was an amazing package. He was something out of a wet dream, the kind of man who looked like trouble.
The kind of man you should stay away from, but wanted to chase after you.
He slowly licked his bottom lip before he asked, “Cat got your tongue, Sweet Cheeks?”
Your face felt like it would go up in flames. Being attracted to what you believed was a new neighbor wasn’t going to happen. It couldn’t. “No, and I’m not lost,” you replied, gesturing to what was now your home. “I live here now.”
You could see why he thought you were lost since it was obvious you weren’t from around there. When you looked for a new place, you purposely picked an area far from your old place. If you had stayed close, it wouldn’t have severed the ties enough. It would’ve made your leash longer and that wouldn’t do.
“Is that right?” He looked you over from head to toe and your mouth went dry when he smirked, the kind that likely disintegrated panties. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
The ruggedly handsome man held his hand out for you, and you only just realized he was wearing rings. What would it feel like if they dug into your skin? And, yes, you may have glanced at his left hand to see if he was wearing a wedding ring, which he wasn’t. “Thanks for the welcome,” you said, taking his hand.
Electricity crackled between you, feeling the crackle from head to toe. The intensity shook you to your core when he locked his eyes with yours and brought your hand to his lips and kissed it instead of shaking it. You let out a breath when his goatee tickled your skin, his eyes locked with yours. Well, that answered your question- both soft and scruffy, the kind that would leave a delicious burn between your thighs.
Jesus, you needed to keep your libido under control. You just got out of a relationship. Weren’t you just thinking moments ago how you didn’t need a man?
“I’m Bucky,” he said against your skin, reluctantly releasing your hand. “You wanna tell me your name, or should I just keep calling you ‘Sweet Cheeks’?”
You told him your name, the sound barely above a whisper. He hummed and repeated it. Never once did you think your name sounded sexy until he said it.
“Why are you calling me Sweet Cheeks?” you asked. Did he call every pretty woman that? Not that you were full of yourself and thought you were drop-dead gorgeous, but you had some confidence in your looks.
He chuckled, a throaty sound that made you want to hear it again. “Well, I hope you don't mind me being forward, but…” he began.
You tensed up a little and looked down at yourself. Was he going to make a comment that you didn't belong there? That you stood out like a sore thumb? You were dressed down, but still looked pristine as you always did, a habit instilled in you that you had to look put together no matter if you were crumbling inside. Appearance meant everything to your family, and you needed to let that expectation go.
“Your ass looks incredible in those jeans. Sweetest fucking cheeks I’ve ever seen and that’s with your pants on.” He licked his lips when his gaze drifted down your body. “I don’t think I’ve seen a better ass than yours.”
You blinked and looked behind you to get a look at yourself. “Excuse me?” you asked. Of all the things you thought he’d say, that wasn't one of them.
“I saw you from behind and stared for a good minute, thinking of all the things I wanted to do to you, before I walked over. You have the kind of ass that should be worshipped. Could make a grown man cry,” he said, your heart speeding up and your core throbbing. “And then you turn around with the face of a fucking angel and I swear my heart stopped,” he added, putting both hands on his chest for emphasis. “Givin’ me a heart attack over here.”
You almost laughed because he couldn’t be serious, but there was no humor in his eyes. In fact, he scanned your face like he was trying to memorize it. “That’s… no. My ass isn’t that great. Neither is my face,” you said. It wasn’t to fish for a compliment, as nice as it would've been, because while you had some confidence in yourself, you didn’t have that great of an ass.
But beauty was in the eye of the beholder, wasn’t it, and he looked like he was two seconds from dropping to his knees in the dirt to worship you like he claimed he wanted to.
“Tell that to my racing heart and my cock,” he said, your mouth parting when he pointed to his crotch. “But if you continue to disagree, I’m more than happy to show you how wrong you are.”
Your words were stuck in your throat, not used to being the center of someone’s attention that way. “I’m sorry, but we just met,” you said, unsure of how else to respond. He didn’t know you, apart from your name, and he was talking about worshipping your ass and looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole?
It was… kind of flattering. What would you have to be upset about? Weren’t you mentally telling your libido to calm down at the sight of him? You were attracted to him, he was just the one being brave enough to vocalize his attraction to you.
His gaze didn’t waver when he said, “Yeah, we just met, but I want you.”
Your mouth parted again. Well, he was certainly forward and that didn’t bother you. It was better than the fake people you surrounded yourself with before spouting pretty lies. “You want me? You don’t know me and I could be a taken woman,” you pointed out.
“I’ll get to know you if you let me. ‘Sides, it’s not like I see a ring or indentation on your finger, so I don’t think you’re married or engaged. And I sure as hell don’t see anyone here helping you with your stuff, so I’m guessing you’ve been single for a while or you recently got out of a relationship,” he said, taking a look around to make his point before he focused on you once again. You weren’t at all upset that he noticed your bare finger since you had looked at his, too. “You wanna be a taken woman?”
Was it that obvious that you were all alone? “So what if I did just get out of a relationship?” you asked. There was nothing wrong with getting out of something that wasn’t right.
He smiled, not pushing when you didn’t answer his question. “Then he’s a fucking idiot for letting you go. And what better way to get over someone than getting under another?”
“I dumped him,” you clarified, not knowing why you needed him to know that. Your ex was likely spewing to everyone that he dumped you to save face, but that’s not what happened. “And I’m already over him.”
You should’ve felt guilty for that, but he wasn’t your forever and you weren’t his. He was free to find someone who fit with him better than you ever did. You were free to find your own happiness.
“Good girl,” Bucky smirked, your legs pressing together. You had to get a grip. “And I wasn’t implying that he dumped you, only that he’s an idiot for letting you go and I’m happy to help you forget all about him.”
You finally let your laugh out and you swore you heard him groan. Did he like the sound of your laughter? “You really are forward, and I just said I don’t need to get over him.”
“I said I’d help you forget about him,” he said, taking a step forward and smiling when you didn’t step back. You weren’t some wilting flower he’d pluck from the soil. “Just let me fuck him from your memories and I swear you’ll thank me when I’m done.”
You frowned. Did he think you were an easy lay, or was he picking up on your attraction to him and running with it? “I haven’t even moved into my trailer yet, so maybe you should let me get settled before you continue to… I don’t know, harass me.”
His eyebrows shot up and the amusement died in his eyes. “Harass you? That’s not what I’m doing,” he swore, taking a step back to give you space. “Look, I’m sorry if I upset you or came on too strong.”
The apology took you by surprise and slowly warmed you inside. Not many people ever apologized to you for anything. “No, I’m sorry. Harass wasn’t the right word,” you said. It was just flirting. Very… strong flirting. “But if that isn’t it, what are you doing?”
He smiled after a moment, that spark back in his eyes. “Just grabbing an opportunity when I see it. Life’s too short not to,” he said.
You respected that perspective. “Is that what I am? An opportunity?” you asked. Something to get out of his system?
“I think you’re a lot more than that and that you may be running from something,” he replied, tilting his head. “Are you running from something or someone?”
He asked like he genuinely cared and you didn’t know how to process that. “I wouldn’t say I’m running,” you said, though you were running in a way, running from the life you no longer wanted. “More like I finally closed a chapter.”
“Well, I’m looking forward to getting to know you and helping you write a new chapter.”
“You say that like it’s a sure thing,” you said.
When his eyes swept over you again, it didn’t look like he was checking you out. It was as if he was trying to figure you out. “‘Cause it is,” he said, glancing at your door before you could say anything to his cocky remark. “Can help you out with repairs if you’d like.”
“I might take you up on that,” you said since you didn’t really have a clue what you were doing when it came to the handyman type of stuff. You could pay him, too. “Don’t get too excited. I said ‘might’,” you teased when he smiled.
Something in your gut said that even if he wasn’t hitting on you that he would’ve offered to help. It was a feeling you had, just like he had a feeling about you. And sure, he looked like danger and sin and everything you should stay away from, but there was more to him than met the eye.
What was his story? Who was the man behind the swagger and tattoos and rough edges? Did he grow up here or did he make a choice like you?
“I run my own shop. I’m very good with my…” He rolled his lip between his teeth. “Tools.”
You laughed again, louder than before, and his smile widened. “You really are something, Bucky,” he said.
“Love hearing you say my name,” he whispered, heat pooling in your gut before he pointed at your car with a whistle. “And she is a beauty. You ever need any help with her, you let me know.”
You agreed. She was a beauty. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ll take me for a ride or something like that?”
“Oh, I'll give you a ride,” he said in a low voice. “As many as you want.”
You ignored the ache between your thighs. “Not today, Bucky. I need to unpack.”
“One sec, Sweet Cheeks.”
“...Is that seriously what you’re going to call me?” you asked as he rushed to his trailer. It was ridiculous, but you didn’t hate it. You sure as hell liked it better than Pumpkin.
“‘Til the day I die,” he called back, whistling when he opened the door. “C’mere, girl. I got someone I want you to meet.”
Your brows furrowed. Who was in there who would possibly want to meet you? Did he have a kid?
You weren’t prepared for a white ball of fur to curl up in Bucky’s waiting arms. “And who is this?” you asked when he strolled back over. The image of such a beautiful cat in his arms was one that would put a smile on your face for days to come.
“This is Alpine. Found her near my shop a while back, starving and shivering. Nursed her back to health and she’s been by my side ever since,” he said, affection written all over his face. There was no bragging in his tone and that made you appreciate his story more. “Al, meet our beautiful new neighbor.”
You weren’t about to preen since he called you beautiful. “Oh, my god,” you whispered, tentatively holding a hand out to her when she lifted her head and regarded you with bright eyes. “Hi there.”
Alpine stared for a few seconds before she sniffed your fingertips and rubbed her head against them, encouraging you to pet her. You felt Bucky’s penetrating stare when you gently stroked her fur. “She’s a great judge of character,” he said, swearing under his breath. “I’m such a dick.”
“What do you mean?” you asked. He was a very forward flirt, but you didn’t get the impression that he was a dick.
“I didn’t ask if you were allergic,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “Fuck.”
Your heart turned over. No one you knew would’ve ever considered that. “I would’ve told you right away if I was allergic,” you assured him, smiling when Alpine purred. “I’m glad he was able to nurse you back to health. I’ll bet you watch over everyone around here, don't you?”
You could just imagine her being a little guardian and your heart twisted. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to get a pet. Like your trailer, you could shower a pet with love, too.
Alpine surprised you when she moved forward and pressed her head to yours. “Fuck me,” Bucky whispered when she curled up again and closed her eyes. “She really fucking likes you.”
“Maybe she’s just being nice,” you said.
“Trust me, she wouldn’t do that unless she really liked you,” he said, leaning down slightly to kiss the top of Alpine's head. “Would you, Al?”
Your heart melted. It wasn't fair how sweet and sexy he looked holding an animal. The only thing missing was him in a leather jacket, which you had no doubt he owned. If you ever saw him in a leather jacket holding a cat, you’d probably combust.
“Like seeing me kiss a pussy?” he asked nonchalantly when he caught you staring.
“Oh, my god,” you giggled, not dignifying him with any other sort of response to his question. Because if you pictured him eating your pussy, your legs would start shaking and you were altready hot and bothered enough thanks to him. “I really should start bringing my stuff in,” you said. You really needed to look over your resume, too, and find a job sooner rather than later.
“Say bye, Al.” He lifted her paw to give you a wave as she meowed.
You smiled and gave her a wave, too. “Bye bye. Thank you for the warm welcome.” It was a smooth tactic bringing his cat out. You imagined she helped win a lot of people over if his charm didn't.
“Wait,” Bucky said when went to turn away. “You sure you don't need any help? I don't mind doing any heavy lifting.”
“I can manage,” you answered. You had to get used to doing things on your own now. “But I appreciate it.”
“If you change your mind-”
“I’ll let you know.”
He frowned, but nodded. “One more thing,” he said, nodding over to a clearing. “Potluck lunch two days from now. You should stop by. Give you a chance to meet everyone.”
“Really?” Your eyes lit up. “I can bake something,” you said. Something delicious that would leave a good impression on the neighbors.
He raised an eyebrow. “You bake?”
“Yeah, I like to bake. Cakes, cookies, brownies, pies, whatever I feel like.” You shrank in on yourself, waiting for the inevitable laughter or insult.
But it didn’t come.
Bucky merely stared when he ran his tongue over his lips. Did the man ever keep his tongue in his mouth? “Now, I think it’s only fair that I get to taste your sweet cheeks and I don’t know if I want to share.”
You shook your head. Surely you hadn’t heard him right. “...You mean my treats?” you asked.
“Cheeks, treats, all of it. Bet it’ll all melt on my tongue,” he replied with a wink and turned away, giving you the chance to check out his ass when he slowly walked away. He spoke about worshipping your ass, but you couldn’t take your eyes off his.
“You cocky son of a bitch,” you whispered with a smile. Of course you heard him right, and you bet he ate like a starved man. “Keep dreaming,” you called after him.
“Oh, I will, Sweet Cheeks. I will dream about you,” he promised over his shoulder before he looked back once more. “You might just be my future wife,” he declared and went inside with Alpine while his words hung in the air.
“Fuck me,” you breathed out, your shoulders shaking as you laughed because that just happened.
You didn’t know how the rest of the day would go, but you did know that your new home and neighbor were going to make for a very interesting and exciting chapter in your new life.
Okay, lovelies. What do we think? Talk to me. Let me know if you love him as much as I do. And let me know where you think this is going. 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Summary: Bucky meets his potential new roommate and is immediately smitten.
Word Count: Over 3k
Warnings: Love at first sight, bits of humor, fluff, tension, sweetness, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: Finally sharing Stud meeting Smartie for the first time. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 (and thank you for your help and cheering me on), but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Bucky let out a deep breath when he heard the knock at the door and looked at his watch before he went to answer it. Another potential roommate, right on time. He hadn’t initially wanted to rent out the extra room since he could’ve made it work with rent going up, but the budget would’ve been very tight and it was better not to risk it since he loved the place. It would’ve also been nice if Steve or Sam could’ve moved in, but they had their own spaces and the idea of sharing his space with a stranger wasn’t necessarily bad. He just hoped whoever ended up renting the space got along with Alpine.
“One sec!” he called out and bent down to pet his cat, the white fur soft against his calloused hand. “Try to be nice this time, okay?” he teased, reminding himself to keep his expectations low when she meowed. Alpine was a wonderful cat, but also particular with the company she kept and she chased off the last person who visited. He trusted her instincts and if she didn’t like someone then that was that.
“Here goes nothing,” he whispered, steeling himself before he opened the door.
And the world as he knew it ceased to exist.
You stood there with the sweetest smile he had ever seen and he thought his heart would beat right through his chest with how hard it pounded. The feeling only intensified when he looked into your eyes and forgot how to breathe, his stomach filled with so many butterflies that he thought he’d leave the ground. Then he felt like he was falling in slow motion before he came back to himself. It was like the world got a little brighter just because you were standing in front of him.
Is this love at first sight?
“Hi! Bucky, right?” you asked, and he knew then and there he could spend the rest of his life hearing you say his name.
“Yeah, that’s me,” he said, his voice husky. “And you must be…” He paused before he said your name, letting it settle on his tongue.
No, he couldn’t flirt with or hit on his potential roommate.
Or can I?
He heard the hitch in your breath before you nodded. “Yeah, that’s me,” you repeated, your voice soft and sugary sweet.
He wasn’t trying to stare like a creep, but he really didn’t expect to see someone so beautiful. So perfect. When you expressed interest in the room since it was close to the nearby university, he refused to look up your social media accounts. He wanted the first impression based on instinct and a face-to-face meeting and not by what was posted online. He hoped he made a good impression, too, especially since he had freshened up after work, wearing one of his many henleys and jeans.
“Would you like to come in?” he asked, stepping back to give you some room. He took up a lot of space with his size and didn’t want to crowd you.
You winced and didn’t move, making him pause, too. “Before I do that…” He raised an eyebrow when you held your phone up and dialed a number. “My friend wants to hear you say that I’m going to be perfectly safe here.”
Both eyebrows shot up. “She wants to hear me say…” He trailed off when he heard a voice on the other end.
“Hey! You at the apartment?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” you replied, biting your lip and drawing his eyes to your mouth.
Focus. Don’t think about kissing your potential roommate.
“Oh, good! Is he listening? Hey, what’s your name and what are your intentions with my friend?”
Bucky cleared his throat, unable to say what his intentions were deep down. “My name is Bucky Barnes and I’m looking for a roommate. She’ll be perfectly safe here whether she accepts or not,” he said, praying that Alpine liked you enough so you’d move in.
“I’m sorry,” you mouthed to him.
“It’s okay,” he mouthed back. He wasn’t at all offended. You never could tell with strangers and it was nice that you had someone looking out for you.
“She better be safe!” He tried not to laugh at your friend’s tone. It reminded him of Steve, caring and protective. “Is he hot? He sounds hot.”
“You’re on speaker,” you reminded her and Bucky tried to keep a neutral expression because, well, he wanted you to think he was hot. “And, yeah, he’s hot. He’s a real stud muffin. Or stud horse? I don’t know, he’s a stud,” you rambled, your eyes wide like you forgot he could hear you, too.
Silence filled the space between you and he took the opportunity to put his hand on the doorframe so you could see just how large he was. “I’m a stud?” he asked, a smile tugging at his lips. The compliment nearly had him preening like a peacock, and there was tension. No one could tell him otherwise.
Your mouth fell open and a sound came out, but nothing else.
“Ooh, he must be really hot if you’re just making noises,” your friend muttered as you stared past Bucky’s frame into the apartment, avoiding eye contact. That only made you look more endearing. “Call me when you leave so I know you’re still safe.”
“I will. Bye,” you said quickly, hanging up before your friend could say anything else. “Um…”
He tilted his head, not pushing for you to talk. He was more than content to look at you. Did you have any idea how enticing you were?
“About the stud comments, I… Well. Yeah. I mean… Look at you.” You gestured to him and finally looked his way again, making him smile all over again. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I just… say things and I feel like I just made this weird.”
“Hey, it’s fine. I appreciate the compliment,” he said easily when he was doing flips on the inside. “You didn’t make it weird,” he added. Not when he was the one staring at you like a creep.
“So, not a terrible first impression?” you asked and he hated how worried you looked.
“If anything, it’s a great impression,” he promised you, stepping aside again. He’d be thinking about that compliment and you long after you left.
“My friend wanted to come here with me so I wasn’t by myself, but I refused. The call was the next best thing,” you explained, finally stepping inside. God, you smelled sweet, too. “I appreciate you being cool with that.”
“No problem.” And he didn’t miss how quickly you changed the subject. Whatever you felt moments ago, if you felt something at all, you clearly didn’t want to dwell on it, and he didn’t want to make it uncomfortable by dragging it on. “Why do I have the feeling you’d do the same for her?”
“Oh, I would,” you said, gasping when you spotted Alpine. “Oh, my god. She’s beautiful.”
“Yeah, that’s Alpine,” Bucky said, holding his breath when you crouched down and held out a hand. You weren’t allergic to cats, he wouldn’t even entertain a potential roommate who was, so that was good. But what would she think of you?
“Hey, Alpine. I’m hopefully going to be your new roommate,” you said, waiting for her to approach. It made Bucky happy that you weren’t forcing her to go to you if she didn’t want to. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
Alpine gave your hand a sniff and bumped it with her head before she surprised you both and put her paws on your chest. “I… I think she wants you to pick her up,” Bucky said in awe.
She isn’t chasing you off. She likes you. This is good. This is really good.
You picked her up without hesitation. “Oh, my goodness. I’m already in love,” you said when she purred and nuzzled close. Was it weird to be jealous of a cat? “You want to do the tour of your home with me?”
Alpine nuzzled deeper into your hold.
“She really likes you,” Bucky said, leading you to the living room and watching you as you looked around. “It’s not much.” It wasn’t the most lavish place, but it was nice, warm, and he had made it a home.
“I like her, too,” you said, smiling as you took everything in. “Are you kidding? This place is great!”
“Yeah?” he smiled, running his metal hand through his hair. He hadn’t noticed he used that hand until your eyes followed the movement. “Oh, yeah. This…” He put his arm out to show you and felt the need to somewhat explain it. “It’s a state of the art prosthetic, in case you were wondering.”
Losing his arm wasn’t a story he was ready to tell, not today anyway. For now, he just wanted you to see the place. And the prosthetic was something he wouldn’t have normally been able to afford, but he had been lucky and was able to be part of a test group of new prosthetics.
“I think it looks pretty badass.” There was no judgement in your eyes, only openness when you added, “And I’ll argue with anyone who says otherwise.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. Some people asked invasive questions or tried to touch it, but you put him at ease and there was something wonderful in the air between you because of it. “That means a lot,” he whispered, nodding to the space. “So, you like it so far?”
“I love it,” you answered, your eyes now on the bookshelf. “My kind of space right there.”
“Yeah? You like to read?” he asked. He had a decent collection of books.
“Oh, yeah. Probably how I ended up getting a scholarship since I usually had my face buried in them,” you teased.
“That’s right. Academic scholarship,” he said. You had mentioned in your email that you were on a scholarship and that’s why you were going to the university, but you didn’t want to live on campus. “Must be really smart.”
Smart and beautiful.
“Oh, no. No. I wouldn’t say that,” you said dismissively. That wouldn’t do.
“If you got an academic scholarship, you have to be somewhat smart. So just admit that you’re a little smartie and take the compliment,” he said, chuckling when you shook your head. “I’ll bet Alpine thinks you’re a smartie, too.”
Smartie? What the hell am I saying?
You smiled when Alpine meowed in agreement. “Okay, I’m a little smart in some areas,” you said, biting your lip again. Were you doing that on purpose? “Is that braggy? I don’t want it to sound braggy.”
“Not braggy,” he said. Adorable as hell, but not braggy.
“Thanks,” you whispered almost shyly.
Yep, you were adorable. “Kitchen?”
“Oh, yeah. The tour,” you said, following and gasping again. “This is perfect! And is that an old radio?”
He would’ve liked something bigger eventually, but the size was good and the appliances were in great condition. “Yeah, I listen to music here sometimes,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“Hey, it’s your space,” you said. It wouldn’t just be his space if you moved in. It would be yours, too. “And I like music.”
“You like pizza and movies, too?”
You stared at him like he suddenly had another head on his shoulder. “Of course, I like pizza and movies! I thought that was a prerequisite to even look at the place.”
He leaned against the counter and folded his arms with a grin. “Except I didn’t ask you about pizza and movies.”
“Touche,” you said, doing a small spin with Alpine still in your arms. Why did he suddenly want to dance with you in the kitchen? “So, you have a great living room, great kitchen. I’m going to guess the bedroom is amazing.”
He swallowed again, trying not to imagine you in his bed. “Yeah, this way.”
Bucky lifted his chin to indicate the direction of the extra bedroom. You immediately went toward it with Alpine still burrowed in your arms, leaving him a few steps behind. He took the opportunity to check you out, his eyes lingering on your ass. You were going to test his resolve if you decided to move in.
You went into the open doorway since the door across from it was closed, your jaw dropping when you looked back at him. “Wow, this is huge!”
Not the only huge thing in this place.
He barely managed to keep that thought to himself. “So, you like it?” he asked. He thought about turning it into an office or workout area or something, but there was no need.
“Yes! I can have my bed here, and put my desk there,” you said, pointing toward the corner. “I could even put a bed in for Alpine if she wanted to sleep in here,” you offered.
“That’s nice of you,” he said. It was very thoughtful.
“Well, it’s her space, too,” you said, nuzzling her before you set her down.
He nodded toward the closed door nearby. “Bathroom is right across the hall, and you won’t have to worry about sharing since my room has an en-suite attached,” he explained. He wasn’t sure how comfortable you would’ve been if you were forced to shower in his bathroom.
“I’ll have my own bathroom, too?” you asked, brushing past him so you could take a quick look inside. It took all of his strength not to push you against the wall and kiss you, which would’ve probably earned him a slap and a call to your friend. “How has no one snatched this place up yet?”
“Al hasn’t been a big fan of anyone, except for you,” he said honestly, looking you over once more.
“I’m honored that she likes me,” you said before you turned to face him, a wide smile lighting up your face. “How soon can I move in?”
He smiled back. “You want to move in?” he asked, those butterflies in his stomach again when you glanced at your feet.
“Only if you want me, too. Oh, yeah, and…” You dug into your purse and pulled out a small notebook, quickly flipping through the pages. “This is the rent price, right? And the estimated amount for the bills? Because I can give you a first and last month if I need to sign an updated lease.”
He looked over the page. Your notes were meticulous. “That’s the right price,” he confirmed, snapping his fingers. “I forgot if I mentioned it in the posting, but I didn’t even show you the washer and dryer. You don’t have to worry about going to a laundromat since I have them here.”
You put the notebook away and pinched yourself. “Nope. Not dreaming,” you said, your smile faltering a little. “But do you really want me living here? I’m boring.”
“I’ve known you for a very short time and I can tell you that you’re not boring,” he said. His life felt more exciting since you showed up today. “And I’m a mechanic, so I’m not exactly living the most exciting life.”
Bucky was proud to be a mechanic, but it was far from glamorous.
“Being a mechanic sounds pretty awesome.” You crossed your arms. “I do puzzles for fun.”
“Sounds like a great Saturday night,” he said without a hint of sarcasm, making you smile again.
“And to be clear, I won’t be bringing guys back here at 3am,” you promised, scrunching your nose. “I don’t know why I felt the need to say that.”
You mentioned in your initial contact that you weren’t seeing anyone, but he felt extra relieved that you didn’t want to bring guys here. “I won’t be bringing guys here at 3am either.”
The giggle you let out warmed his heart. “So, we’re doing this? You really want me to move in?” you asked hopefully. “Because I really will be a great roommate. I’ll clean, cook, and-”
“I want you to move in,” he assured you. He didn’t want anyone else there. “What do you think, Al?”
The feline brushed against your leg with a happy meow, giving you her approval all over again.
You bounced in place and he thought for a second you’d throw your arms around in a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Thank you,” he said. You were doing him a huge favor by moving in. “And just to be clear, you’re comfortable living here with me being a guy?”
Bucky had never been more attracted to anyone as quickly as he was to you, but he wasn’t going to disrespect or make you uncomfortable in what would be your new home.
“You promised I’d be perfectly safe here,” you reminded him. He did say that. “And…” The soft smile on your face was an image he wanted engraved in his mind. “I have a good feeling about you.”
He was going to fall head over heels if he wasn’t careful. Who was he kidding? It was too late. “I have a good feeling about you, too,” he said, gazing into your eyes with a soft smile of his own. “And I can’t wait for you to move in.”
God, Steve is going to come over and demand to meet my new roommate. He better not flirt or lay on his golden boy charm.
“Could you excuse me for just a second?” you asked, slipping back into the bedroom. He poked his head in and watched as you did a little jig. It was the sweetest thing he had ever seen. “If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m a huge dork.”
“You’re far from that,” he said, leaning on the doorframe. You were perfect in his eyes.
“I just…” You turned a blinding smile his way. “I feel like I hit the jackpot!”
I’m the one who hit the jackpot.
And we know how the story goes for these two (so far). 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
