The realisation hits you mid-sentence, pen freezing against the page as your textbook blurs in front of you.

Photos. Emails. Texts.

Solid proof of an existing relationship that you somehow agreed to provide by the end of the week. Your stomach drops.

"Oh my god," you whisper, your breath hitching in your throat. "Oh my god, oh my god—"

You'd been so laser-focused on the logistics of moving in. Breaking your lease before time (not that your roommate minded), coordinating when to pack, pretending to be casual about having to share a bathroom with Jack. Somehow, catastrophically, this part had slipped straight through the cracks.

Now, you only have four days until they're expecting proof of a relationship spanning months, while it has barely existed for weeks at this point. Oh, and most importantly, it's also a fake relationship.

You're so fucked.

With a harsh screech, you push your chair back from the desk and snatch your phone from the bed, your fingers trembling as you unlock the screen. You frantically scroll through your photos, months passing by. Familiar images blur together in a frantic attempt to find anything that could even be loosely interpreted as evidence of you and Jack together.

The first photo stops you cold. A blurry group snapshot taken at a bar, and yes, you and Jack are both in the frame, but you're seated at opposite ends of the table, half-obscured by someone's elbow in the foreground. You could just be coworkers.

You are just coworkers.

You keep scrolling, a sense of dread creeping in.

Another photo catches your eye. You're sitting next to each other at the park, beers in hand, both locked in conversation. Jack's talking to someone off to the side, while you're laughing at a completely unrelated joke, a solid two feet separating your bodies.

"Fuck," you mutter and scroll on.

Then, the last image draws you in. Jack leaning in, his mouth inches away from your ear, clearly whispering something to you while your face is scrunched up in laughter, eyes closed. It looks intimate. It feels intimate.

But it's also just one photo.

"One," you groan. "I have one usable photo." You drop down on the edge of your bed, hinges squeaking softly. Your chest tightens.

You open your messages next. Your heart hammers as you sift through banal exchanges between you. Coffee runs. Scheduling discussions. It's only your recent texts that could infer anything, and still, it reads as platonic.

There are no hearts. No inside jokes. No late-night rambling that feels so integral to any real relationship. Nothing points to the two of you being more than colleagues.

Emails are even worse. So much worse. There's barely nothing there. Just upcoming schedules. Residency stuff. Nothing again that could suggest you'd been hiding a relationship for months.

You drop your phone onto your lap, staring blankly at the ceiling, the brightness of your screen fading into darkness.

"They're going to know," you whisper to yourself. "They're absolutely going to know. Fuck."

Panic surges, sharp and overwhelming, a cold grip wrapping around your throat. You snatch up your phone again, heart racing, and fire off a desperate message to Olivia without thinking.

YOU: SOS

Almost instantly, your phone rings. "Hey," Olivia’s voice comes through, alert and focused. "What’s going on?"

You let out a shaky laugh that teeters on the verge of hysteria. "I’m completely fucked. Like—capital F. Totally. They’re going to know."

"Know what?" she asks, her tone filled with confusion and concern. You can hear the distant chatter in the background die down as she closes her office door. "Slow down."

"I’m going to lose my job," you rush out. "I’m going to be in debt for nothing. The last few years of my life will have been worthless—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," she interrupts firmly. "Pause. Breathe. Talk to me."

You suck in a breath that barely feels like it contains any oxygen and begin to explain everything—how you need proof, the impending deadline, the photos that aren’t really photos, the texts that scream ‘we’re just coworkers', the emails that can't be misconstrued in any way.

There’s a beat of silence on the line, and then Olivia snorts, amusement lacing her voice. "Babe," she says, sounding like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "Did you forget what I do for a living?"

"What?" you say weakly.

"I literally work in tech," she continues, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. "I can fix the metadata."

You stand up so fast that you nearly pull your duvet with you. "You—what?"

"I can fix it for you," she says, her voice steady and reassuring. "I’ll handle the timestamps, the locations—everything. "

"Wait," you interrupt, your mind racing. "You can actually do that?"

She laughs. "Please. This is child’s play."

Your shoulders sag as relief crashes through you, heavy and dizzying. You press a hand to your face, laughing breathlessly. "You’ve just saved my life."

"I know," Olivia replies smugly. "Now relax. We’ve got work to do." She exhales thoughtfully on the other end of the line. "Okay. Here’s the thing, though."

Your stomach tightens again. "Why do you sound like that?"

"Because you’re gonna need to give me something to work with," she says. "Different locations. Different outfits. I need variety so I can make this believable. If I have to use Photoshop too much, it’s going to take forever, and we don’t have forever."

You stare at the wall, dread creeping back in. "Different locations," you repeat faintly. "Different outfits."

"Yes," she confirms patiently. "It can’t look like you suddenly decided to document your relationship in one afternoon. That would be suspicious."

"This is insane," you mutter under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief. "This is actually unhinged." A wave of anxiety washes over you as you realise the gravity of your situation. You wince at the thought. "I’m going to have to coordinate this with Jack."

A heavy silence hangs in the air for a moment before Olivia’s voice breaks through. "Oh," she says slowly, as if processing the implications of your words. "You haven't discussed this yet?"

"No," you admit. "I only just realised now."

"Well," she replies, a hint of mischief in her tone, "I'm sure he won't mind. You're moving in with him after all."

You give her a smile that is halfway between panic and giddiness. "We're crazy. This whole thing is crazy. Have I lost my mind?"

"Maybe," Olivia agrees. "But you’ll still be employed."

"Barely," you mutter. "So what about the texts?"

"I’ll handle that," she says. "We’ll grab some of your more recent texts and make them look older, sprinkle in a little romance—"

You swallow as the anxiety begins to die down again. "And emails?"

She bursts into laughter, the sound brightening the heaviness of the conversation. "Come on! No one in a real relationship emails romantically from a work account. Professional emails actually work in your favour—they’ll show that you were trying to keep it discreet."

"Okay, yeah. I see your point." You let out a shaky breath. "I cannot believe this keeps on getting worse."

"Oh, I can," Olivia replies, a mischievous edge creeping into her voice. "You thrive in chaos, remember?"

You shoot her a half-hearted glare. "We need to send the proof by Sunday. Do you think we can do that?"

"Yeah," Olivia says. "We got this!" There's a distant knock, mumbling in the background. "Hey, I really have to go, but send me those texts ASAP, and I'll start on those until you can get me the photos. Love you."

As the call ends, you find yourself staring at the blank screen for a minute. You're about to move in with your attending. Create fraudulent texts and photos to hide a lie.

This is surreal. But you're in this far now. Might as well go all the way.

You take a deep breath. "Okay," you whisper to yourself. "Let's do this."

Jack tries to keep his eyes on the road, but his attention keeps drifting back to you. He can’t help but notice the way your fingers twist together in your lap. The way you've gone quiet in that particular, loaded way he's learned to recognise. It's the same silence when you're worried but trying not to make it a problem. It makes something tight settle behind his ribs, a feeling he can't quite pin down.

The blinker clicks. The engine hums. The radio croons softly. You don't say a word.

He makes it three more blocks before he can't stand it anymore.

"Hey," he says, his tone gentle. He’s already preparing himself for whatever’s weighing on your mind. "You wanna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?"

You startle slightly, like you didn’t realise you were being watched. Then you look over at him, worry already pulling lines into your forehead as you bite your lip. "We forgot about the photos and texts HR wants by the end of the week," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jack’s stomach drops. He lets his mind rewind—HR’s email, the checklist, the casual way you’d both nodded like it was no big deal. Proof. Documentation. He exhales a sharp breath through his nose. "Oh shit," he mutters.

"I looked through my photos…" you say hesitantly.

"And?" he prompts, steeling himself for the worst as he manoeuvres the steering wheel through the intersection.

"Nothing good. I found maybe one decent shot, but it’s not enough." You wince, then rush to add, "I’ve got it covered. Mostly. But it means we’ll need to take a lot more photos."

Pulling to a stop at a red light, he finally turns to you fully. You look stressed, but he also sees the spark of determination in your eyes—problem-solving mode engaged, already trying to protect both of you. It does something stupidly warm to his chest.

"Won’t they be able to tell they were taken the same day?" he asks.

Your brows lift at his question, a mischievous twitch creeping at the corner of your mouth, despite the situation. "Wow. Aren’t you up with the times, old man?"

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. "I’m not that old."

You give him a look that says otherwise.

He huffs, shaking his head. "I’m just saying. I know metadata exists."

You glance at him. "...So does Olivia."

He blinks, foot pressing the speeder again as the light turns green. "You told her?"

You pause, then shrug nonchalantly. "She works in tech, Jack. We need her help if we want this to work."

"I thought we promised not to tell anyone," he says, not angry, just careful. Protective.

You tilt your head in his direction, eyebrows raised. "Like you promised not to tell Robby?"

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Considers pretending to be confused. Then sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Fair point."

A beat of silence stretches between you, softer now, charged with unspoken thoughts.

"So," he says, glancing at you again, "Olivia can actually help us?"

"She can," you nod, the tension in your shoulders slightly easing. "But we’ll need to give her something to work with."

He pulls into his parking spot, lines it up neatly, lost in thought. "Define ‘something.'"

"Variety," you say. "Different locations. Different vibes. We can’t look like we just took ten photos in one afternoon."

He laughs quietly, the absurdity of the situation breaking through the tension. "This is ridiculous."

"Completely," you agree, a small smile playing on your lips. But Jack notices your shoulders remain tense, hands still clenched.

He shifts in his seat, turning toward you fully now. "When does Olivia need them?"

"As soon as possible," you say. "I’ve already sent her some texts."

He nods slowly, already rearranging his week in his head. He's got the next few days off anyway—to help you move—so he's free. "Okay. We can do coffee after work. Your apartment. My place. Maybe dinner somewhere?"

"Dinner?" you echo, a hint of surprise in your voice as your eyes flick up to meet his.

"For realism," he says easily, even though it stirs in his chest—a warmth he can’t afford to let grow. "People in relationships eat food."

You laugh, and it’s like the tension finally cracks. Your shoulders drop. The sound is quiet but real, and Jack feels absurdly proud of himself for being the reason.

"Right," you say, your voice lighter. "Of course they do."

He glances at the clock on the dashboard. "We should probably head in. We’ll start with coffee."

"Okay," you say, drawing in a steadying breath. "Coffee tomorrow."

He hesitates, then smiles at you—soft, reassuring, the kind of smile he can't help but form around you. "Hey. We’ll figure it out. Moving in is the big thing. This is just… documentation."

"Documentation," you repeat faintly.

"Exactly," he says. "Very romantic."

You laugh again, quieter this time.

And as you reach for the door handle, Jack thinks—not for the first time—that if this is what fake looks like, he’s in deeper than he probably should be.

The coffee shop is nearly empty, the kind of empty that only exists in the early morning, before the city fully wakes up. A handful of patrons occupy the corners, their fingers wrapped tightly around steaming mugs like lifelines. Their computers switched on, ready for another workday. The soft morning light filtering through the windows is pale and gentle, illuminating the dust motes that float lazily in its glow. Everything in here smells like coffee and warm pastries.

Jack holds the door open with his shoulder, one hand braced against the frame.

"You go find us a table," he says, voice low and rough in that way it always gets after a night shift. "I’ll order for us."

Your mouth opens automatically to give him your order. "I’ll just—"

"Tea. Herbal. A dash of honey," he cuts in, already turning toward the counter. Then he looks back at you, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion, expression unreadable but certain. A look that says I remember. That says let me take care of this. He nods toward the tables. "Go sit."

Your chest tightens for a reason you refuse to examine again.

Nodding, you choose a small corner table by the window, positioned perfectly to view the street outside, which still seems half-asleep. A bus hisses by. Someone walks a dog like they’ve been up forever, too. The place is cosy—soft chairs, warm wooden surfaces, sunlight trying its best to break through the cloud cover. It's exactly the kind of place you might suggest for a date.

Not that this is a date, you remind yourself firmly. It’s not. It’s logistics. Damage control.

You rub at your eyes, suddenly aware of how tired you are. How thin your defences feel after twelve hours of controlled chaos and adrenaline.

Jack comes back a moment later with two cups. He moves carefully, like his body is running on muscle memory now. He sits beside you, not across from you, and the closeness is immediate. His knee brushes yours. His arm shifts against yours as he leans back.

He takes a long sip of his coffee, exhales, then hums, low, pleased, a sound that sends a pleasurable shiver through you, settling warmly in your lower stomach.

You stare at the table because looking at him while he makes that sound would be a mistake. Your brain is already unhelpful, constructing various scenarios of how you, and not a cup of coffee, could recreate it.

Forcing your hands into action, you pick up your phone. "Okay," you say. "Let’s get this over with."

Jack glances at your phone, then back at you, amusement flickering in his gaze. "And they say romance is dead."

"Ha," you respond dryly, a small smile betraying your feigned indifference.

You start with a few safe shots of the cups. His coffee and your tea side by side, steam rising together in the early light. Then there’s one of him alone, leaning back in his chair, dark circles shadowing his eyes, yet somehow still handsome in a way that feels unfair.

He catches you, one eyebrow raised. "You’re not sending that one, are you?"

"I might," you say, with a mischievous shrug. You won't send it, but you also definitely won’t delete it. It'll linger in your gallery.

Finally, after a few steadying breaths, you turn the camera around so it’s facing both of you. You hold it up, arm trembling just slightly.

Jack picks up on your uncertainty instantly. He always does. Without a word, he shifts his chair closer, and your shoulders align, a familiar touch that sends warmth coursing through you. His arm brushes against yours, and he carries the comforting blend of coffee, antiseptic, and that subtle, indescribable scent that is just him.

You share a tentative smile.

When you look at the photo, your heart sinks. It’s nice. Friendly. Comfortable. It looks like coworkers grabbing coffee before collapsing into bed. It doesn’t look like the kind of relationship that convinces an administration you’re stable, supported, settled.

"It’s not good enough," you murmur.

Jack leans in to look. "Too tired?"

"Too… professional," you reply, disheartened.

"Do you want me to take it for you?" The voice comes from a few tables down. A woman with messy hair and a half-drunk latte, clearly post-night shift herself. She’s already rising from her seat.

You hesitate. Then you think about the meeting. The warning. The way your future suddenly hinges on proof you don't have.

"Yes," you say firmly, your voice steadier than you feel. "Please."

She takes your phone, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "You guys work at the hospital?"

"What gave it away?" you say dryly. "The dead eyes?"

She laughs. "That and the scrubs. Okay—move closer."

Jack doesn’t hesitate. He slips an arm around your shoulders, pulls you in close. The contact is warm, solid, grounding in a way you’re not prepared for. You lean into him without thinking, your head fitting under his chin like muscle memory you never practised. His thumb presses lightly against your arm, hesitating just slightly before settling.

"Perfect, very cute." the woman says. "Hold that."

You try to smile like this means nothing. Like your heart isn’t pounding. Like the early morning light isn’t making everything feel softer, more intimate, more possible.

Snap.

When you see the photo, your throat tightens. It looks real. Not posed. Not forced. Just two exhausted people clinging to each other at the end of a long night. Tired—but real.

You look away quickly, afraid of what will happen if you let yourself believe it. Because it isn’t real. And you really, really hope you’re strong enough to remember that by the end of this thing.

Hours later, as sleep has eased the most stressful edges of the night, Jack finds himself parked again outside your apartment building.

He leaves the engine running, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other draped uselessly in his lap, fingers idly drumming as he watches the building for any sign of you.

His mind keeps replaying the coffeeshop. The way you leaned back into him like it was nothing. The casualness of it, the weight of you resting there, the way his body had gone utterly still because any movement felt like it might mean too much. He tells himself it was friendly. Just pretend. And yet—his arm had remembered you without instruction. His chest had known exactly where you fit. That’s the part that keeps looping in his mind, the part that makes his fingers tighten on the wheel. The ease. The terrifying, quiet ease of it.

The door flies open.

You bounce out like you’ve been shot from a cannon, hair a little wild, energy too big for the quiet afternoon. You’re dragging a massive bag behind you—bigger than necessary, clearly—and Jack lets out a quiet huff of a laugh before he can stop himself.

"Jesus," he mutters under his breath. "Of course you would."

You nearly trip on the steps, catch yourself, laugh at your own near-demise, then wrestle the bag down the sidewalk. When you spot his car, your whole face lights up, and you lift a hand in an enthusiastic wave, like you’re greeting someone you haven’t seen in weeks instead of… earlier today.

A twist of warmth unfurls in Jack's chest.

He's about to get out of the car to help you, but your dramatic gesture makes him stay. He obliges, not too willingly, but he does take some pleasure in watching through the windshield as you struggle with the bag, hitching it up onto your shoulder with melodramatic effort. You strike a brief, victorious pose when you conquer it.

He’s absurdly fond of you for it.

You finally make it to the passenger side and yank the door open. "Okay," you announce, breathless. "Before you say anything—I know."

He raises an eyebrow. "You’re moving in already?"

"It’s called being prepared," you huff, a mock expression of offence crossing your features. "Also, faking months' worth of pictures requires lots of outfit changes."

He snorts despite himself. "Yeah, I can see that."

You shove the bag in the backseat. "Careful. There’s a system in there."

"I’m terrified," he says.

You buckle into the passenger seat, your legs bouncing restlessly with leftover energy.

"Ready?" he asks, carefully casual.

You grin. "Born ready. Exhausted, but ready."

You hum under your breath, something tuneless and happy, and he has to look away so you don’t see how much that affects him.

The drive is quiet but not uncomfortable.

"So," you say, too bright after a few minutes. "I made a list."

Jack exhales through his nose. "I knew it."

"Outfits. Places," you add helpfully. "Oh, and poses."

"I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that."

"You say that now," you reply. "But when HR is convinced we’re soulmates, you’ll thank me."

He hums. "Bold assumption."

"You are welcome," you say, nudging his arm with your elbow.

He parks outside his place and gets out, grabbing the bag before you can beat him to it. It’s heavier than expected.

He winces. "You pack bricks in here?"

"Layers," you correct. "Texture. Narrative depth."

He shakes his head, smiling despite himself.

Inside, there's a soft glow of afternoon sunlight. You kick off your shoes immediately, toeing them into a corner like you’ve done this a hundred times.

Jack watches for half a second too long before clearing his throat. "Uh—kitchen first?"

You’re already halfway there, smoothing your hair into something passable, while Jack leans against the counter, still trying to reconcile the fact that you're here in his kitchen, acting as if you've been here all your life. You're dressed in slouchy clothes, an oversized tee slipping off one shoulder and soft pants, looking far too much like you'd just woken up at his place again.

Jack watches as you mutter something about mugs, opening the cabinet with a careful flick of your wrist. Two clink against each other as you pull them out.

"You got coffee?" you ask, the corners of your mouth twitching up, that bright grin lighting up the kitchen.

Jack shakes his head, stepping past you. "You could just ask me to make you a cup, you know." His voice has that soft huff, the one that makes him sound like he’s trying to sound annoyed but failing.

"Yes, but where’s the fun in that?" you shoot back, holding out the mugs.

He glances at you over his shoulder, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I think it’s just because you still don’t know how to use this beauty." His hand lands on the machine’s top with a gentle pat, like it’s a living thing.

You scoff, tilting your head. "Not my fault, you own the most fancy-pansy machine in the world."

Jack doesn’t argue. He flicks switches, the machine hissing and whirring, and soon enough a rich, dark aroma fills the kitchen. He passes you a mug.

You step back, just enough for your spine to brush against his arm, your weight leaning there casually. Jack freezes, heart stuttering for a split second before settling.

"Okay," you say, lifting your phone. "Casual. Like we’re just… standing here. Used to doing this."

"Yeah," Jack murmurs, the words soft, almost lost under the hum of the coffee machine.

You snap a photo, eyes flicking to the screen. Then back at him. "Maybe one more. But—uh—different angle." You snap it again.

Jack leans a little closer, taking a nonchalant sip of his coffee. Every snap of your phone makes the hair on the back of his neck lift. He doesn’t move away.

You drift toward the hallway without really announcing it, phone in hand, like momentum alone is carrying you forward. Clothes have been changed—yours, his, both of you arguing over the ridiculousness of coordinating outfits like it’s some kind of photo shoot, but ultimately yielding to it.

Stopping in front of the long mirror that stretches across the wall, you take in the reflection before you: the soft lighting and the way your hair frames your face.

Jack trails behind you, moving slower now, more hesitant. He halts a step behind, hands stuffed deep into his pockets.

You glance at him in the mirror, your brows furrowing slightly as you draw in a breath. "So... we need something affectionate."

His eyes flicker to your reflection, nodding quietly. "Like a hug?"

"Yes," you huff, letting out a nervous laugh that feels way too loud in the quiet hallway.

His gaze drops again. "I can— I mean, if you want. Only if you’re okay with it."

"Yes," you say quickly. Too quickly. You wince. "I mean, I think it’s fine. It’s just for the photo, right?"

"Right," he says. "Just the photo."

Neither of you moves. The air feels heavy with the space between, small but charged.

You take a breath and add, quieter, "If it’s weird, we can stop."

"It’s not weird," he says immediately. Then, amends, honest and careful, "I’m just… trying very hard not to do something you wouldn’t like."

That makes your chest tighten. "I’ll tell you," you promise. "If it’s too much."

He nods once, as if steeling himself for what’s to come, and finally steps closer. The warmth radiates from him, enveloping you before you feel anything else. "Okay," he murmurs, his voice steadier now. "I’m going to put my arms around you."

You can’t help but snort despite the situation. "That’s very reassuring."

"Sorry. Bad habit," he replies, a half-grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, easing some of the tension. "I narrate under pressure."

His arms come around you slowly, settling over your chest—not tight, not possessive. Careful. Like he’s giving you room to pull away if you want to. His body stays angled back, creating space even as he pretends closeness.

You lean back instinctively. Jack freezes for half a second, breath catching, then forces himself to relax.

"Still okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," you say. Then, because you’re also nervous, you add lightly, "You’re doing great. Five stars. Very affectionate."

He lets out a quiet laugh against your hair. "High praise."

You lift your phone, hands shaking just a little. In the mirror, it looks authentic—his arms around you, your back pressed against his chest, the way your shoulders have softened now that you’re leaning into him.

Snap.

For a brief instant, neither of you moves. Jack’s arms remain where they are, as if he’s waiting for your next cue. You hesitate, then gently touch his forearm with just a fingertip. "Okay," you say softly. "We got it."

He releases you immediately, maybe a little too fast, stepping back like he’s afraid he lingered a second too long.

In the mirror, you both look flustered, a little breathless, and undeniably convincing.

Clearing your throat, you glance over your shoulder. "Couch next?"

You disappear for a moment and come back wearing his hoodie, sleeves swallowing your hands. The fabric smells faintly like him—warm, faintly coffee-scented—and it hits Jack harder than it should. It’s not the first time he’s seen you in his clothes, yet the sight still hits him with a wave of unexpected intensity. He hides a quiet groan behind a cough, wishing he could unsee how right it looks on you. If he wants to survive this ordeal, he needs to get used to it… fast.

"Sit down," you command, flopping onto the couch.

"Bossy," he says, sliding down beside you, though his voice carries a low note of fondness.

You laugh—a little too sharp, a little too quick—and then, you lean in, head brushing against his chest. Jack stiffens for half a beat, like he’s caught in a trap of wanting to hold you and not wanting to cross a line. Then slowly, painstakingly slowly, he lets himself relax, arm coming around you, careful not to smother, careful not to claim.

"This okay?" he asks, voice quieter than he intends.

"Yeah," you murmur. "Is it okay for you?"

He swallows, the words coming too fast. "Yeah." Then softer, almost under his breath, "Yeah."

All he feels is the faint warmth of you, and the slightly erratic rhythm of his heartbeat beating under your head. He hopes you can't hear it.

Another snap.

The last stop is the bathroom.

Jack shuffles down the hall, reminding himself with each step: breathe, act normal, don’t collapse in your own house. He changes into softer clothes, hoping the cotton fabric will ease the tension curling in his chest and help him feel grounded again.

You emerge from your room in sleepwear that’s nearly indecent—a thin tank top that clings to your form and tiny shorts that leave little to the imagination. Jack feels his thoughts stumble over each other; he nearly trips over his own heart, a rapid beat echoing in his ears. He swears he can feel his pulse in his fingertips.

"Relax," you say, tossing a glance back at him, catching the look he can’t disguise. "It’s just brushing teeth."

"Very dangerous activity," he mutters under his breath, but the truth is that it’s not the brushing he considers risky; it’s the sight of you in that revealing outfit and the intimate space between you two.

You grin, a playful spark igniting your eyes as you grab the toothbrushes, leaning forward into the mirror. To him, it seems almost oblivious, the way you immerse yourself in the task, unaware of the charged atmosphere. You angle your phone, framing the perfect shot, posing with the ease of someone who doesn’t know the effect you have on him.

Snap.

Then, with an effortless leap, you hop onto the counter, your legs swinging slightly. You gesture for Jack to come closer, your inviting smile pulling him in. Suddenly, he finds himself standing between your thighs, a situation that feels both unintended and electrifying. He’s caught—cornered by the proximity, a sense of politeness tugging at him, and the palpable tension that suggests retreating too quickly would feel like letting you know exactly what's going on inside him. He braces his hands on the countertop, knuckles whitening, fighting the urge to move.

"You’re doing great," you whisper, a half-laugh escaping your lips as if to lighten the ridiculousness of the moment. "You look… very normal."

He shoots you a look—sharp, slightly exasperated, trying to mask how aware he is of everything—of the closeness, the heat, the way his body won’t stop reacting.

A small, nervous smile breaks across your face, and it’s infectious.

Another snap.

Neither of you shifts immediately. Jack exhales slowly, trying to convince himself he’s perfectly fine, even as the tightness in his shoulders (and pants) and the fluttering in his stomach suggest otherwise. You adjust slightly on the counter, careful not to bump into him, yet your leg brushes against his—a fleeting contact that sends a jolt through him. Neither of you reacts, neither of you moves away, and somehow that’s exactly the problem.

The photo captures it perfectly— how awkward, flustered and tense he feels—but he has to admit it looks convincingly real.

Jack stands in the hallway outside your apartment, a small bouquet of flowers clutched in one hand, the other hovering nervously near the doorbell. He had meant to just text, like a normal person, but… he can’t. He knows this isn't a real date, but he's old-fashioned. And if this is the only date he'll ever get with you, he's gonna take advantage of it. Make sure he treats you right.

He clears his throat, glances down at the flowers. Bright colours, a little messy, like you. Not too fancy, not too staged. Perfect.

With a deep breath, he presses the doorbell. Immediately, he hears the faint creak of the floors, then the shuffle of footsteps.

You appear, coat wrapped around you, hair tucked loosely behind one ear. For a second, he’s frozen. You look… breathtaking. He swallows, coughs lightly.

"Hey," he manages to say, voice casual but tight. "I brought you these." He holds up the bouquet awkwardly.

You glance at the flowers, then at him, and raise an eyebrow. "You really didn’t have to—"

"I know," he interrupts smoothly, forcing a grin. "But I wanted to. And, uh… figured it's a great mood setter."

You shake your head, laughing softly. You take the flowers and bring them inside quickly before you descend the stairs together. Jack watches your every movement, noting the way your bag swings lightly at your side, the soft fold of your coat, the way your hair catches the light. He keeps his expression easy, teasingly dry.

"Thought I’d give you the thrill of being escorted down," he adds, gesturing vaguely toward the street. "Better than a text, right?"

"Thrill? Really?" you ask, smirking, though there’s a warmth in your voice. "But honestly, you really didn't have to. I can't remember the last time someone I dated picked me up at the door."

"Well, then," he replied, trying not to let the quickening of his heartbeat show. "You haven't been dating real men, then."

You roll your eyes, but he catches the slight smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. He’s smiling now, though he tries to keep it contained, casual, as if he hasn’t been memorising every step you take since the bell rang.

Jack steps aside, holding the car door open. "After you," he murmurs. Allowing himself a moment to watch you slide inside, feeling like a fool for how much longing pulses through him all at once.

He climbs in after you and starts the engine. Quietly, carefully, he steals a glance at you. You’re talking, smiling lightly, and he thinks, God, how did I get stuck pretending this is casual?

The drive is calm, but his chest is not. He’s careful to sound nonchalant, cracking a small, dry joke about the traffic while secretly memorising the way the light hits your hair, the tilt of your head, the easy grace in your movements.

By the time you reach the restaurant, he’s still holding back, trying to keep the pining tucked under humour, casual commentary, teasing banter. But it’s there. Every glance, every pause in his voice, every stiff swallow betrays it.

Jack guides the car up to the curb in front of the restaurant, engine ticking down. You slide the door open, coat wrapped around you, and he follows behind with that calculated calm he’s been practising all evening—but the second you step inside, all pretence cracks.

The coat comes off, revealing the dress he hadn’t been able to see before. God. The colour, the cut—it’s perfect. It flatters you in all the subtle, infuriating ways he hadn’t thought imaginable. His chest tightens as his jaw clenches. He clears his throat subtly.

You catch him staring. "You look stunned," you say lightly, teasing him. "But I guess you haven't seen me in a dress before."

"Stunned? Me? No. I—I mean, yes. You look… good," he says quickly, fumbling with the words. "Very… good. Not too good. Perfectly good."

You laugh at him, the sound soft and familiar, and he feels the tension in his chest ease slightly, replaced by that quiet, warm ache he always tries to hide. He leans back, trying to act like he’s relaxed, though his eyes keep flicking to you.

Conversation flows easily, laughter coming naturally. You joke about work disasters, late-night shifts, and ridiculous coworkers. He teases you about something small—a clumsy gesture, the way you sip your water—and your laugh makes him grin so wide he worries he’s being too obvious. He’s careful not to let it show, but every glance, every brush of your hand against the table, every tilt of your head pulls him in closer.

Halfway through dessert, you remember the photos. "Right. HR," you mutter, pulling out your phone.

Jack leans back, trying to look nonchalant, but he’s tense, every muscle alert. You angle the phone and ask him to smile. He grins, but his eyes flick to yours instead of the camera. His chest tightens again—God, you look… stunning.

The waiter notices you struggling to get a decent photo with both of you in the frame. "Want me to take one for you both?" he asks.

You hand over the phone with a pleased smile.

The waiter snaps the photo. Jack’s hand brushes yours just slightly on the table enough to feel the warmth of you next to him, careful to act like it’s a casual touch. But inside, his chest is hammering, heart betraying what he’s been trying to hide all night.

He watches you eat, drink, laugh, leaning back slightly in his chair. The more he observes, the more aware he becomes: every smile, every glance, every little motion pulls him in, and pretending it’s all just for HR, just for photos, is getting harder by the second.

The car ride home is enveloped in a comfortable silence, the only sound the steady hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of your fingers flicking through your phone. After a few minutes of focused tapping, you send off all the staged photos to Olivia, feeling a rush of relief wash over you. Finally, it’s done.

Jack glances at you from the corner of his eye, one hand on the wheel. He doesn’t say anything, just watches, calm and steady, and somehow that makes your pulse tighten again.

As you pull up outside your apartment, streetlights stretch shadows across the pavement.

"I’ll walk you up," he says, breaking the silence.

You shake your head immediately. "I can—"

"I'll walk you up." His voice is soft but firm. It carries a sense of protection that you can’t quite shake, so you relent and follow him inside.

Once in your apartment, the sound of your shoes soft against the floor fills the space. Jack stands at the threshold.

Suddenly, your phone buzzes—once, twice, then a third time. You groan, feeling your skin crawl. "No," you mutter, exasperated. "No more. I’m done."

Jack shifts beside you, brow furrowing in concern. "…Everything okay?"

You glance at the screen, which is lighting up with messages. "Yep," you chirp, a little too brightly. "Everything's good. Totally fine."

Suspicion narrows his eyes. "What did Olivia say?"

"I don’t want to talk about it."

"Trouble," he says your nickname with a weight that makes you pause.

Cautiously, you meet his gaze. "She wants—" You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. "…more."

Jack nods, his expression unfaltering. "Another hug? Another—"

"No." You grimace. "Not that kind of more."

He waits, his patience both maddening and comforting. You finally choke it out, "She said HR wants a kiss."

The silence that follows feels electric, almost explosive. Jack freezes, processing the weight of your words. "…A kiss," he finally repeats, as if testing the sound on his tongue.

"Barely a kiss," you rush to clarify. "Microscopic. Blink-and-miss-it. We can fake it—angles, illusions, movie magic—"

He steps closer, measured, careful, like he’s approaching something fragile. "Breathe," he instructs softly, his voice steady.

You do. Or try to. His gaze stays steady on yours, grounded in a way that almost makes it worse.

"We don’t do anything you don’t want," he murmurs, low and even.

Swallowing hard, you nod, a tiny gesture that feels monumental. "It’s fine. We have to... for HR."

"Right," he replies, a beat of silence stretching between you. "HR."

You don’t back out. Pride wins. Or stupidity. Probably both. "Uh—come in. We can do it in my room."

Jack follows dutifully, hands clasped loosely behind his back. You place your phone in the corner, angle it just so, and hit play on the recording. Olivia can screenshot the part she wants, you're not gonna attempt to even pretend you can have a steady enough hand for this photo.

Jack steps in front of you, drawing close. There’s still room, too much of it, yet the tension is palpable, almost electric.

"This is ridiculous," you mutter, attempting to defuse the situation with humour.

"Extremely," he agrees immediately, a flicker of understanding passing between you. It helps, just a little.

You move closer before your thoughts can twist into doubt, your legs feeling like jelly beneath you.

"Do you want me to just…?" He gestures vaguely toward your face, fingers hovering at an awkward distance.

You let out a quiet laugh, the nerves bubbling over. "I’ve never staged a kiss before. Missed that elective in med school."

His laugh is soft and unguarded, slipping out before he can catch it. He exhales deeply, then raises his hand slowly, giving you ample time to back out.

Instead, you freeze.

His palm gently cups your cheek, warm and tender, his thumb grazing just below your eye. Your heart lurches, pounding so violently that you fear it might be captured on the recording.

"This okay?" he murmurs, voice careful again.

You nod. Barely.

He leans in and brushes your lips—just a whisper of contact. So light it almost doesn’t count. Almost.

Your chest jolts anyway.

Instinct kicks in before logic does. You lean in, closing the distance entirely. The kiss deepens—not rushed, not hungry, just… there. Real. His thumb strokes your cheekbone without thinking. One hand settles at your waist, light enough you could step away.

You don’t.

Your knees wobble. Your fingers curl, brushing the front of his shirt like you’re checking that he’s real. His breath stutters once before he steadies it again.

A sudden crash outside jolts you both back to reality.

He pulls away just enough so that your foreheads almost touch, breaths mingling in the charged air. "…That should probably satisfy the committee," he murmurs, his voice low and slightly breathless.

"Probably," you manage, voice embarrassingly unsteady.

Silence hangs thick and heavy, and neither of you moves.

His eyes flicker helplessly to your lips before he catches himself, swallowing hard. Then, slowly, deliberately, he steps back. "Okay," he says, his tone rougher than before. "We should… send it to Olivia."

"Right. For HR." You hit send, hands trembling slightly.

Jack just stands there, hands on his hips, ears faintly pink, chest rising a little too fast like he’s still catching up to his body.

Your phone buzzes again. You flinch. He doesn’t move.

"Relieved?" you ask lightly, because joking is easier than thinking.

"Relieved to be done changing clothes for the hundredth time," he says.

You grin, still slighlty shaky. "Okay, no more roleplaying… unless you wanna go to that medieval fair next month?"

That finally elicits a genuine snort from him—thin, tired, and undeniably real. "Count me out," he grins, a hint of warmth creeping back into his demeanour.

"Hmm, too bad," you laugh.

Silence settles in, heavy with the ghost of the kiss. The warmth. The fact that neither of you is quite looking at the other.

"Crisis averted. Photos done. Kiss completed. Bureaucracy satisfied. We did it."

Jack glances at you, pulse still racing, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, then he nods once. "Yeah," he says. "We did."

“But, you don’t understand-”

“Besides you should be in study groups-”

“It’s our friend!” One of them shouted. 

Only then did you notice their rather panicked expressions as they looked between each other. From your judgements, one had been told not to say anything, the other didn’t want to hurt either friend and the other spoke up. 

“What is it?”

The third one, a brown haired girl, knocked her lightly. “Shush. Ginny said not to tell.”

“But she might be able to help,” the blonde haired girl whispered. 

From their house colours and the name Ginny, you knew exactly who they were talking about. 

“What’s going on?” You asked. 

“Sarah, don’t.”

Sarah looked between her friends before looking back at you. Then she gave in. “Ginny’s in the girl’s bathroom, crying. She said to go and get her brothers.”

“Why is she crying?” 

She might have been a Weasley, but she’d never once acted out like her brothers. And you, too, had once been the first year crying in the bathroom. 

“She’s…she’s started.”

You looked between the three girls. 

“Started?” 

They all nodded.

“Alright. Her brother’s won’t be much help with this.”

“But-”

You nodded. “Still go and get them. Fred and George should be inside the Great Hall. You,” you pointed to the quiet girl at the end. “Come with me. We’re gonna help Ginny.”

Five minutes later, you were inside the girl’s bathroom. You could hear the shaky sniffles of Ginny from the end cubicle. 

“Guard the door. Wait for your friends.”

The young girl nodded, taking her role very seriously as she waited for her friends and Ginny’s brothers. 

You knocked twice. “Ginny?”

“I-I…yes?”

“It’s Y/n,” you told her, your voice calm and soft. “I found your friends in the hallway.”

“I said not to tell anybody!”

“Don’t blame them,” you told her. “Blame me. I forced it out of them.”

“Where are my brothers?”

“They’re on their way, don’t worry. I figured you might want to talk to a girl first. We tend to know more about these things than boys do.”

You heard Ginny sniffle again. “I-I just felt it and I didn’t know what to do. My mum said it wouldn’t happen for another two years.”

“Well, sometimes these things don’t exactly go to plan. But it’s nothing to be scared of. It just means that for one week every month or so, you’re just able to eat as much ice cream as you want and can spend the entire weekend in bed.”

“Y-Yeah. My mum said…she said something about that.” The young girl sniffed again. “But…I don’t know what to do. It’s…I think it’s stained…”

You shook your head. “Don’t worry about that. It’ll wash right out. Do you have any pads?”

Ginny shook her head behind the door. “N-no.”

“No bother,” you said before pulling out your wand and laying your bag on the floor. “Accio.”

From the depths of your bag, a square tin came flying up. Catching it before it clattered onto the ground, you opened it up before passing her a pad under the door. 

“It’s pretty easy to understand. Just open, peel and stick.” You explained just before you heard thundering footsteps. 

“Ginny?!”

“Let him in, Orla,” you called out to the young girl by the door. 

Rounding the corner, you saw Fred Weasley standing at the end of the cubicle hallway. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping. Give me your robes.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

Pulling the long black robes from his body, revealing exactly what you expected to find – a messy uniform – you called back to Ginny. 

“Ginny, your brother is here. I’m gonna hand you his robes. Just wrap them around yourself when you’re ready to come out.”

“What’s going on? The kids froze when I asked.”

“She’s started her period,” you whispered to him. “She’s a little scared, and probably in pain. Take this,” you said as you handed him your emergency period kit. “There are extra pads in there. If she starts in pain, send one of the girls to Madam Pomfry. She’ll get her some pain medication. And, if it gets really bad, a hot water bottle always helps with the cramps.”

“What?”

You sighed, “Fred, honestly. It’s natural. She’s earlier than she expected, but she’s going to be perfectly fine. You don’t need to do much besides be there for her if she wants you.”

“No, I know that. But…you helped her?”

You nodded. “You’ll be surprised to learn that girls help each other when it comes to these things, no matter the rivalries they have with their older siblings.”

Fred stood in shock as you packed up your things. “Ginny, I’m gonna leave you with your brother, but if you have any questions…feel free to come and find me.”

“O-okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Bidding Fred a silent goodbye, you took your leave and headed back towards the Great Hall, passing a slightly panicked George on the way. 

“Down the hall and to the left. Fred is already there. Ginny is fine, just don’t make a loud fuss.”

George nodded. “Okay. Okay. Thank you.”

Even though you’d told Ginny to come and find you if she had any questions, you hadn’t actually expected her to. Quite frankly, you thought after you left, Fred might have scolded her into accepting your help, telling her you’re nothing more than a Parseltongue Slytherin. 

Surprisingly, he didn’t. Or, maybe he did, but Ginny decided to make her own judgement. 

You were walking out of your dormitory when you heard the end of Draco saying, “...filthy Weasley.”

“Draco!” You shouted as you spotted him standing at the door. “Find something more useful to do with your time before I send your mother a letter about your behaviour. No doubt she’ll send you back a howler.”

Draco turned pale and stalked away with his friends as you turned towards the door to find, “Ginny!”

“I-I’m sorry. I just…I’m sorry.”

She took off running in the opposite direction. 

“Wait!” You called after her, leaving the Slytherin door to close itself. “Ginny, wait.”

Eventually, she stopped and turned around to face you. “I-”

But where maybe she had expected you to be mad at her, you just smiled warmly. “How about we go for a walk?”

Ginny nodded, falling into step beside you as you took her on the quieter walk through the school and towards the benches outside the courtyard. She asked you a million different questions, and you explained everything to the best of your ability. 

How periods were different for everyone, pain could be small or it could be too much to handle. You explained the biology behind it and why sometimes she might feel angry for no reason, or sad for no reason. You also told her how it’s not something she should be embarrassed about, and if she ever is in need of some help, any girl in the bathroom will help…apart from Moaning Myrtle. Mostly because she’s a ghost and can’t do much. 

“I asked Fred and George but they just…went quiet.”

“That’s a first.”

Ginny chuckled. “They’re not so bad. I mean…they tried. How come you know all about this stuff? There isn’t exactly a muggle biology class.”

“You’re right, there’s not. But, I went to a muggle school.”

“You’re a half-blood?”

You nodded. “My mum was in Ravenclaw when she was at school. Taught me everything I know.”

“Even about…this stuff?”

You nodded. “Not because she was a Ravenclaw, but because there was a chance she’d have a muggle daughter. If I wasn’t at Hogwarts, I’d be at an ordinary high school where they teach about it a little more than they do here.”

“Really?”

You nodded. “But just because you know, doesn’t mean you’re not scared. I got mine in my first year, too. But I didn’t have any friends or brothers to help me.”

“So what did you do?”

“Cried.” You answered honestly. “But once I stopped long enough to breathe, I started thinking resourcefully. If I was at muggle school, I’d be in the same predicament. It was no different here than there.”

Ginny nodded, listening to your every word. 

“You’ll find it gets a little tedious eventually. But, you’ll also find it has its own superpowers. Like shutting your brothers up if they’re being far too annoying for you to put up with.”

Ginny giggled and looked out to the empty courtyard. “Thank you, Y/n. It’s nice to have a girl to talk to about this stuff. I have mum but I don’t exactly have sisters.”

You smiled. “If you ever need any help, just come and get me. Don’t be afraid, Ginny. And if Draco starts, just tell him to piss off. He wouldn’t admit it, but he’s more scared of his own shadow.”

Ginny laughed again before spotting her friends. She thanked you once more before running back to her friends, but not before she turned around and surprisingly hugged you, tight. 

“Bye.”

Joining her friends, you sat back for a moment, taking in the quiet and the fact that Ginny had hugged you. You’d always wondered what it would have been like to have younger siblings to help. Was this the feeling? The…happiness?

But it didn’t last long, because barely thirty seconds later, Fred Weasley was jumping over the back of the bench and sitting beside you. 

“Did I just see my sister hug you?”

You turned and looked at him. “What do you want, Weasley?”

“Whoa, hey, hold the hostility for a second. I just wanted to thank you. For helping Ginny yesterday. Like you said, we might have a rivalry of sorts, but…she’s my little sister and you helped her. So…thank you.”

You were slightly taken aback. In the four years you’d known Fred Weasley, not once had your words with him been calm ones. Let alone nice ones. 

“Oh. Well…you’re welcome…I guess.”

“And not to sound like some ‘bone headed, misogynistic ass’ but…you should smile more.” Fred smiled. “Smiling suits you more than scowling. Have a nice day.”

For the first time, you’d heard real sincerity in Fred’s voice when he talked to you. And, quite frankly, you didn’t know how to react beyond stunned silence and the overthinking of, “What the hell does that mean?”. 

Over the course of the year, more and more of those moments started happening between yourself and Fred Weasley. 

First it was with Ginny, then it was with Snape’s potion class and essay; a Slytherin boy had accused him of cheating. But Fred had been stationed at your table the entire time. He hadn’t cheated once. He was…just really good at potions. 

Then came the real change. 

Throughout the year, more and more first and second years came to you for help. They wanted to actually know what was happening to them. So, after the tenth girl came up to you, you’d asked if you could hold a small talk for the girls after classes.

McGonnagall and Madam Pomfry agreed, even making some different and up-to-date pamphlets on the situation. But, the longer the talks were held, you found a few boys lingering outside the classroom. 

At first, you and some of the other older years figured it was so they could snigger and mock the girls. That was, until one afternoon during set-up, you found Fred Weasley sat on one of the rows. 

“What are you doing in here?” You didn’t give him a chance to respond, already feeling tired. “Look, if you’re here to take the piss-”

Fred stood, walking over to you. “I’m not here for that. I wanted to talk to you. About it.”

“About it?”

“This,” Fred gestured. “And about some of the boys. Look, I understand why this is for girls, but I was more in the dark than Ginny was when she started. And I know a lot of the guys in this school have younger sisters or even nieces. They wanna learn, too. They want to know how they can help. It’s not like we’re born with this information, and because we don’t have them, we’re not told about them. I think…I think that should change.”

You were shocked at Fred’s sentiment. But, deep down, you agreed with it. 

“One boy takes the piss and-”

Fred smiled. “I’ll chuck him out, myself. You have my word.”

Your eyes narrowed at him as he held his hand over his heart, though there was no true malice in your glare. “That seems to be true the longer I know you, Weasley.”

“Told you,” Fred smiled. “I’m not all loud and reckless.”

“No, I guess not.” Your voice came out a little distant, as if your mind was making a decision far away from the situation. Then, rather abruptly, you said, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I misjudged you. I still think you’re reckless…and have a tendency to be loud. But…you’re a good guy, Weasley. Even if you do still get on my nerves every now and again.”

The corners of Fred’s mouth turned up slightly as his own gaze flicked across your face. “Glad to hear it. Wouldn’t want everything to change between us.”

Ignoring the new change of energy between yourselves, you turned away and started laying out leaflets and pamphlets on the chairs, handing Fred half of your pile. 

“Since you’re here, you might as well help.”

Over the week, more guys turned up to the talks. And Fred was true to his word. A third year boy found the entire thing too hilarious, pointing and snickering at the first year girls in the front row. 

So, from the back of his collar, Fred, along with George, hoisted the boy from his chair and set him outside the classroom. 

By the end of the week, and the final talk, Fred was pulled out early by McGonnagall. Though you didn’t know why, part of you felt…sad? Lost? 

For a guy that had annoyed the hell out of you for four years, you were starting to feel something about not having him by your side or at least in your line of vision. 

“Is everything okay?” You asked him, relieved to see him when he waltzed inside as you were stacking the chairs back. 

But he just smiled and held out a letter. “It’s for you.”

“Why are you collecting my mail? You know in the muggle world, it’s illegal to open someone’s mail.”

“It’s illegal here, too.” Fred said. “But it came with my letters from home. And I haven’t opened it.”

“Who’s it from?”

“How would I know? I haven’t opened it.”

Turning it over and opening the wax seal, you unfolded the letter to find Mrs Weasley had written to you. First thanking you for taking care of her daughter, next for teaching her sons and then a final thank you for teaching other kids, too. 

“How does she know?”

Fred shrugged. “Maybe Ginny told her or…” He struggled to find a new lie. 

You watched Fred for a moment, then smiled. “Oh, my god.”

“What?”

You smiled, almost beaming. “You wrote to your mother about me?”

Fred flushed red. “W-what? No.” He tried to laugh it off, but you saw right through him. 

“You wrote to your mother about me.”

“No, I-I didn’t.”

“Whatever you say, Weasley.”

Fred chuckled. “Alright, Y/l/n. No need to be so smug.”

You smiled down at the letter addressed from Molly Weasley. “Nobody’s ever written to their mother about me before. Bad or good.”

Fred felt something warm in his heart. He was proud to be the first. 

“I think they’re still serving tea in the Great Hall,” Fred mentioned casually but quietly. “Want to get some?”

For the first time since knowing him, you didn’t have to overthink your answer. 

“Sure. Love to.”

That night, a small part of your history…or maybe your future…changed. Fred Weasley not only became your friend, but he also became something more. Something that didn’t exactly have a label. Well, not yet at least. But it was there. The…feeling. 

“You sure you’re okay?” 

If a year ago, somebody had told you you’d be studying with Fred Weasley, for your OWLs, in the Gryffindor common room, you’d have said they were mad. Insane, even. 

But it was true. 

A year on from what turned out to be the Diary from Hell for Ginny and other not so dramatic but equally life-changing things, it was true. 

You nodded, “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Fred asked you again. “You look like somebody kicked you under the table in Potions today.”

“Felt like it,” you mumbled, trying to concentrate on your coursework. 

You didn’t say much after that, but you did grow concerned a little when Fred stood up, also without a word. If he did something, he usually spoke about it first. 

And he disappeared for seven whole minutes. Thankfully, a lot of the Gryffindors were used to finding you in their common room, knowing Fred wasn’t too far away. So if any came in, they wouldn’t question your presence. 

“Here.”

Fred returned, suddenly, holding out a hot water bottle.

“It might help.”

With a relieved smile, you thanked him. 

“Better?” He asked as he sat down. 

“Much. Thank you.”

“Maybe you should go to Madam Pomfry. They’re getting worse.”

“I’m fine, Fred. Really.”

Fred just nodded, turning back to his own coursework. But when you gave up on trying to focus on your work, laying on the sofa behind Fred, you sighed. 

“Can you tell what this says?”

Picking the piece of parchment from Fred’s hands, you recognised the writing right away. “Fred, this is your handwriting.”

“I know. Can you tell what it says?”

“How can you not know what you’ve written?”

“Please?”

You read it aloud. “Due to the increasing level of pain being experienced, I suggest the best course of action…Fred. I’m not going to Madam Pomfry.”

“It was worth a try. Just…promise me, if it gets worse, you’ll go. Or else I’ll drag you there myself.”

You laid a hand on his shoulder. “I promise.”

As the years went on, the friendship and whatever the unspoken thing was between both of you only seemed to grow until eventually you found yourself in a similar position, lay on one of the patchwork sofas in The Burrow. 

“Fred, you really need to get neater with your handwriting,” you said as you turned the page upside down for the third time. “Even I can’t tell what this says.”

“Well…it’s not my fault.”

You gave him a deadpan look. “We all went to the same school. Even George’s handwriting is neater than this. I swear, you need to make up your own spell to figure out what this says.”

From the kitchen, Ginny stood beside her brother. “How long have they been like this?”

“Arguing? Years.” George answered. “Lay that close together? Hours.”

“Do you think they’ve figured it out yet?”

“Fred’s handwriting? If Y/n can’t figure it out, nobody can.”

Ginny sighed, hitting her brother. “Not that. The other thing?”

“That they’re hopelessly and forever bound together in the spell of unspoken love?” George asked as Ginny nodded. “No, not yet.”

Ginny groaned before moving on and heading up the stairs. 

“For a guy that is running his own business, you should be able to read your own handwriting.”

Fred shrugged. “For someone that is able to run rings around some of the top lawyers in the Ministry, so should you.”

“Mum says ‘hi’ by the way,” you mentioned to Fred. “She says the papers for your new product should be ready for you to sign on Monday.”

“What time are you heading into the office?”

“Nine.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Meet you outside of the shop at 8? I need to pick up an order at Flourish and Blotts.”

Fred nodded. “Great. We can grab breakfast if you’d like?”

“Yes,” you said. “But I’m picking the place this time. There’s somewhere I’d like to show you.”

“It’s not gonna be filled with stuffy, uptight lawyers is it?”

You chuckled. “No. Just stuffy, uptight muggle public.”

“Muggles?” Arthur popped his head around the corner. “Bloody love Muggles. All their inventions. A multi-coloured pen. Sensational.”

You smiled before turning to Fred who had the same expression on his face. 

Since the very first time you’d met Arthur Weasley, he’d been enamoured with the information you held about Muggles. Apparently he’d met your father once, when he surprised your mother at the Ministry for their Anniversary. 

“Fantastic chap,” Arthur had told you. 

“Here,” you chuckled as you handed Fred his paper back. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

His eyes trailing after you and a light smile spread across his lips, your eyes locked with Fred’s as you climbed the stairs towards the bathroom. Only once you were out of earshot did George lean over the sofa and hit Fred on the back of the head. 

“Oi,” he whispered. “When are you gonna tell her?”

“Tell her what?”

“That you want to marry her and have children with her and live out that fantasy dream of your own Burrow home with her.”

“Bugger off.”

“I’m being serious,” George whispered. “Besides, you’d make a great girl dad.”

“George. If she comes down here, she’s gonna freak out and start physically running back home.”

George just smiled. “That’s what you think. I think she’d run into you arms and-”

“She’s not that kind of girl.”

“Please, every girl is that girl.”

“Y/n’s different.”

“She loves you. And, you, my dear brother, love her, too.”

“George.”

“I don’t hear you denying it,” George sang as he walked away, just in time for you to come back down the stairs, fixing the clasp on the dungarees with random patchwork squares. 

Playing Quidditch in the summer with the rest of the Weasley clan one year had resulted in lots of laughter and randomly torn holes in the dungarees you were wearing. 

Now, they were patched back together with random pieces of fabric that, even when washed, still somehow smelled of the comforting scent of the Burrow on a fresh summer’s afternoon. 

“Denying what?”

“Oh, just that Freddie here-”

“George.”

“Needs to go back to school. Fix that handwriting of his.”

By the time Monday rolled around, you were dragging Fred down a busy London street towards your favourite cafe. Despite it being one of London’s busiest times in the morning, the cafe was practically empty compared to those on Westminster Bridge. 

“What can I get for you, dears?”

Placing in a double of your usual order, you left Fred to his own devices. Only, when you returned to him, handing over his to-go bag and tea, you found a woman standing in front of him. 

She was flirting with him. 

“Here you go,” you told Fred as you gave the stranger a rather withering look. 

She smiled, perkily. “Hi, I was just saying to your friend here that he looked a little lost. I’d be more than happy to give him a small tour if you’re in a rush.”

“No,” you answered. “Not in a rush. And he’s not lost. He’s with me.”

“Oh,” she looked between both of you before asking, “Really? I’m sure you’re a nice person but…really? Wow.”

“Okay, we’re leaving.” 

Taking Fred’s hand in yours, you practically dragged him out of the cafe. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing.”

“She was just trying to be nice.”

“She was flirting.”

“No, she-” Fred turned and looked at you. He knew the woman was flirting with him, she’d asked for his number. But Fred couldn’t think why you’d reacted so harshly. Until he looked at you, and it hit him. 

“Oh, my god,” he chuckled. “You’re jealous.”

Your brows furrowed quickly. “I’m not jealous.”

Fred couldn’t help but laugh a little more. “You are insanely jealous. I already told her I don’t have a phone.”

“She asked for your number?!”

Fred smiled as you turned and looked at him, almost as if someone had tried to brand your heart. 

“You-” You cleared your throat, trying to act normal. “Not that I care.”

As the street grew quiet and the red post box came into sight, Fred pulled you aside. “Hey, there’s no need to be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

Fred just smiled. “I wouldn’t have said yes. Other than the fact that I thought she was rude, especially to you. She wasn’t…”

“She wasn’t what?”

Swallowing his pride, Fred finally spoke his truth. “She wasn’t you.”

It took a moment for you to register what Fred was actually saying. “Oh. Oh.”

Fred nodded. 

“Well…I…”

“Look, you don’t have to answer it now. Or…ever. You’re my closest friend, and I don’t ever want that to change, and if this does so. Especially if it does so for the worst…I’d rather be by your side just the way we are. You know, if you didn’t…if you don’t…”

“I do.” The words fell out quicker than a golden snitch could fly. “I do. I just…wasn’t expecting it to happen on a pavement in London before…before our meeting.”

Fred felt himself smile. He hadn’t scared you off, so he was off to a good start. 

“Can…can we talk about it after work?”

Fred nodded. He’d waited nearly five years. He could wait a few more hours. 

“Of course.”

“Okay then.” For a moment, you continued walking with Fred walking behind you. But then you stopped and turned back. “Are you sure? About…about me?”

Fred nodded. “My feelings haven’t changed since fifth year. I doubt they’re gonna change now.”

“Okay.” You sounded a little more confident the second time, even though he could still hear your brain trying to process the whole thing. “Okay, then.”

“This really is a good cup of tea.”

“Told you.”

You could be normal for a couple of hours, acting like you usually did with Fred. Just before lunch, he had to head back to the shop and you kept working through some of the upcoming cases. Though, despite the boring case work, you couldn’t seem to wipe the smile from your face. 

Fred felt the same. 

He’s sitting in his office, looking perfect. 

That’s where he usually is. In his pressed suit, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, his hair tucked slightly behind his ears because none of his aides can convince him to cut it, and you won’t bother to try. 

You know he hates this. The formality of it all, the glass between himself and his staffers, the little pin they give him to show off that he was in the military, before turning around and rejecting his bills. But this got his parents off his back—which, as you’ve frequently reminded him, is an insane reason to run for congress—and he gets to take his lunches whenever he wants. 

Which is great for you. 

Because now you get to have lunch together every day. 

The secretary nods when you flash her your guest badge, and gives you a simpering smile. You don’t understand why she hates you, why she always tries to stop you from going in under the guise of security. You haven’t been able to bring yourself to ask Bucky, because he’d go and talk to her about it, and you really don’t want to be hovering in the background for that conversation. 

Maybe it’s because you take up a whole half-hour of Bucky’s attention, and it’s the most valuable currency in the world. 

You can’t blame the secretary for wanting to keep it to herself, best she can. You’ve gone to drastic lengths to do the same, the least embarrassing being sitting next to him in every single lecture during your college days, and the most being the time you dedicated a whole two weeks to convincing him to mostly work from Brooklyn instead of DC, just so you wouldn’t have to see him less. 

At least your scheme worked, is all you can think as you feel the secretary glaring daggers at your back. You know why her skirts are so short, and blouses are so low-cut. And she’s got a really nice body. You’re sure she’d be batting better results, if she’d just be nice to people who visit Bucky. 

He is just a man, and he’s got the eyes to see her black lacy bra. 

He also cares about his friends more than anyone you’ve ever met. 

And he never misses the venom with which she speaks to you. Curt greetings of your name, needless questions about why you’re here, and scowls at you when she thinks you can’t see. 

“I need to talk to her about it, don’t I.” He mutters as a greeting, frowning out the glass doors, and you sigh. 

“She’s just doing her job, Buck-“

“Well, she’s not that good at it. And this is the third time I’ve caught her lookin’ like she wants to kill you-“

“You know why she’s doing that, right?” You drop at his desk, sliding the sandwich you brought him across the desk. 

Bucky’s eyes flick to you, his brows raised. “God, don’t say it again-“

“She wants to fuck you.” You say it in a sing-song voice, because it hides the bitterness on your tongue. “She dreams about you calling her into your office and saying get on the couch, doll-“

He snorts. “That supposed to be me?”

You nod, taking a large bite of your own sandwich and grinning at him. Bucky just shakes his head with a chuckle, unwrapping the tinfoil around his lunch.

“I don’t talk like that-“

“Yeah, you do-“

“Chew and swallow, sweetheart.” He gives you a dry look as you speak through a mouthful, and you roll your eyes at him. “Jesus, I’m pretty sure someone raised you in a fuckin’ barn.”

You swallow dramatically, and stick your tongue out at him. “I’ve been groomed for high society, Sergeant. That’s why they didn’t give me any napkins at the deli, they trust me without them.”

Bucky sighs, leaning forward to frown in the paper bag. “You forgot the napkins?”

“Nuh uh, weren’t you just listening to what I said-“

“Yeah, and I know you.” He leans back with an amused look. “You’re hurtin’ yourself more than me, sweetheart. You got somethin’, right there.”

He points to your nose, and you scrunch it, trying to lick it off. Bucky watches you for a few moments before shaking his head again, and reaching over the desk. 

The moment his thumb brushes your nose, you go still. 

His touch always fucking does that. It doesn’t matter if it’s passing you a pencil in college, sitting next to you in your first apartment, or resting his fingers over yours on the subway, when he helped you figure out the commute to work. Bucky’s always been able to shut you down and light you up like no one else has. Like you’re not sure anyone else ever will. 

He leans back, and licks the bit of sauce off his thumb. It makes your breath hitch, and gaze drop down to your lap. You don’t know why he does those kinds of things around you, when it means nothing. Maybe he’s practicing for other women, maybe he’s just not thinking about it, or maybe he knows that you’re in love with him and is just toying with you. 

No. 

There’s no way he knows. 

And even if he did, he’d never be that cruel. He’d reject you softly, then pull back until your feelings fade. Because he’s a good man, who volunteers for fund drives and helps old ladies carry their groceries and makes you share your location when you walk home at night—not necessarily with him, but you’ve never suggested anyone else, and some small part of you likes knowing that he might be looking at his phone and worrying about you—because he’d go full John Wick if something happened to you. 

Which only makes you love him more. 

Only reminds you that he has no idea what he does to you. What he’s always done to you. 

What no one else has managed to replicate, to the point that it’s become a problem. 

You can’t love anyone that’s not Bucky Barnes. You can’t think of wanting anyone that’s not him, either. You can’t move on from something you’ve never had at all, and it’s not fair to yourself to keep waiting to see if he turns around and finally sees you. 

He won’t. 

Bucky’s already seen you, and he’s decided you fit very well in the friend category. Best friend category, even. Which is more than you could’ve hoped for, given he was this pretty, perfect, untouchable god in college, and you were just you.

You’re still just you.

You’ve always been you, no matter how you try to be something else. 

Someone who could look shiny and pretty on the arm of a congressman. Someone who could bend down low enough to show off Her lacy cleavage, and flutter her eyelashes at her hot boss. Someone whose bravado isn’t just a show you know everyone can see right through.

Bucky likes you how you are. You know he does. 

But he just likes you. 

You’re done waiting for it to turn into something else. It won’t. And you don’t want to attend his wedding in however many years, playing the role of the drunken, lovesick and jealous woman that his bride didn’t want to invite.

So you had a plan, when you walked into the office. And no matter how Bucky smiles at you or cleans your face with his infernal, rough and big fingers, you’re going to go through with it. 

“Barnes.” You lean forward, making your words firm and sharp.

He raises his brows. “Yeah?”

“Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Sure. But if it’s getting you early access to the kittens in the shelters again, I told you I’m not in-charge of that-“

“No, it’s not that-“

“Okay, good, because I swear I looked into it for you, but I’m not an emperor-“

“Good. You’d be a bad one. Can I-“

He frowns. “Why would I be a bad emperor?”

You sigh. “Bucky-“

“I mean, I agree with you.” He leans over the desk, holding your gaze. “But I wanna know why you think I’d be bad at it.”

“Because you don’t like parties, Buck. And people would spend all day saying stupid things to you.”

“People say stupid things to me now-“

“James.” You give him a pleading look. You spent all morning building up the confidence for this, and you’re about to lose it. 

Bucky, by some miracle, just sighs and nods. “Sorry. But,” he gives you a small grin. “You’d make a good empress.”

You flush. He’s not being helpful, smiling at you and looking better every moment. Staring at you while he takes a large bite of his sandwich. 

The words, for a moment, get caught in your throat as you watch him. You’re never going to do better than Bucky. If you ask for what you want, you’re going to have to learn how to. 

You just have to spit it out. Like vomit, sickening and vile when you force it up, but once it’s gone, you’ll feel better. 

All you have to do is say it, and you’ll start getting better- 

Bucky says your name, his voice a little lower, like he’s worried.

He does really care about you. Even if it’s not the way you care about him. 

Goddammit. 

“Can I have one of your friend’s phone numbers?” You blurt, and Bucky sits up. Just blinks at you for a moment, like he doesn’t understand the words you just said, then clears his throat.  

“What, to like- Help with somethin’?”

In a way, yeah. “No, um- To go out with.”

“On… a date.”

You nod, picking at the skin of your nails, and Bucky is still just staring at you. 

“Is there one you want?” He asks, voice low, and you shake your head.  

“No, I was- Uh-“ God, your face is on fire. This was a horrible idea. “I was kind of just going to let you choose?”

Bucky’s silent for another, long moment, and you can hear the tick, tick, tick of his watch. 

You got him that watch. As a celebration, when he got into office. He’d hugged you so tight you can still sort of feel it. Kissed your cheek. You’d lain in bed for three hours that night, just touching where his lips had brushed and grinding into your sheets. 

It’s best not to think about it. 

“You want me.” Bucky says slowly, and your eyes snap up.

“No, I just-“

“To pick one of my friends. For you to go on a date with.” 

You let out a heavy breath. Bucky’s staring a little blankly at the air, and you’re not even sure he heard your panicked protests. “Yes, please.”

“For somethin’ serious?” His eyes focus slightly, narrowing on yours. “Or just sex?”

Your nails dig into your palms as you start to feel like you’re on fire. He doesn’t know. He has no way of knowing.

That you’ve been too caught up in your stupid, romantic little fantasy where he brings you flowers and confesses his love on his knees before fucking you stupid. That you’ve been waiting for him, like an idiot, because some foolish little part of you wants it to be perfect, and it really never gets more perfect than Bucky.

Bucky knows you didn’t really have dates in high school, and he’s been around for all of your weak attempts to go on dates since then. He’s been next to you when you get asked out at a bar. You’ve told him all about dating apps, and singles nights, and blind setups from friends. 

But you never go past the funny stories and details. 

You never tell him that even for the ones who don’t end up disgusting you, it never goes further than a few kisses. 

It’s never gone further than a few kisses. 

Because you’ve been saving further for Bucky. Whenever you’ve pictured a first time, since the very moment you laid eyes on him, it’s always been Bucky above you. His voice in your ear, his hands roaming your body, his touch lighting you on fire. 

You can’t keep waiting. And he doesn’t know. 

He’s protective of his friends. That’s all his question is. 

So you give him a nervous smile, and shrug. “Something serious?”

“Huh.” He frowns. “Didn’t know you were lookin’ for that.”

“I, um- I just started.” You tug at the hem of your shirt, watching him carefully. He’s oddly still. You’re a little concerned. “Buck, if you’re not- I mean, if you don’t think any of them would like me-“

“No.” Bucky grunts, giving you a firm look. “They all- They would love you.”

You flush. You don’t want them to love you. 

Don’t think about it. 

“Oh- Okay. So can I have a number? Just for one date, then I’ll leave it alone.”

“Yeah, just-“ Bucky sighs, leaning back in his chair and running a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, what’s goin’ on?”

“I’m… asking for your friend’s number?” Your stomach twists. “Bucky, are you feeling okay, do we need to go-“

“No, that wasn’t- It’s not a memory thing.” His throat bobs, and he won’t stop fucking staring at you. It’s not helping you get over him faster. “I’m just tryin’ to understand.”

“Okay, good.” You pause. “Understand what?”

He gives you a strange look. “You don’t date, sweetheart. Not really. Did somethin’ happen?”

“I- I date-“

“No, you don’t. You just- Never mind.” He lets out a heavy breath. “Are you serious? About wanting to go out?”

“Yes.” You lean forward, trying to drag confidence from the pit of your stomach. “Can I have Steve, please?”

Bucky makes a face. “No. He’s like my brother-“ His lip curls. “No.”

“Well, how about Stark?”

“You’d hate Stark.”

“You hate Stark. I like money.”

“Yeah?” He gives you an amused look. “You just tryin’ to gold dig?”

“Maybe.” You cross your arms. “Or I’m just hoping that my true love is also rich. It would solve a lot of problems.”

Bucky’s gaze softens slightly. “Sweetheart, if you need money, I can-“

“No, James. I’ve told you no.”

“It wouldn’t be an issue, just for your rent-“

“I’m fine.”

“I just wanna help you-“

“And you can do that.” You give him a firm look. “By setting me up on a date with one of your friends.”

Bucky scowls, and lets out a long, labored sigh. Like this is physically hurting him. The idea of you, in any sort of romantic situation with someone he cares about, is just that impossible to think about.

Another thing you really don’t want to think about.

“Fine.” He mutters suddenly, and you sit up.

“Really? You’ll help?”

“Yeah, I’ll help. We’ll get you a date, doll. Whatever you want. But,” his voice turns firm, before you can even process the weight with which he said whatever you want. “Not any of my friends.”

You frown. “Why not-

“Cause.”

“That’s not a reason, Bucky-“

“The reason doesn’t matter. Do you want my help or not?”

You sigh. There’s not really another choice. “Yeah. I do.”

“Alright then.” Bucky watches you carefully, still almost impossibly still. “We’ll go out this weekend, and- I know a few decent guys.”

“Decent?”

“Good guys.” He mutters, and it sounds like he hates the words. “They’re good guys, we just aren’t that close. They’ll be into you, swear it.”

You nod slowly, and this went about as well as you could have hoped. “Bucky?”

He grunts your name, and you offer him a small smile. 

“Thank you.”

“‘Course.” He mutters. “Anything.”

His attention never once wavers from you, even as his phone starts to ring. And he’s so pretty. Lips too full and pink, even in a tight line. Hair soft looking, beard neatly trimmed, eyes so blue. 

You’ve had too many dreams about getting lost in them. 

They aren’t dreams that will just fade, either. They’re like a routine. You go to bed, and think of Bucky to fall asleep. Fantasize about him through the night. Daydream about him until you crawl back into bed, and repeat it all over again.

Which is why you have to do this. Having someone else will force your thoughts away from Bucky, and what can never be. 

“You should get that.” You whisper, and he nods. 

“Probably, yeah. And you gotta get back to work.”

“I do.” You try to make your voice light, because the air of the room feels oddly hot and heavy. “Have fun with her.”

You tilt your head back, to where you can feel his secretary glowering at you. She had a call for him. You’re being distracting, and hogging him. 

You can’t manage to feel bad about it at all. Not when you turn to leave, and it’s your name that he calls. 

“You know I’d never do that, right?” His eyes flick to his secretary. “That’s not… She can keep dreamin’ or whatever. But I’m not interested.”

“Yeah. I know.” You hold your bag a little tighter. “I mean, you’re seeing someone, right? Mary… Monica?”

“Macy.” He mutters, and you bite on your inner cheek.

Better not to think about-

“But she broke up with me.” 

You blink at him, and the phone call goes silent. There’s an odd weight in his eyes, and you hadn’t known things with Macy were that serious. At least, not serious enough for him to look like someone just shot his dog.  

“Oh, Buck. I’m so sorry, why would she-“

“Don’t worry about it.” He shrugs, and you frown. 

“But-“

“She just saw some things she couldn’t ignore. That’s it.” His tongue flicks over his lips, and the phone starts to ring again.

“Bucky-“

“I’m good, sweetheart. She wasn’t wrong about anything. Just-“ He sighs, still staring at you. “Something I gotta work on. It was for the best.”

You nod, but still murmur, “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” He blinks slowly, mouth curving in an odd, weighted smile. “So am I. See you tomorrow, doll.”

“See you tomorrow,” you echo, and force yourself to turn.

Bucky has a job to do. 

You have a Bucky to get over. 

This is the best way to keep him without driving yourself insane. 

He hadn’t been as eager to help as you thought he’d be. 

It’s better not to think about it. 

This is all for the best. 

———

Bucky is a horrible matchmaker. Truly awful. Almost impressively so. 

It usually takes effort, to be this fucking bad at something. Especially for James fucking Barnes, who’s good at every damn thing he does. You’ve seen him fix cars and paint decent flowers, and his voice isn’t amazing but it’s good, and he can dance and cook and tell jokes and speak four languages.

You’ve never seen Bucky be bad at anything in his life. 

But Jesus fucking Christ, he’s dogshit at this. 

“How was Michael?” He asks you, sprawled on your couch when you get home.

“Um…” You drop your keys in the bowl by your door, pinching your brow as you try to think of kind words. “He’s… interesting. A lot of opinions, and- Some very interesting interests-“

Bucky drawls your name, still looking at the TV. “You said interesting three times.”

“Because he’s very interesting.” You snap. “Where did you find him, again?”

“Another friend.”

“One of yours-“

“Nah, I asked Stark about any single friends he had.” His voice lowers slightly. “You said you wanted someone rich.”

“You’re rich.” You mutter under your breath, and Bucky looks at you so fast you’re shocked he doesn’t break his neck.

“You didn’t ask for me, doll.” 

You flush, looking down to your shoes. “Very funny.” You mutter. “I’m saying rich doesn’t have to equate psycho, Barnes.”

Bucky grunts. “I thought he was interesting.”

“He was.” You kick one shoe off a little too hard. It flies across the room and lands near Bucky’s feet. 

“So what’s the problem?” Bucky leans down, grabbing your shoe and holding it out. “Last guy was too boring, this one too interesting? Are you the fuckin’ pea princess?”

“The princess and the ea.” You grab your boot with a glare. “And the last guy spent fifty minutes talking about golf. I wanted to shoot myself.”

“Don’t do that, doll, I’d miss you too much-“

“Well, then, you shouldn’t send me on dates with men who might want to hunt me!”

Bucky blinks at you for a moment, his fist curling on his lap. “What?”

“I don’t know, he just gave, like- Creepy stalker vibes. He asked my blood type and body fat, Bucky.” You drop on the couch next to him, glaring at the TV. “He wanted to know how fast I could run.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Bucky’s voice is so low you almost don’t hear it. “You ain’t seein’ him again.”

“No, I’m not. But thank you, for introducing me to him in the first place.”

“I didn’t mean to-“ Bucky sighs, and you see him tip his head back in your periphery. “I trusted Stark, okay? I won’t do that again.”

“Whatever.” You grumble, pulling your knees up to your chest. “This was a stupid idea anyway, Bucky. I can just die alone, it’s fine-“

“You’re not gonna die alone,” he mutters your name, and you can feel his gaze. “I... Goddamnit- I got one more guy for you. We were shipped out together, he moved here a few months ago, and- Hey, he’s got both his arms.” Bucky grins at you. “He’s like a better me.”

You frown, keeping your gaze fixed ahead. There’s no better Bucky. It’s just him, being everything you love and a little more after that, and distractions. 

“What’s his name.”

“Jake. He’s workin’ in construction right now.” There’s a pause, then- “I hooked him up with it.”

You hug yourself a little tighter. Bucky got him a job. He owes Bucky a favor. 

Which is, apparently, needed for someone to go on a date with you. 

“I’ll ask him if he’s free this weekend.” Bucky mutters. “And I’ll give him your number, so you can ignore him if you want.”

That makes your mouth twitch. “Thanks.”

“‘Course. Anything.” 

He sighs, and it’s the same words he’s been saying whenever you talk about it. Almost robotic. 

You wonder if he dreads saying them, almost as much as you dread hearing them. 

Because it’s not anything. 

It’s everything, but what you want. What you can’t have. 

Bucky’s arm stays over your shoulders, as you watch TV on the couch. You don’t ever want him to be replaced by anyone else. You don’t want better Bucky. 

You just want Bucky.

Better not to think about it. 

You don’t really have that many options. 

You’ll take what you can get. 

———

Jake isn’t a better Bucky. He’s like a remodel, or second edition, or faded imprint of him. Which is a cruel thing to think of a person, but you can’t help it. 

He sent you the first text. I hear we got a friend, trying to push us together. 

You’d blinked at the screen, then carefully typed back, We may. Are you Jake?

Guilty. You the pretty girl Barnes is trying to pawn off?

You’d frowned at that, trying to think of what you could possibly respond, when Jake sent another message. 

He shouldn’t be trying that hard. Unless you’re not real.

Unless I’m not real

You sound too good to be true, darling. 

That had earned a small smile. Yeah? Bucky sort of sold you pretty high, as well. 

Doubt it was as high as he sold you.

And your smile had grown. Not the wide, carefree one you get with Bucky, but a real smile. Which, right now, is sort of all you can ask for. 

You spent the whole week, texting with Jake. At work, on the subway, at home in bed. 

The only time you don’t is when you’re eating lunch with Bucky. You can’t even think about him, because the moment you walk into his office, the whole universe narrows down to Bucky. It always has. You’re pretty sure it always will. 

Just Bucky, frowning at the papers on his desk but smiling when he sees you. His tie a little askew, and his hair messy, like he’s been touching it all day.

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m good.” He grins at you. “Happy you’re here.”

You flush. He can’t just say stuff like that, it’s not fair. “Happy to be here. You obviously needed me.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles, taking his sandwich. “How’s that?”

“You look like shit, James.”

He laughs, loud and full, and it makes your heart kick into a drum. “And you look lovely, doll.”

“I slept last night.”

“So did I.”

“Bucky-“

He says your name back with an eye roll. “I’m good, sweetheart. I’m always good.”

You sigh. “We both know that’s not true-“

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll sleep tomorrow night.” 

“Tomorrow?” You glare at him. “Sleep tonight, Barnes-“

“No, tonight is movie night. I got the popcorn.” 

You flush. Movie night. You forgot about movie night. 

“Bucky, um-“ You set down your sandwich, fiddling with the cuffs of your sleeve. “I actually… can’t go to movie night.” 

He just looks at you, holding his sandwich. He looks like he’s trying to strangle it, even as his voice remains calm. “Why not?”

“I, um- I have a date.” 

“Ah.” His tone is impossible to read. It’s going to drive you insane. “Thought that didn’t go anywhere.”

“We’ve just been talking.” You mumble. “I can reschedule-“

“No. Go on your date.” He gives you a tight smile, and it’s not Bucky’s normal smile. That goes all the way to his eyes. 

This smile looks pained. Too wide. Too quick, without even a huffed laugh. 

Better not to think about it. 

But that’s all you do.

You go out with Jake, and all you can think about is Bucky.  

Jake has an accent, but it’s a little sharp around the edges compared to Bucky’s drawl. He pays for your meal, but doesn’t open the door for you, like Bucky has always done. He stands with you on the street, but when you tell him you’re walking home, he just asks if you have pepper spray, then calls himself an Uber.

But he’s sweet. 

He laughed at your jokes. He called you pretty. He kept his hands in respectful places, but still touched you. Light fingers on your wrist, a cautious hand on your waist when he kissed your cheek goodnight.

“Can we do this again?” He asks, and something in you panics. 

You’ve never made it past the dinner date. Not to actually do things that might lead to—or kill the chance of—other things. 

“Um, yeah. Yes. That would be nice.” You sound insane. “I would… like that a lot.”

“Great.” Jake grins at you as his car pulls up. “Get home safe, and text me when you’re free?”

“I will.” You give him a nervous smile, pulling at the cuffs of your shirt. “Goodnight, Jake.”

His car pulls away, and you just sway on the curb. 

Too real. This is getting too real, and you don’t know how to handle it. The air feels thin, and your skin is getting hot, and every time a car passes by it’s like the headlights are focused on you. Welcoming everyone to laugh at the girl who gets dizzy over brushing hands and secret smiles. Who’s freaking out because the date she went on might lead to sex, but it’s going to be the wrong sex, with the wrong person, when the right person never even wanted her in the first place.

You should Google how to do this. The dating thing. Maybe ask a friend.

Do anything but call Bucky, because the whole fucking point of this is to get over him. 

It’s like trying to scale Everest with only a thin piece of string.

You need him, because he has a habit of just making it all better. Of saying the right thing, or offering a solution, or making a dry joke that turns the world into something less heavy. 

The phone rings only twice, before he picks up. 

“You alright, doll? Tell me where you are, and I can come and-“

“I’m just walking home, Buck. I’m okay.” You take a deep breath, and Bucky lets out an audible sigh. 

“Good. Did, uh-“ He coughs. “How was it. The thing.”

“It was good.” It was okay. Not you, so just okay. “He wants to go out again.”

“Do you?” 

“Do I-“

“Wanna go out again.” Bucky’s voice is oddly heavy. “With him.”

No. “Yeah. I do.” 

“Okay. Congrats. You callin’ to thank me, or something?”

“No. I mean, yes, thank you, but- There’s another thing. And it’s actually pretty dumb, so-“

Bucky says your name sternly over the phone, and you swallow. 

“I’ve sort of never… I haven’t- I’ve never been on a second date before.” You say it quickly, like the speed can somehow mask what you’re saying. 

Look at how fucking sexy I am, Bucky. I’ve never been on two dates, and I’m having a panic attack about it. Do you want to fuck me now?

“Oh.” Is all he says, and you can’t read that tone. Why the fuck can’t you read that tone. 

It’s not judgment. It’s not disgust. It’s just low and strange and without his face, there’s no way you’re going to be able to figure out what he’s thinking-

“Do you wanna practice?”

You trip over your feet. “I, um- What?”

“Practice,” he says your name gently, and you’re pressing the phone so close to your ear the speaker vibrates with his every word. “Just a trial run. So you know what people do.”

“I know what people do on dates.” You grumble, and Bucky scoffs. “James, I do-“

“Then you don’t need my help, do you?”

You scowl. “Are you actually trying to help? Or just making fun of me.”

Bucky drawls your name. “When have I ever made this kinda fun of you?”

“So incredibly often-“

“I’m being serious, sweetheart.” He says, and you close your mouth. “If you wanna do this, I will.”

Fuck. “To help?” 

“Yeah. Sure.”

You frown at the air, trying to breathe through your nose. A fake date, so you can go on a real date, specifically to get over Bucky. 

He offered. 

It’s a horrible, horrible idea, but Bucky offered. 

So you say yes.

———

“You didn’t have to do this.” You mutter, and Bucky shrugs. 

“Yeah, I did. I’m tryin’ to set your standard high, sweetheart.” He holds out the flowers with a small grin. “Expect nothin’ but the best.”

You smile despite yourself, and the fucking pain he doesn’t even know he’s putting you in. 

Showing up at your doorstep. 

With flowers. And a grin that could maybe move a goddamn mountain, looking at you like he’s seen the sky and you’re the only star in it worth watching. Like you fucking matter to him, in some way more than a friend he’s doing a favor. 

A huge favor.

Goddamnit, there is cruelty to his kindness. 

There’s a price that he won’t have to pay, for what you already know this is going to do to you. 

Bucky took his whole Friday night for this, for you. He seriously planned a date he’s not even going to get sex from, with someone he sees every day. 

You do matter to him. You know you matter to him. 

You’d like to matter enough that he didn’t have to play pretend with you. 

That this was just reality, or that you didn’t care at all. 

There would be nothing bitter to this, if you just didn’t care that he got your favorite flowers. If you hadn’t been buzzing for this all afternoon, only for him to arrive right on time, dressed casually but well and ringing your doorbell as if he doesn’t have a key to your apartment.

Nothing but the best, he says. 

You have it now. 

It’s impossible not to think about it. About the what-ifs. Play all the little games in your head, where you map out exactly how this could go. Paint a picture of you and Bucky kissing in a photo booth, shoot the scene of him putting his arm around your shoulders and whispering a secret in your ear, pull the puppets into holding onto each other in the dark, long after the night is over. 

Most of them run the same story. 

You’ve put more effort into how you look right now than you did on the actual dates. But that’s needed, for you to swing the door open, and for it to properly hit Bucky. There are supposed to be lights and swelling music, flowers and glitter and moon eyes, as he really sees you for the first time. It’s what would set everything in motion. Bucky sees you, falls in love with you—slowly, over the whole night—and then you both laugh about this fifty years on the porch of your shared house.

Instead, you opened the door and Bucky just smiled, and showed you the flowers. If he scanned over your body or felt fireworks, he doesn’t show it. 

He just fucking smiles at you. And continues to be so painfully perfect.

“We should go, I got a whole day planned out for us.”

“Really?” You hold the flowers too tight. You might be about to crush them. 

“Nah, but I want to beat the traffic. C’mon, doll.”

He holds a hand out, and you raise the flowers pathetically. “Um- I have to-“

“Right.” Bucky nods, his hand faltering slightly. “I’ll wait.”

And he does. He waits, still offers you his arm—but not his hand, which is fine, because it’s not a real date so you can’t expect anything at all—and walks you out of the building to his- 

“No bike?” You say, and Bucky shrugs, opening the door to his car.

“I know you don’t like it. Not very high standards of me to put you on a death trap.”

You sigh. “I don’t think they’re death traps, Buck, I just think you’ve had enough injury for one lifetime-“

“And I think I’m maxed out. Someone somewhere had to owe me some luck.” Bucky gives you a firm look as you open your mouth. “I’m not makin’ you ride it, sweetheart.”

You stick your tongue out at him, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky grins. 

“There’s my girl.”

He just closes the door after that. Walks around the hood of the car and hops in the driver’s seat with another small grin. 

As if he didn’t just stop your heart in your fucking chest. 

And he doesn’t stop doing that, all fucking day. 

“I just don’t want you to get hurt.” You mutter a little later, knees propped on the dashboard, and Bucky chuckles. 

“We still on the motorcycle thing?”

“We’re not on it, Bucky, I just don’t think you’re made of steel-“

“You’d be wrong.” He shrugs, fingers tapping on the wheel. “I do so many steroids, I’m basically a superhero at this point.”

“But you’re not.” You mutter, picking at your nails, and he lets out a long sigh. 

Reaches over the console and takes your hand, squeezing it gently with a small grin. 

“Does it help if I say that my security team’s been makin’ me do it less?”

You look up at him, chewing on your lower lip. “They have?”

Bucky nods, glancing at you out of the corner of his eyes before looking back to the road.

“You don’t gotta worry about me, sweetheart. I got people I pay for that.”

You swallow, and it’s a stupid thing to say, but it’s falling from your lips before you can stop it. “Am I allowed to worry about you for free?”

He lets out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. You can do whatever you want with me, doll.”

You flush, looking back out the window. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, is all it is. He’s comfortable with you, he basically sees you as a sister, it’s not even flirting so much as it’s reassurance. A reminder that he’s not going back to the army, that there are people who make sure the Bucky that fell out of a second-story window in college isn’t allowed to make every single choice about what’s safe. 

He’d been drunk. He thought he was Michelangelo, that he’d invented wings. 

He hadn’t.

It’s amazing it took him going to the army to lose an arm. You’ve heard all the stories about him and Steve as kids, and how he was always jumping in front of fists aimed at the scrawny kid who thought heart was a valid way to win a fight. But you have a feeling that—just like after the Michelangelo incident—he’d spend more time making sure Steve was okay than he was. Bucky didn’t think he was invincible. 

He just cared more about how the people around him weren’t. 

Cares more about reassuring you that he will be okay, than trying to argue. You’ve been through enough together of him to know that you might not have valid reason to worry—Bucky’s careful on the bike, but he was careful in the army as well—but he’s still going to tell you it’s okay. 

Dry jokes and teasing only go up to when you’re genuinely worried, because Bucky cares about you. 

That’s why he said that. 

You can do whatever you want with me.

For comfort. 

But there’s no reason for him to keep holding your hand.

Best not to think about it. 

He parks at Coney Island, and you huff a soft laugh. You should have guessed.

“I feel special.” You tell him, as he helps you out of the car—he’s just a boy raised well, it doesn’t mean anything—and he frowns.

“Why’d you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

He opens his mouth, then shakes his head. “Never mind. You got everything?”

You nod, and try not to dwell on how quickly—how certainly—Bucky takes your hand. Not your arm. Your hand.

It shouldn’t make you feel dizzy, just to hold hands. It doesn’t bode well for actually, finally having sex. But you squeeze Bucky’s hand—probably too tight—and he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t give any sign that this is making him feel gooey and kept as well—like you’re melting while being held together all at once—because there’s no reason for it to. 

“You take all your dates here, Barnes?” You joke lightly, trying to remind yourself how to speak, and he just shrugs. 

“Nah.”

You pause. That didn’t sound like a joke. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He keeps looking at the crowd, but squeezes your hand gently.

He doesn’t offer another answer. 

Through the whole day, he only seems to offer more and more questions that make your head spin. 

It’s really impossible not to think about it. Not when Bucky’s right here with you, and he seems to shine brighter than the glare of the sun in your eyes. 

“Why didn’t you bring sunglasses?” Bucky mutters your name while you wait in some line, and you shrug. 

“I didn’t think I’d need them, Buck-“

“We’re at the beach-“

“You didn’t tell me we were going to the beach.”

Bucky pauses. “No. I did.”

“James, you said be ready at 11 and then dress however you want.”

“Oh.” He winces slightly, then gives you a small grin. It’s really impossible to stay mad at him. “Sorry.”

“You sound it.” You grumble—mostly for the show of it—and turn back to face the line. 

Bucky tosses his arm over your shoulders, and it takes a lot of willpower not to let your knees give out. 

He leans down, to whisper in your ear. He might be trying to kill you. 

“I am sorry, doll.” He reaches around to grab your chin, gently guiding your gaze onto his. 

And his eyes are so fucking blue. In the sunlight, it looks like he’s trapped the sky inside of him. 

That’s what being around him feels like, sometimes. His presence covers you, natural but demanding, not trying to be big, but impossible to be smaller. 

Maybe he did trap the sky. 

Maybe you’re just so in love with him it’s making you insane. 

“Bucky.” You whisper, and he grins at you. 

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

“Is this guy botherin’ you?” He nods up to the sun, and you snort, looking away from him with a flush. 

“That’s so stupid-“

“Yeah, but you like it.” He laughs, drawing back up to his full height and—by some small grace—missing the way your breath hitches slightly. “I’ll buy you sunglasses after.”

“No, you don’t have to-“

“I want to.” He guides you forward, another step in the line. “I told you. Nothin’ but the best.”

For you. 

Nothing but the best for you. 

He’s not actually dating you. It’s something you have to remind yourself of, over and over, through the whole day. Bucky would always hold your hand on a roller coaster, because he’s not a guy to just let you be afraid. He’d always pay for your food—he’s got the money—and he knew what to get you because you’re friends. Just friends. 

Going on a fake date. 

Nothing feels fake about it. 

It’s getting hard to remember that it is fake. 

And Bucky’s not really fucking helping. 

“You want the bear, or the- What the hell is that?”

“Pokémon.” You mumble, fidgeting with the cuff of your sleeve. “We’ve talked about them, Bucky. You said they were cute but weird.”

“I was right.” He mutters, hands braced on his hips as he assesses the stuffed prizes. “You want one?”

“You don’t have to-“

“We’ve been over this, sweetheart.” He drawls, giving you a firm look. “Want to.”

You wrinkle your nose. “You suck.”

“Yeah, I’m the worst for winning you a stuffed… turtle?”

“Squirtle.” You sigh. “And, I’d, um- I’d like-“

Bucky smirks. “Take your time, baby.”

“I just want a bear, please.” You blurt it, the baby making your heart kickstart. “Just a bear.”

Bucky nods, looking over to the animals. The bear is the smallest prize. Barely the size of your forearm, skinny and a little scraggly looking. You chose it because he won’t have to try and win it. He was a sniper. He’s got a good arm, and he can use it once to get you the stupid, ugly bear, because this isn’t a real date.

“Alright.” He mutters, pulling out his wallet with an unsettling look of determination in his eyes. “I can get a bear.”

You stand off to the side as he approaches the booth, and realize very quickly the mistake you’ve made. 

There are two bears. Yours is the ugly one. 

And a massive, fluffy one that you’re not sure Bucky is going to be able to carry. The one that requires a perfect score, and sits like a holy grail at the top of the shelf. Pristine. Untouchable. More of a white whale than an actual prize. 

But no one can ever accuse Bucky Barnes of backing down from a challenge he thinks he’ll win. 

And he was a sniper.

“There you go.” He grins at you, chest puffed with pride and eyes sparkling, as he passes the beast into your arms. “Got you the bear, sweetheart.”

You glare at him, and he’s standing so close. The bear is the only thing separating your bodies, and he leans down over its head, leaving your faces only inches apart. 

“I feel like you purposefully misinterpreted my request.” You whisper, and his smile grows. 

“I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

 “James-“

“Maybe I found a loophole.” He shrugs, and before you know what’s happening, he’s pressing a small kiss to the tip of your nose. “But what have I been tellin’ you?”

You swallow, and it takes a second to remember how to speak. “Nothing but the best.”

“Good girl.” 

You just gape at him, leaning slightly forward, but he started it. You can’t be blamed for falling into his gravity, you can’t be blamed for any of this. For the way he’d let you have some of his ice cream, the cleaned off the corner of your lip with his thumb. For the sunglasses on your face sliding too far down your nose, and Bucky pushing them back up all day with a single finger and smile. For the way your hand keeps just attaching to his, because he took yours first. 

And now his eyes flick down for a moment, tongue darting over his lips. 

You can’t be blamed. You’re not thinking about it, the single spot where Bucky’s lips brushed making it impossible to think anything, so you can’t be blamed for whatever’s about to happen- 

Bucky draws up. His hand finds your waist and squeezes, but he clears his throat and looks over your head. 

Back to the crowd. 

Like nothing happened at all. 

“It’s gettin’ late.” He grunts, and his voice is a little rougher than a moment before. “Ready to go?”

You nod, because you’re pretty sure if you open your mouth you’ll whine his name. 

Bucky gives you a slight look of concern, but doesn’t push it. Just takes your hand, and starts to guide you back through the crowd. 

He insists on carrying the bear back to the car, and it hangs in front of him like a massive riot shield. Helping you get through the crowd, allowing your body to press close to his to remain behind it. 

And close to Bucky.

On the ride back he puts his jacket on his lap because it’s getting warm, but still holds your hand in the car. He carries the bear up to your apartment, like the stupid, sweet man he is. 

He refuses to come inside. 

He makes you practice rejecting him three times. 

“Bucky, this is dumb-“

“Nope.” He has his hands on his hips, and a stern look on his face. “That’s not a good rejection. You’re hurtin’ my feelings.”

“You don’t have feelings, you’re a fake scenario man-“

“Ouch. Now you’re really hurin’ them-“

“James.” You glare at him, hugging yourself tight. “There’s no reason for me to do this.”

“Yeah, there is. No puttin’ out on the second date."

You flush. “Bucky-“

“No, I know, you don’t wanna talk about that with me.” He makes a slight face, his voice oddly low. “But anyone who can’t wait for you doesn’t deserve you. So unless you and John are having soulmate sparks, you’re gonna have to reject him.”

“We’re not having-“ You cut yourself off, blinking at him. “Jake. His name is Jake.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare. “Right. I forgot.”

“You introduced us-“

“Are you gettin’ my point?” He says, sounding oddly urgent. “Don’t settle. You’re worth more than that.”

You snort. “Yeah, as evident by my countless suitors.”

Bucky sighs your name, making another strange face. “Just tell me you’ll be careful?”

There’s something real, in his voice. 

But there’s been something real, underlining this whole day.

Best not to think about it. 

“I’ll be careful, Bucky.” You smile at him, and his shoulders slump slightly. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome.” He mutters, watching you carefully. “You have fun?”

“Yeah.” You really did. 

“Good. You, uh-“ He clears his throat, taking a large step back. “You looked real nice. All day. Gorgeous.” He nods to himself, and looks like he’s going to continue.

But he doesn’t. 

He just mumbles a goodnight, and walks away. Leaving you standing in your doorway, swaying slightly as you float in his words. 

Gorgeous.

It’s all you can hear.

And no matter how much you remind yourself not to, you can’t stop thinking about it. Any of it. Bucky’s closeness, and how he smelled a little like mint and rain. His hand in yours, his lips on your nose, his full attention. All yours, without you even having to ask. 

The night passes, so painfully slow. You keep seeing his eyes, just as always, and your fingers wander between your thighs with a sigh of his name. 

It’s nothing new. 

It chases you into the daylight, and through your whole date with Jake. He takes you bowling, and your fingers brush, and he buys you food and sits right next to you, but all you can do is think about it.  

About Bucky, and his lips on your nose. How he’d looked at you. 

If it, any of it, was real. 

If it’s allowed to matter, if it was. 

You try to shove it down. Try to focus on Jake, and bowling, and getting over Bucky.

But you get back to your apartment, tell Jake he can come up after the next date—just like Bucky told you to—and walk through your door to see the bear. 

He didn’t have to do that. Any of it. 

But he did. 

You have another date, next week. Jake is sweet. 

You’ve never felt less over Bucky Barnes in your whole life. 

And you have no idea where to go from here. 

———

You’ve been seeing Jake more and more. Two dates turn into three. Three turns into four. He kisses you for the first time outside your apartment, but you tell him not to come in again. 

Once you cross that barrier, it’s no longer just something fun. Something to kill an afternoon or evening. Jake will kiss you a little harder, and his hands will start to wander, and you’ll have to make a choice. 

Is this how you want it to happen. 

Is Jake who you want it to happen with. 

No.

Because he’s still not Bucky. 

Jake is sweet. You’re repeating it over and over, because it’s sort of all that keeps you answering his texts. Not because there’s anything wrong with him, but because sweet means safe. Sweet means you could probably confess to him that you’ve never really done anything, and he’d treat you well. Be gentle. Not judge. 

But sweet also means there’s not that much edge to your conversations. Sweet means no sparks.

He holds your hand, and it doesn’t fit that well. 

He kisses your cheek, as he brings you drinks from the bar, and it’s just sweet. Nothing more. 

There’s no desire to turn your face, nothing going airy in your head and molten in your lower stomach. You’re relaxed in the booth, legs crossed out of habit, not to try and chase off an aching need. 

“You look pretty.” Jake smiles at you, sliding into the booth. “Like a fairy.”

Gorgeous. “Thank you. Not too bad yourself.” You hold your glass up for him, and he clinks it with a grin. 

“Seriously, you’re like the hottest person here.” He leans closer, lips brushing lightly over yours. “Every guy wishes they were me right now. I can feel them glaring.”

You laugh softly, even as your skin starts to itch. “I think you might be exaggerating.”

“No. I mean, I’m so fucking serious. You got the kinda face that starts a war.” Jake grins, and you feel sort of sticky. Like his compliments, as nice as they are, are hot and tar-like on your skin. “I should go thank Barnes, for letting me take a shot.”

“A shot?” You take a long drink, and Jake laughs. 

“Oh, yeah. He had people lining up to get with you, honey. I don’t know how I got to the front of the queue with him, but I’m glad I did.” He brushes hair out of your face, and you wish he wouldn’t. He’s not great at it, and now it’s sticking to your lips. “How was your day.”

“Alright.” You shrug. “Just a day, except for like, one thing with my boss. How about you?”

“Amazing, now.” He grins. “I might have to go thank Barnes now.”

You flush at just the sound of his name—if Jake says it one more time, you might explode—and take another sip. “I think it’ll have to wait until morning.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Jake sighs. “Don’t want to bother him on his date.”

The drink catches in your throat, coming out in a sputtering cough. “Bucky- What?”

“He’s at the bar.” Jake angles his thumb, frowning. “You okay, baby?”

“Yeah, um- I’m good. Great.” You try to crane your neck around Jake’s sweet face. “Where is he?”

“I dunno, with his girl. You want a napkin.”

“No, I’m- Yes.” You blink at Jake, still looking concerned. “A napkin would be good, please.”

Jake nods, standing back up, and the moment he’s gone you sit on your knees. Scan over the crowded bar with a frantic focus, because Bucky’s not here. He can’t be. He’s allowed to go on dates—you can’t think of one, good reason he wouldn’t be, or at least one that isn’t made of empty claims and a green feeling, festering in your heart—but he didn’t tell you he had one.

He doesn’t have to do that either. But he usually does. So Jake must have just seen some other guy with soft hair, brilliant eyes, and a metal arm.

Or it’s Bucky. 

Standing at the bar with some redhead. Soft hand holding a drink, metal elbow propped on the bar. 

Laughing. 

You feel sick.

It’s not like you didn’t know he gets around. That’s one of the reasons you’ve known you’d never be good enough for him. You’d be a disappointment, compared to the model who’s batting her lashes and biting her lip right now. Who he’s looking at like he’s missed her his whole life. Who says something that makes him throw his head back, and shake his head as he takes another drink. 

You can’t look away from it. From how she touches his shoulder so lightly to how she says something that makes his ears red and head shake. How smoothly their conversation flows between sincerity and joy. 

And you wonder what it looks like when you talk to Bucky. 

If you’re even in a corner of his mind right now, when he’s possessed your every thought for maybe your whole life. 

“Here you go.” Jake returns, holding out the napkins, and you give him a small smile.

“Thanks, babe.”

“No problem. Gotta help my girl.”

He sits back in the booth, and your stomach turns.

“Your girl, huh?” You try to say it casually, even as you taste bile on your tongue. 

Jake seems to buy it. “Yep. I mean,” he winks at you. “Once you let me into that magic apartment of yours.”

Fuck. “Jake, I- I told you I want to take it slow-“

“I know. And I can hold on. I got a hand.”

Your eyes widen. Again, he doesn’t see it. 

“But I’d like to just, like, see where you live.” He gives you a sweet smile. “We can just watch a movie. I’ll make dinner.”

A movie and dinner. Sweet. 

You don’t want to, don’t want to let Jake into your space, don’t want him to start making your blankets and couch cushions smell like him instead of Bucky. 

But Bucky’s at the bar. And he didn’t seem all that worried about wearing the shirt you got him to flirt with his redhead. 

Which is exactly why you have to say yes. 

“Okay.” You smile at Jake, and it feels plastic, but he doesn’t see. He never sees. “Tonight?”

“Right now.” Jake grabs your arm, and you giggle nervously as he pulls you up.

“Wow, we’re eager-“

“I’ve been hoping for this all month, honey. Let’s go.”

You laugh, and try to just feel this. Wanted. If Jake has nothing else for you, at least he wants you. 

But you could swear you feel something prickling on the back of your neck, as he pulls you out the door. And because you can’t help it, you look back to see Bucky and his redhead. 

They’re behind you.

If you’re going to get over him, and his bears and kindness and handsome face, you have to stop looking back. 

Hopefully, one day, you’ll figure out how.

———

He won’t let you. 

Bucky won’t let you stop looking back.

It’s all you thought about that night. With Jake right next to you, his thumb drawing circles on your arm as you watched some movie, you stared at the bear and thought about Bucky at the bar. If he’d win his redhead a bear. If he’d bring her to Coney Island at all. When Jake kissed you goodnight, you wonder if Bucky kisses his redhead this chastely. When you crawled into bed, you made yourself sick with thoughts of what Bucky could be doing right now. If his redhead keeps the dominant aura she had in the bar, and straddles him. Makes him beg. 

If he wouldn’t want you, because you’re not sure you can do that kind of work. You don’t want Bucky to beg. 

You just want him to look at you like you’re the most important thing in the world. To call you good girl again, because that’s been spinning around your head since he said it.

And it wanders between your thighs, with fingers that aren’t rough and big. 

Bucky’s name falls between your lips, as a phantom of his voice just whispers in your ear. 

Good girl. Nothing but the best. Whatever you want. 

He’s torturing you, and he’s not even in the room.

He won’t let you go, even when he doesn’t know you belong to him in the first place. 

You waste the day, shuffling around your apartment and doing busy work. Text with Jake. Do the dishes. Wash your couch cushions, because they smell like smoke and beer now. Call Jake. Get groceries. Schedule a date. 

It all just blurs together, into nothing, right up until Bucky calls. 

You almost drop your phone, trying to pick up. 

This getting over him thing is going fucking great. 

“Hey,” you sound too breathless. You need to calm the fuck down. “Hi, Bucky. What’s up?”

“Nothin’. Just had a question for you.” He pauses. “Now a bad time?”

You glance at your computer, where you’re supposed to be buying tickets to go out with Jake. “No, it’s good.”

“Alright, great.” Bucky sighs. “Look, I wasn’t bein’ creepy, and I’m real sorry about this, but- I saw you. Last night. With Jack.”

“Jake. And yeah.” You swallow. “I saw you with your date.”

“My- Oh, no.” Bucky laughs, and you blink at the air. “That wasn’t my date, she was just an old friend. I’ve told you about Nat, right? She and her sister came over from Russia in high school, she’s been on and off with like, everyone but me.”

“Oh.” Your face might be burning. “Sorry, I, um- I guess I should’ve said hi.”

“Nah, it’s better you didn’t. Not because I wouldn’t want you to,” he adds quickly, because he knows you too fucking well for it to be fair. “But ‘cause I’m the sorry one.”

You frown at the air. “Bucky-“

“You don’t have to say yes. I won’t be hurt if you do. But,” he lets out a heavy sigh. “Nat saw me lookin’ at you. And she figured out who you are, and wanted to meet you. I talked her out of bothering you and Jace, but she sorta doesn’t let up once she wants something. And I know you’re not a huge party person, but I’m having one tonight. Bunch of old friends, all in town for once. At my place cause it’s the biggest. If you wanna come, you’re welcome.” 

Fuck.

This isn’t going to help you stop looking back, but he was looking at you. And his friends want to meet you. And God, he won’t just let you get over him, even when he’s barely doing anything at all.

“Do you… Want me to?” You whisper, and she chuckles.

“Doll, you know I want you here all the time. But my friends are a lot-“

“Okay.” Fuck. “I’ll do it.”

Bucky lets out a long sigh of relief. You can hear the smile in his voice. “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

You look at the computer. The tickets were supposed to be for tomorrow. 

“See you then, Bucky. Do I need to bring anything-“

“Nope. You’re all I need.”

———

You’ve heard a lot about Bucky’s friends. A lot. You know they all grew up together, playing sports and in clubs and going to dances. That almost everyone but Bucky left the city for college—even Steve, heading abroad because he wanted to meet as many people as possible, know everything about the world and do that semester abroad housebuilding that turned him into a tank of a man—but they’ve all kept in close touch. You know all their names. You’ve met a few of them in passing—Steve fully once, when he’d been visiting home for thanksgiving and Bucky had invited you along—but never all of them at once. 

It’s intimidating, to shift on your feet at his door and wait for someone to answer. To pray it’s Bucky, so they don’t ask who the random girl is. 

You have a key to his place. You could just walk in. 

You wait anyway. 

Bucky pulls open the door with a wide grin, then groans your name.

“I told you not to bring anything-“

“It’s just a drink!” You protest, holding it to your chest like a stuffed animal. “Just take it, Bucky-“

“Of course I’m gonna take it.” He reaches out, and your fingers brush as you pass him the bottle. “But I’m payin’ you back for it.”

You sigh. “Bucky-“

He says your name in a teasing tone, grabbing your hand with a wide, carefree grin. 

“Stop standin’ outside like you don’t belong in here. Everyone’s been waiting to meet you.”

You flush, as he pulls you inside. And you’re sure he must be exaggerating, because you can see the slight hint of red on his cheeks that means he’s been drinking. Bucky tends to be dramatic, when he drinks. To lose every filter, and just laugh and say what he thinks. Once he told you he’d be able to pick up a car, and you got to watch him grunt and squat on the curb for twenty minutes, before flopping on the pavement and groaning that they made them heavier.

Nobody’s been waiting for you. You’re barely ever waiting for you. 

Bucky waits for you. He pauses, when you hang up your jacket, still grinning at you in the low light of the hall. 

“What?” You ask, and he shrugs, his hand lingering on your hip. 

The touch is possessive. Like he’s touching you just to touch you.

He doesn’t seem to know he’s doing it.

“You look good.” He hums, taking a large step closer. “You smell good.”

It’s a lot of work, to look him in the eyes when he’s this close. You might drown in them.

“You’re drunk.” You whisper, and his grin just widens.

“Only on you, babydoll.” 

Your eyes widen, mouth falling open, and someone calls Bucky’s name from his living room.

“C’mon,” he moves you right in front of him, your back pressed to his chest, and you lean back to keep gaping at him. “The people are waitin’ for their princess.”

It’s hard to think of anything to say to that. It’s hard to think of anything to say all night. 

Because Bucky stays this close, and his proximity is a drug. 

It doesn’t help that he wasn’t lying. 

Everyone, for some fucking reason, knows exactly who you are. Says your name like they’re greeting an old friend, shakes your hand as if they’re being introduced to the president. And the whole time Bucky just stands right behind you. Laughs and holds your hip and drinks. 

His friends know all about you. Tony asks about your job. Wanda asks about your mom. Clint hands you your favorite snack when he corners you and Bucky, as if it’s something he’d been hoping to do all night. 

Steve gives you a kind smile, and that, at least, is what you expected. 

Sam keeps looking at you as if he’s seen a unicorn. 

“So, this is her, huh?” Sam—with the exact same smirk and annoyingly knowing expression Bucky described him as having—drawls your name. “I was startin’ to think she was made up, Buck. But look at her.” He raises his glass with a grin. “Real!”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but still chuckles. “Y’know, I showed you pictures. And Stevie isn’t that good at photoshop.”

“I alright at photoshop.” Steve frowns. “I made that poster, to help with your campaign.”

“Yeah, and he didn’t use it.” Sam scoffs, giving you a look of amusement. “Did you see that one, kid?”

You swallow. You can be a part of this conversation. 

It’s better than just standing, half in Bucky’s arms, trying to work out why everyone knows so much. 

“Was it the one with the raccoon? And bold letters?”

Sam beams. “You have seen it! Trust the Barnes to keep out animals under control!”

He bursts out laughing as Bucky snorts, and Steve sighs. 

You give him a small smile. “I liked it. I told him to use it, actually.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. I know it wasn’t my best.”

“Yeah, but she thought it was.” Bucky squeezes your hip lightly, and your hand flies to his forearm. “She thought you were a damn genius for that one. When my team shot it down, she took a poster and hung it on her fridge.”

“Really?” Steve grins at you. “Did you like the other one?”

You nod. “The one of Bucky as a ten-year-old, wearing the superhero costume?”

“He’ll protect our streets.” Sam snickers. “I’m tellin’ you, Buck, I only think you won ‘cause you didn’t use that one. Everyone wanted sexy, rugged James as their rep, not cute-kid Bucky.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Stop sayin’ I only won ‘cause I’m hot, Sam-“

“Why? That’s why I voted for you.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He takes another drink, still grinning. “And we did use the superhero one, Wilson.”

“I know, I just try to pretend you didn’t.” Sam sighs, looking at you again. “You got that one on your fridge?”

You flush. You haven’t let go of Bucky’s arm. 

He hasn’t tried to move it. 

“No.” You smile softly. “But his Mom showed me another photo of that costume, and I made a shirt out of it. I wore it to his swearing-in ceremony.”

Bucky groans, but Sam and Steve burst out laughing. 

They like you. 

Bucky’s friends like you, and they’re treating you like you’re actually someone worth knowing. Like you’re not just Bucky’s college friend. 

Even Bucky sort of isn’t treating you like he’s just your college friend. 

He always gets touchy when he’s drunk, as well. But his arm goes around your shoulder, and his lips only brush your neck when he slumps over you. 

Usually. 

Tonight, his hands are almost everywhere. His mouth doesn’t brush you at all, but it’s because he’s standing so tall behind you. So close. His metal arm is wrapped around your stomach, after a few more drinks. You can feel every bit of muscle, every rise and fall of his chest. Almost his heartbeat, if you turn your head just right. 

It’s too much. You feel like you’re being teased, like he’s pulling you apart just for fun when you’re about to lose your fucking mind. 

You need air. You to need not get lost in him, because he’s just drunk, and this means everything to you, but he’ll forget in the morning. 

When you twist out of his hold to go to the bathroom, he lets you. But his arm reaches out, holding your hand until you’re all the way out of reach. 

You need to learn not to look back. 

It’s not going that well. 

The bathroom is a small reprieve. You breathe, and fix your hair, and glare at yourself in the mirror. It’s just nothing. You’re his friend, and he’s introducing you to everyone, which is why he hasn’t left your side all night despite seeing you almost every day. He’s drunk, which is why he’s so touchy. He’s not thinking about this—about what he’s doing to you—so you shouldn’t think about it either.

You have Jake. And a date with him tomorrow, and he’s actually kissing you and going out with you, instead of just being weird.

Think about Jake.

You barely make it a foot out of the bathroom, before someone is saying your name, and it’s impossible to think about Jake. 

The redhead from the bar—Nat, Bucky called her—is grinning at you from the shadows. 

“Wow, you’re even more out of his league up close.”

You blink. “What?”

“Nothing.” Her voice is smooth, like honey. 

Bucky said they’ve never slept together. You have no right to care if they do. 

But she’s looking at you like she’s sizing you up. Like you’re her prey, and she’s debating whether it’s even worth eating you at all. 

“I’m Natasha.” She hums, and you swallow.

“I know. Bucky, um- He told me.”

She nods. You’re not sure she ever blinks. “How was the rest of your date?” 

“It was okay. How were your drinks?”

Her lips twitch. “Good. The guy you were with. Cute. Jacob?”

“Just Jake.” You mumble. “And, yeah. He’s sweet.”

She nods again. “Do you love him?” 

“I- I don’t-“ Because you can never fucking help it, your eyes flick to the end of the hall. To where Bucky is waiting, somewhere back in the crowd. “I don’t know, we’ve only been together for like, a month-“

“Oh.” Natasha nods, and she looks like she’s solving a puzzle you can’t even see. “That makes sense.”

“It does?” 

“Yep.” She smiles at you. “That’s when Bucky started acting like a kicked puppy.” She laughs to herself, and before you can even process that, she keeps talking. “You know, I was there. When he woke up after the incident. It was me and Steve, the two people he’s known the longest. And you know who he asked for first?”

You shake your head, and her eyes glitter. 

“No, you do.” She touches your arm gently, starting to walk past you, back into the hall. “Think about it.”

Then, she’s gone. 

You almost glide through the party. Back to Bucky’s side. 

You’re not supposed to think about it.

You can’t stop thinking about it. 

None of this was a good idea, because you can’t stop thinking about it. Not when Bucky’s whole face seems to light up at the sight of you, and he pulls you right back into his side. Not through the whole night, as he almost shows you off to his friends. Talks you up while holding you like you’ve seen him hold kittens and expensive, first-edition Lord of the Rings books. 

When you see Nat again—Bucky introducing you with a proud grin and long speech about how good you are at your job—she just smiles at you, and engages in a normal, non-cryptic conversation. 

Like she knows she’s done her job. Done it too well. 

The crowd eventually thins, until it’s only you and Bucky left, and you’re never going to be able to think about anything else again. 

Bucky pulls you out onto his fire escape, and pouts when you take the drink out of his hands.

“I don’t want you trying to fly, Buck.” You murmur, dropping in on the windowsill, and he grins.

“You care about me.”

“Of course I care about you. Bucky-“ You squeak as he pulls you into a tight, almost suffocating hug. “Bucky, what’s wrong-“

“Nothin’.” He mutters, pressing his face to the top of your head. “You smell nice. Glad you came.”

“Of course I came. You asked me to.”

“Yeah, but I was thinkin’ you’d be busy. With Jake.”

You laugh slightly, but it’s more out of confusion than anything else. You don’t understand why he’s saying Jake like that. As if it’s a curse. 

“Or work.” Bucky’s still muttering to himself, and he pulls back suddenly. “How’s your boss. Is he still givin’ you shit? Cause I can bring a bill to the floor that no one should be mean to you. Ever.”

“I- I don’t think that would make it to the floor, Bucky.” 

“It could. I’d make it.” He leans back down, pressing his face into your neck. “I’d just have to show them how pretty you are, and they’d all be goin’ that’s a good idea, Barnes. No one should be mean to her.”

“Okay. C’mon.” You slowly guide him down, until you’re sitting on the stairs. “Bucky, how much did you drink?”

“Normal amount.” He shrugs, leaning back from your neck, but not fully. 

Your noses are still bumping. 

His breath is warm on your face, and his hand is pressed on your thigh. Not trying to start anything, but lighting you on fire. 

Just seeming to hold you, for the sake of holding you. 

“You’re so beautiful.” Bucky murmurs, and you swallow. 

“Bucky…” 

“I know.” He sighs, dropping his brow against yours. “Too late. ‘M too late.”

“I-“

“But you are beautiful.” He reaches up, lightly tracing your cheeks, and your mouth falls open. “I think you could end every war. If they saw you smile. So,” he yawns, arms falling around you as his eyes flutter. “Remember that.”

Bucky passes out in your arms, half folded over your lap and holding you tight. 

And you’re never going to be able to forget it. 

You just sit here, for a while. Run your fingers through Bucky’s hair. Listen to the horns on the streets below, watch the flashing lights of the city.

Think about it, Natasha seems to whisper in your ear. Do you love him. 

You don’t love Jake. That’s never even really been on the table. 

But this man, in front of you, looking at you like you’re all the stars in the sky, yet still just the brightest one that guides him home, is so easy to love. He’s all you’ve ever wanted. 

This, right here, is all you’ve ever fucking wanted. 

And it’s still not even yours. 

———

You break it off with Jake quietly. 

A nice dinner. You pay, because there’s a worm of guilt, eating at your gut for how you treated him. He’s a nice guy, really, but he’s not Bucky. And that’s not his fault. 

No one can be. 

“It’s because of Barnes, isn’t it.” He says as you wait for his cab outside, and you freeze. 

“I, um- I don’t-“

“It’s okay.” He gives you a small smile. “I mean, that’s why I was so shocked he even asked. I remember him showing us all your photos, during our tour. I thought that with everything, he’d go back and marry you or something.” Jake chuckles. “Then he’s asking me if I want to take you out, and I thought he was going to give himself a fucking stroke. I counted myself lucky just to have the chance.”

You swallow, your voice soft. “The chance?”

Jake nods, eyes fixed on yours. “To take what Barnes is too much of a pussy to grab, when it’s right damn in front of him.”

“Bucky’s not-“

“Yeah, he is. But it’s alright.” Jake shrugs, hands in his pocket. “You sorta are, too.”

He leaves you gaping on the road, and you’re not even sure if he was trying to hurt you. He didn’t say that like he was. He said it—just like everything else—sweetly. 

But it still stings. 

Mostly because he’s right. 

You’re a coward. 

You never told him you were in love with him. Not in college. Not when he got shipped out. Not when he came back, or when he struggled to readjust, or when he ran for office and won. You’re always just there, and you can never bring yourself to leave. 

But you can’t bring yourself to change, either. 

You don’t tell Bucky you broke up with Jake. You don’t ask him what he meant on the balcony. You don’t do anything but think about it, and keep going to lunch like nothing happened at all. His secretary glares at you, and you smile. You give Bucky the same sandwich as always, sit in the same chair, and bask in his attention. 

“Hey, uh-“ Bucky clears his throat, frowning at his sandwich. “How’s it goin’? With Jake.”

You laugh softly, and Bucky gives you a confused look. 

“That… Uh- Good?”

“No. It’s just funny you only remember his name after we’ve broken up.”

He freezes, and a little bit of lettuce falls out of his mouth. “You broke up? Did- He didn’t fuckin’-“

“I broke up with him.” You give Bucky a small smile. “Down, boy.”

“Yeah, alright.” He slumps in his chair, still watching you carefully. “Was he not treatin’ you right?”

“No, he was fine. I just, um-“ I’m in love with you, and that made it impossible. “I wasn’t ready, yet.”

You’re not sure you ever will be. 

Jake was right. You’re a fucking coward. 

And Bucky is just sitting there. Frowning at you, silent and watchful. You raise your brows at him in a silent challenge, and he sets down his sandwich with a sigh. 

“You’re just not a big relationship person, huh.” He wipes his chin with his sleeve, and you frown. 

“No, I just- No. And, James-“ You reach up, pulling his arm away. “Don’t do that, it’s a nice shirt.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He drops his arm, still watching you. “And it’s okay if you aren’t. Was just wondering, ‘cause, well.” His brow draws slightly. “I mean, I’ve known you forever, and you only ever do the one-night thing.”

“I…” You blink at him, his words slow to sink in, and sudden to hit. “I what?”

“Nothin’ wrong with that either!” Bucky sits up, voice slightly panicked. “Men do it all the time-“

“You do it, Bucky-“

He snorts. “Sweetheart, I haven’t done it since college. That’s just- Not what I’m lookin’ for.”

The world is spinning too fast. 

You don’t have time to stop the words from falling out of your mouth.

“What are you looking for?”

Bucky makes a low sound of amusement. “Something serious.” 

“Oh.” You look down to your fingers. It’s too hard to look him in the eyes. “That’s- I didn’t know that.”

“You never asked.”

He says it so simply. Like it’s something you should have known about, when he never shared it. When he’s the one who said about you-

“I haven’t done it ever, Bucky.” You mumble, picking at your nails, and he grunts. 

“Well, you tried with Jake-“

“No.” You shake your head, still looking down. “I haven’t done one-nights. I- I haven’t done anything.”

Bucky’s silent. And it’s not a big deal. Just another conversation between best friends. Some honestly, that you’re used to sharing so freely with him. Nothing at all. 

But his voice is hoarse, when he speaks. And you don’t have to look up to know how he’s watching you. 

With pure, hot, undivided attention. 

“Anything?” He echoes. “Like… One-nights?”

“Or two nights.” You mumble. “Or- Afternoons. Or anything.”

Bucky coughs. “What about, uh- Parties-“

“Nothing, Bucky. I’ve never-“

“Anything.” He finishes, and you nod. 

It starts to spill out, before you can stop it. 

“I just- I was trying to find someone. That’s why I asked. I wanted to get it over with, get someone to take care of it, and I trusted you.”

“You trusted me.” Bucky rasps, and your nails dig into your palms.

“Yeah. I did. I knew you’d give me someone, um- Good.”

“Someone good.” He echoes. “Cause you’ve never had anyone. And you trusted me.”

You nod, and Bucky continues.

“To find you someone to sleep with? Or date and sleep with.”

“Both.” You flush. “I, um- I wanted it to mean something, I think.”

Another moment of silence. “And you trusted me.”

“I trust you, Bucky, I don’t know why that’s something you’re- It’s not that big a deal-“

“No, it’s not. Plenty of people are virgins, doll-“

“Don’t- Bucky, you don’t have to-“

“I’m tryin’ to understand why you didn’t just ask me.”

Your heart stumbles. Flips inside out, then back again. Your gaze shoots up, because you have to see if he’s joking, but he’s not. You’ve never seen Bucky look more serious in his life.

“What?” You whisper, and his throat bobs. 

“Just date me,” he says your name softly. “I’ve been in love with you forever, I’ve fuckin’ hated having to set you up and just- Not care, but- Just date me. You trust me, and if you’re just looking for someone to take care of it I can, but- Me.” He leans forward, and you’re not sure you’re breathing. “Date me. We can’t forget this forever if you don’t wanna, but- I want to. Please.” He says your name, voice low and rough. “I want to, so bad. Just be with me.”

For once, you can’t think. You can only look at Bucky, and try to work out if this is real. 

It must be. You can feel the heat. The electricity. Smell Bucky’s cologne.  

It’s real. 

“When?” Your question is only a breath, and he lets out a humorless laugh. 

“First time I saw you.”

“Same.”

Bucky blinks, then his eyes widen. “Are you-“

“Are you?”

“Yeah, I- Of course I am-“

“Then yes.”

His face splits into a wide grin. “Yes?”

You nod slowly, and say the only thing you ever could. “Yes.”

———

“Relax.” He mutters, and your fingers dig into his scalp. 

You can’t relax. You’ve spent too many nights dreaming of this, too many lovely dates and days of flowers waiting for it, too much time planning it out to the last detail, and-

Bucky kisses a soft spot on your neck, his tongue flicking over sensitive skin. You pull on his hair with a soft gasp, and he groans. 

“Relax, babydoll-“

“Can’t.” You gasp, back arching off the bed. 

His hand has found a comfortable home, right between your legs. His metal palm is resting right over you cunt, rubbing back and forth until you’re soaked through your panties. Your head is spinning. Bucky’s bare-chested and powerful above you, and he promised tonight, so there’s not fucking way you’re going to be able to relax. 

Because he made you wait. 

Bucky kissed you stupid in his office—made a whole show out of it, when he walked you out—and spent three weeks taking you out and promising soon. 

That if you wanted it to mean something, he couldn’t rush it. 

Only the best, for my girl.

You’ve pouted at him. Whined that as long as it’s Bucky, touching you and pulling you apart, that’s it. All you want. 

But he held onto his romantic night idea. Kissed your cheek and lips and neck, did everything but what you’d been waiting so fucking long for. 

And now you’re lying on his bed. And his hand is between your legs. 

He can tell you to relax all he fucking wants, there’s no way you’re going to be able to- 

Bucky murmurs your name in your ear, voice low and commanding. “I’m tellin’ you, relax.”

You twist to glare at him. “I’m telling you, James, I-“

He shoves your panties aside, thumb circling around your clit and one broad finger sliding into your cunt. 

Your mouth falls open in a shameless moan, and he captures the sound in a sloppy kiss. 

“So wet.” He mutters against your lips, and you spread your legs wider with a whine. “And needy. Sweet girl, you got somethin’ you want?”

“Yes.” You roll your hips, trying to fuck yourself on his finger. “You, Bucky, want- Want you-“

“You got me.” Another, softer kiss. “Always got me, doll.”

He starts to pump his finger in and out, at a slow torturous pace. His thumb still doesn’t fully hit your clit, but he moves slightly back on his knees. Attaches his mouth to one of your nipples, sucking and flicking his tongue as a second finger slides in. Your breathing starts to come shorter and shorter, and you’re shamelessly grinding onto his hand. 

The softer one—the one that had been tracing your lips, then holding your waist—slides over your abdomen and pins you down. Bucky sits fully back on his knees, giving you a stern look. 

“You gotta re-“

“Don’t-“ You whine, writhing in the sheets as his finger stills inside of you. “Don’t tell me to relax, Bucky- I- I need it, you know I need it, please-“

You’re on the brink of tears, but you’re on fire. Every nerve is lit up, you’re already molten putty for him to play with, you need him. He knows you need him. 

And there’s love in his eyes. Real, deep love that you’re falling into like crashing through the stars. It’s shining, as you pout up at him and try to squirm below him. 

So much love. 

Not an ounce of sympathy. 

“Hold still.” He warns softly, thumb resuming it’s slow circles, and you flutter around his fingers. “Baby, we talked about this, I can do it how you want, or-“

“How I want.” You force yourself to stop moving, but god, it’s hard. 

But so is Bucky. You can see the outline of him, pressing through his sweats. Making your mouth water, and pussy clench again. 

Bucky raises his brows, and you flush.

“That- that one was a mistake-“

“Hm.” He just keeps looking at you. Like you’re something beautiful. 

Some artwork, that he’s entirely ready to ruin.

But still, his voice becomes a little softer. “Sweetheart, if you’re not ready-“

“I’m ready.” You wrap your arms around your stomach, giving him a pleading look. “Please. I’m ready, I- I want all of it. You.”

He hums. “And I told you-“

“I know. I still want it-“

“Yeah, you want it.” He sighs, thumb finally pressing right over your clit. A high, strangled whimper leaves your throat, but you somehow manage to keep still. 

“Bucky-“

“You want it hard.” He drawls, tracing the hand on your stomach up your sides. You shiver, and he smirks. “But you’re so sensitive, babydoll.”

“But, that-“ You flush, gaping up at him a little uselessly. “That’s good, right?”

He chuckles. “For me. But sweet girl, you’re walkin’ a big walk,” he leans down, letting his lips brush over yours. “For someone who can’t even take my fingers in her pretty little pussy.”

You gasp, and he presses the thumb on your clit a little harder.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” His eyes are dark on yours, voice low. “You don’t want me to fuck you like you get all pretty when I say I’m going to fuck you. That I’m so hard for you it’s hurtin’?”

“Oh- Oh my god.” Your hands shoot up to grab his shoulders, and his fingers start to pump again. 

“There she is.” He trails soft kisses on your neck, even as his fingers hit a pace that’s like a drill. “Yeah, keep singin’, doll. It feel good?”

You nod, back arching off the mattress. “So- So good, Bucky, yes-“

“You think you can take my cock?” He hums and you squeak. 

It’s one thing to dream about it. One thing to imagine it, over and over. 

Another to feel it. Hear him. Have his metal fingers moving inside you, hitting a deep spot while his thumb plays with your clit. 

It’s a new kind of high. A vulnerable, nervous, embarrassing high. 

And Bucky isn’t having it. He leans up, fingers never breaking pace, and grabs your gaze. Forces your hooded, glazed eyes onto his sharp, darkened ones. 

“Answer me, pretty girl.” 

You make an incoherent sound, and he picks up his pace. 

“With words.”

“I- I can-“ Your words fall into a moan, as he starts to rub inside of you. “I can take it-“

“Good girl.” Bucky pulls out his fingers, and laughs softly when you whine at the loss. “Babydoll, if you’re coming, it’s on my cock.”

Oh. 

 You can live with that. 

Bucky rises back up on his knees. Pulls himself out of his sweats slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. And he’s big. Bigger than you thought, even with the size of his bulge in the jeans. You swallow, wrapping your arms around your body, but he just laughs softly.  

“No.” He strokes himself slowly, moving your arms to be pinned over your head. “Keep lookin’ at me, sweet girl. Wanna watch you feel it.”

You nod weakly, and you couldn’t look away if you tried. He’s got you exactly where he wants you. 

Exactly where you want to be. 

Bucky slides his cock between the soaked lips of your pussy, the head of him bumping your clit. You make soft sounds with every wet sound and touch, but he doesn’t hurry up. Just watches you with that darkened affection, cooing your name when you start to whimper. 

“Even that feelin’ like too much, doll?”

“I- I just- Oh.” You moan as he slaps his cock against you, a pleasurable little shudder racking your body. “Bucky-“

“That’s my name.” He murmurs, watching himself rub against you. “Save it for when I’m fuckin’ you, pretty baby.”

He has to stop the pet names, the teasing, the low, taunting voice. It’s making you fucking dizzy, which isn’t fucking fair. You’re already wound so tight. Every already feels so good it’s like you’re about to fly out of your body.  

“Can- Can you please just-“ You take a ragged breath as he bumps over your entrance. “I need it, I need it, Bucky, I can’t take it-“

“Shh.” He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, and you might have been about to cry. “Can you relax for me, my sweet girl?”

You nod, and it’s not like you have much of a choice. Not when Bucky keeps kissing you so gently, and you go limp as he notches himself against your cunt.

“Breathe.” He mutters, and you obey blindly. 

It was a good order. 

All the air is knocked from your lungs as Bucky slides home. 

You can feel him everywhere. The hardness, the perfect stretch that makes those tears start to fall, the pure fucking glory of Bucky Barnes, bottoming out so deep inside of you he might be in your throat. You make a strangled plea of his name, and he kisses you all over your face, still inside of you. 

“It’s okay, doll, takes some time.” He kisses the corner of your mouth with a smile, and you wrap your arms around his neck. 

You hadn’t even realized he let your wrists go. You just want to be closer. 

And slowly, the pain of the intrusion starts to morph. Turns into white-hot pleasure, from the sensation of fullness. From the hunger for more. 

“Bucky.” You mumble in his ear, wiggling slightly below him. “Move, please.”

He rises up, attention still soft. “Yeah?”

You nod, and he lets out a heavy breath. Leans down to kiss you so lovingly, you almost forget that he’s buried deep in your pussy. 

Almost. 

Then he starts to move. 

Bucky starts slow. Holding you like glass, pulling out then slowly driving back in. Making you feel all of it. The drag of his cock, the heat of his lips all over your skin, the press of his balls against your ass. His hands wander shamelessly, seemingly focused on feeling as much of you as possible. 

“Feel so good, sweet girl.” He drawls as he palms your breasts, kneads your hips, rubs at your waist. “So fuckin’ tight and warm, dripping on my cock. So good.”

It’s all making you lightheaded, and building the heat in your core, but it’s so gentle. You can feel the tension in his shoulders, as he holds himself back. 

“Oh, fuck.” He mutters, squeezing your ass as he angles it a little up. Hits a little deeper.

You squeak, nails digging into his shoulders, and Bucky chuckles. 

“Yeah, that’s it, babydoll. Takin’ this cock so well.” He kisses you, deep and heavy. “So fuckin’ pretty. My best girl.”

The praise goes right to your head and cunt. 

Suddenly, it’s not enough. 

“Bucky.” You mumble, tugging at his hair for attention. 

He draws up quickly, concern all over his face. “What, what’s wrong-“

“Not enough.” You grab his hand, holding it to his chest and grinding into his cock. “More. Please.”

It takes him a second to get it. 

You can see the exact moment he does. 

“Goddamnit.” He rasps, hips jerking slightly. “You- Sweetheart, I don’t wanna-“

“Please.” You repeat, giving him your best, poutiest look. “Harder, Bucky. I- I need it.”

He blinks at you slowly, then nods. 

He’s the one who said whatever you want. And this is what you fucking want. 

There’s one more, soft kiss. A reminder, that this is still something sacred. Then Bucky draws up, one hand lightly resting on your waist, and draws almost fully out. 

You don’t get to even register what’s happening before he’s slamming back in, and the loudest moan you’ve ever heard falls from your lips. 

Bucky’s eyes flash, and he repeats the motion. You look up at him in a cockdrunk gaze, and for once, you’re not thinking about anything. 

It feels too good to think. Bucky’s too much to think. 

And he’s looking at you like he’s found heaven. His hand on your waist tight enough to leave a bruise, the other one pinning your hip to the bed. 

“Good?” He rasps out, and you nod.

There are only two words you remember. 

Bucky. 

More. 

And you don’t even have to beg for them, because he gives them to you both at once. 

Bucky leans down, kissing you with teeth and spit and want, then starts to fuck you like a man possessed. 

It’s fucking paradise. He pounds into your cunt until it’s aching and on fire, everything in your body dangling right over the edge of some great fall. He grunts with every thrust, skin slapping against skin and the bed creaking. His kisses start to roam, but remain open-mouthed and starved. 

It’s too much. It’s not enough. You reach up for him, and he grabs your hands and puts them back over your head. You call his name in a broken, heady plea, and he just makes an animalistic noise and fucks you hard. 

“Bucky-“ He hits that deep, sensitive spot inside of you, and you moan. “Bucky-“

He groans your name, and he looks like a god above you. Sculpted chest and massive arms, handsome face slack with his own pleasure, eyes fixed on you with such reverence and disrespect. The black and gold of his arm shines in the dark. Every time he kisses your cervix, you flutter around him, and he makes the most sinful sound you’ve ever heard.

Bucky’s thrusts start to grow a little less measured, and you’re all but a broken, fucked out mess below him. So impossibly sensitive to every touch—even just his thumb, rubbing small circles on your wrist—yet unable to find that release. 

A low, desperate sound rumbles through Bucky’s chest, and he’s rutting into you so fast you’re reduced to nothing but a slack mess below him. He slides in and out without resistance, you can feel your arousal dripping down onto your ass, and you’re so close- 

“Let go, babydoll.” He grunts, spitting onto his free fingers and starting to rub your swollen clit. “C’mon, cum for me-“

You see white, when your orgasm hits, and you scream his name so loud your voice goes hoarse. 

Bucky makes a feral noise of your name, as he keeps fucking you through it. And you’re barely floating down when he pulls out, slaps your clit with his cock, and cums all over your stomach. Sticky and possessive and hot.

So fucking hot.

A soft breath escapes your lips, and Bucky reaches down with a gentle hand. Brushes your hair out of your face, and kisses the tip of your nose. 

“That it?” He murmurs, and you know he’s already thinking about the after. All the cleaning he told you he’d take care of, because he just wanted you to worry about feeling good. 

He’s so fucking perfect, it makes you giggle. 

Bucky frowns. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing.” You hum, pulling him down into a long, safe, certain kiss. “That was it.”

“Anywhere is fine with me.” You peer out of the side of your eye as you mull over a secluded spot you can bring him to interview him. He’s in his full regalia – blue suit, red shorts, cape. The whole ordeal. 

“I imagine privacy is the best,” you muse out loud, “but I don’t have an office – we work in a shared space.” Your tone is apologetic as you begin walking. “My apartment is near here, though, if you don’t mind.” You send him another smile, inwardly cringing as you do. You need to get your nerves out of the way. 

“If that’s where you think is best, lead the way,” he says, gesturing forward while leaning down to collect your bag. 

“Oh! You don’t have to do that, I can carry it!” You try to take the overstuffed tote from him but he simply shakes his head, knocking a curl loose onto his forehead. The way it falls, nearly brushing his eyebrow but not quiet, makes something in the back of your mind ring with familiarity. You brush it off, sure you’ve just watched too much footage of him. 

As you walk him the five minutes to your apartment, you start chatting happily, filling the silence as you always tend to do. 

“I actually had to twist Clark’s leg. He’s protective about his interviews with you, you know. I actually asked him where I should meet you, trying to figure out where would be the best to have a quiet conversation, but he wasn’t any help. Anyway, my apartment is small but it should work fine. Plus, nobody would be there to interrupt.”

“He brought up me talking to you a bit ago, actually, saying you write more humanitarian pieces? Less gossip or news, more think-pieces?” He sounds genuinely interested, large hands adjusting where they hold your bag with both hands in front of him. He looks a little silly, holding your frayed bag like that, walking around in his tall boots. The cape honest-to-god flutters behind him as he walks. 

“I do! Well, it’s what I like to do anyway. The Daily Planet doesn’t post them regularly, though, only when I have something really good to present.” You shrug, happy you get the chance to write for a living at all. “We’re turning here. Anyway, I like investigative journalism, of course, but something about writing about people, the human experience, and really just digging into a subject outside of the general norm of the news is always my favorite.”

A hand brushes your shoulder as you both cross a street and make a turn, adjusting you to walk closer to the buildings, Superman by the street. The thoughtless gesture makes that same chime of familiarity hums, running down your back to the base of your spine. It’s the sort of thing Clark does all of the time. He’s always pressing a hand to your back or shoulder to guide you along, swapping places to be closer to the road, covering corners as you pass them due to your habit of bumping them, and tugging you away from the fray of people so you don’t get trampled. 

You smile privately to yourself at the thought. Superman and Clark sharing the same simple, thoughtless, and incredibly endearing way of watching out for the people around them makes sense in a way. While Clark is just a lowly civilian like you, only in the fray of danger in the sense of offending some higher-up subject of a scandalous article, he’s always felt good in the same way the heroes do. 

You shake your head once to yourself, aware you’ve stopped talking and Superman is talking. 

“And that’s a really good thing, I think, wanting to know people for who they are beyond what they do. Sometimes the why is more important than the what, in some ways.”

“Oh, I completely agree.” You jump into your favorite article you wrote – a think piece analyzing Metropilis culture, structured by an interview with an older woman who’d lived in the city her entire life, creating a grand scope of how the city has breathed and grown like a living thing as the years passed. 

You lead him up the narrow staircase to your apartment, biting a grin at how he has to run slightly sideways to fit in the cramped hallway, and jiggle your keys in the door. “Sorry, it takes the perfect mix of jiggling the lock and bumping the door to - ah ha! - get it open.”

You talk inside, letting the hero trail behind you, ignoring how adrenaline thrums in your veins. It makes your neck warm and heavy with the pulse of blood from your rapidly beating heart. It doesn’t help whatsoever that you’re incredibly aware that he can hear how nervous you are by your heart rate, so you busy yourself with your kettle. 

“I’m making a pot of tea, if you want some. Please make yourself at home, I’ll be ready in just a minute – promise!”

Superman strolls around your small two-bedroom with an interest that makes you self-concious. You make an effort to not say the cliche it’s not much! comment, instead busing yourself with the kettle and picking a tea. You wonder if he has a preference as you pull down your favorite. 

If he does, bully for him, you need the calming relief of sipping something familiar and safe as you tackle the biggest interview you’ve ever had. 

You also repeat the mantra I love my home decor, I love my home decor over and over as he runs a finger across the books in your shelves and eyes the art on your wall. 

“Okay!” You announce, setting the electric kettle to heat and turning to open your laptop on the counter. You hold up your recording device and give it a small shake. “Make yourself comfy, I’m ready whenever you are!”

The interview goes smoothly, any small hiccups easily overcome as you settle into your favorite version of yourself – fully at ease as you slip into a sense of worn confidence as you ask your prepared questions. This is what you’re good at, what you’ve been doing for coming on ten years, your craft and passion. You love interviewing, talking to people, taking a list of initial questions and deciding on the fly where you need to dig and where you need to breeze past. The story flows easily, you catch the grooves of conversation and follow them to the trail of a story. 

The life Superman paints for you is idyllic – a rural upbringing with parents he adores and adore him, unknown biological parents who sent him to Earth to do good. A sense of responsibility – ‘If I have these powers, this ability, this purpose I was sent to Earth to fufil, and I sit by and do nothing, well, that makes me the worst kind of person, doesn’t it?’

You slowly become endeared to him as the interview progresses, a sort of comfort only gained by spending time with a truly good person. It reminds you of Clark again (a habit you regretfully admit you have, linking life to him in your mind). 

“Okay, I think I have what I need, thank you so much Superman!” You nod at him, wait a second, and turn off the recording. 

The second the formal process of the interview is over, the anxiety of sharing a space with the Superman resurfaces. You pick up your long-cold tea between two hands and send him a small smile. 

“I can find a way to send you the piece before it publishes, if you’d like. I can’t say I’ll edit for you, journalistic integrety and such, but as a thank you for your time and willingness.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”

You send him a soft smile, sip your tea, and grimace. You turn to your microwave to warm it, fingers tapping on your countertop. 

You’re trying to think of another way to politely tell him you have what you need, certain there are many other places Superman needs to be other than sitting at a barstool in your kitchen, when he speaks. 

“I am curious, though, if you don’t mind me asking.” His voice is all timber, taking on a quality you can’t quite place. It’s nearly nervous, actually, but you brush off that possibility. What could you know that would make Superman nervous?

“Oh! Of course, what’s up?”

“Are you seeing anyone?” You cough, loudly, face flooding with heat. You’ll kill yourself later for how many times you’ve blushed in front of this man, you’re sure, but you’re so bewildered.

“What?”

“No, no that came out wrong, oh gosh.”

“Sorry, Superman, not that you’re not,” you gesture wildly, “but I don’t – I’m,” you’re lost, bumbling. If Superman asks you to sleep with him, you have to say yes, right?

Isn’t it against some sort of ethics code to sleep with a subject while in process of writing about them?

Why are you second thinking the possibility of sleeping with Superman? Why are you going this way at all with your thoughts? 

“No, no, I’m sorry, that’s not the question I wanted to ask. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, sorry, you stunned me a little.” You return to heating up your tea as you ask, “What question did you want to ask, then?”

“Well, Clark. You know him well?”

“Yeah! Yeah, really good guy.” You spin on your heel to nod empathetically at him. You 100% don’t mind buttering up Clark for Superman, wholly grateful to him for getting him this interview. You’re not sure how his initial question relates to this one, though, sure he’s trying to find a seque into leaving as soon as possible.

You’re wholly and utterly confused and baffled by where this conversation has ended up, blinking rapidly at your microwave.

“You really seem to light up when you talk about him.” Superman’s head tilts, violently blue eyes piercing into you. “I noticed, earlier, anyway. I agree, he’s a good guy.”

You stand, frozen on your feet. The microwave beeps and you ignore it. After a second, your head tilts, in a mimic of his. This is where he was going, you guess. Heat floods through your body now, a full on flush head to toes. “Are you … sorry, I just. Are you trying to set me and Clark up?”

You’re confounded by the situation. Off balance, unsure if you would ever dream of this happening. You decide, no, this is far too ridiculous for you to think of, so it must be reality. More reasonable than Superman trying to sleep with you, you suppose, but still such an odd situation to end up in.

You start to giggle, watching the way Superman fidgets before crossing his arms and leaning back on his stool. The legs creak under his weight and he sends you an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry, don’t want to intrude.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” you wave him off, snickering. You retrieve your tea and sip it. “Are you thinking of starting a new career as a matchmaker, or something?”

“Or something,” he mumbles, obviously embarrassed at being caught so easily. “I imagined that would come out a little smoother, I’m sorry.”

You shake off his apology again. Your heart is pounding again, under the amusement, as another thought comes to mind. “Did, uh, did Clark ask you to ask?”

“Do you want him to have asked me to ask?”

“This is starting to feel like a really bad riddle,” you say, chewing the inside of your lip. The answer is yes, of course. The thought of Clark asking Superman to try and guage your feelings about him sends a sort of nervous thrill through your body. 

Your handsome, kind, sort-of perfect coworker turned close friend showing interest? Never would ever be a bad thing. 

“I think I have my answer. Thank you,” he says, standing and saying your name as he offers you his hand. You swear you can see a sort of pink tinge to his cheeks. “Please let Clark know when you’re done with your piece, I’m looking forward to reading it.”

“Yes! Yes, of course, thank you so so much,” you say, shaking his hand enthusiastically and bouncing from the awkwardness of the past few moments in an effort to return to trying your best to make a good impression on him. “Please let me know if you ever want to meet up again, I’m always happy to interview you.”

“How’d it go?” Clark asks, voice by your ear. You don’t even jump, used ot his attempts to sneak up on your while you write at work. 

You lift your hand, waiting for him to place something in your palm. He does, of course, and you’re pleased to see a muffin. “Oooh, you woke up earlier to go to the bakery?” You ask, excited. You take a bite and your eyes roll back. “This is perfect, thank you.”

“Yeah, of course. How’d it go with Superman, though?”

“Oh! Really, really well. Thank you for getting me the interview.”

Clark stares at you a moment. You smile, tight lipped and waiting. You raise an eyebrow slightly, prompting him to let you know why he’s staring at you like you’ve suddenly grown a second nose overnight. 

“What, that’s it? No play-by-play? No commentary about his biceps, no rant about how the article is going to go? You icing me out?”

You’re amused and tickled that he cares. “Don’t want to break any trust, you know, he can be secretive.”

“Oh, come on,” he groans, taking a step back and shaking his head. “You’re insufferable!”

“Hey, I learned from the best,” you wink, excited to be able to use his words against him. “Serves you right for all of the articles with no inside juice!”

Clark rolls his eyes. As he turns to walk back to his desk, you realize he’s not carrying breakfast for himself. Frowning, you grab a napkin from the stash in your desk, break your muffin apart, then jump up to follow him.

You set the half of the baked good on his desk before leaning up against the divider between his desk and anothers, cheek mushed against your hand. 

“It went really, really well. I think I’m going to center it around his insistence on violence-containment. It’s been ages, forever maybe, since a hero has cared about keeping damages down. Of course, they all care about civilian safety, but he’s taking it a step further. He doesn’t see a situation with any sort of casualty as a win, you know? That’s new, next level thinking, really admirable.”

Clark is watching you as you talk, eyes jumping between yours. When you’re finished with your tirade, he leans forward slightly, brushes a crumb off of your cheek, and leans back into his seat. 

“That’s really good, I’m happy it went well.” He’s so sincere that your heart feels a little swollen. You don’t deserve his friendship. 

“It ended really weird though, I think Superman wants to play matchmaker or something,” you blurt out, unable to stop yourself. 

Clark’s eyes sparkle behind his glasses and he reaches up to ruffle his curls as he laughs, shaking his head. “And now you’re back to teasing. Go, shoo, I have actual work to do.”

“I’m not lying!” You say, unable to keep a serious face as Clark laughs. His guffaw is impossible to ignore and you end up giggling with him. You do meander back to your desk, though.

“Sure thing, sure thing.”

You settle back at your desk, taking another bite of your muffin and sighing happily. You sit for a moment, listening to the chatter of the office and the clicking of keyboards. After a few minutes you scooch your chair back to watch Clark, observing how he bends over his desk, legs too long to fit in his chair and suit jacket just this side of too big. 

Something in you warms, the same warmth you’d felt all night, at the idea of him talking about you to anyone, nonetheless Superman. 

Perhaps it’s time to act on this silly crush. The flirting you send his way is returned, friendly enough in nature but, when paired with the daily treats for breakfast and the way his hand tends to linger on your waist when he passes … maybe somethings there. 

You roll back closer to your desk, pressing a few buttons aimlessly on your laptop as you mull it over. Something in you is scared to act on your feelings, of course, but a bigger part is excited about what could be to really ignore the prompting. Okay, Superman, you think, I’ll give it a shot.

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