D A D D Y ' S B E S T F R I E N D
[Bucky Barnes × F!Reader | Daddy’s Best Friend AU | Part 1/3]
❇ Official Pairing: Bucky Barnes × F!Reader
❇ Synopsis: Your dad must never find out that his best friend can’t take his eyes off you every time he walks by. Bucky Barnes still calls you “kid,” even though you’re twenty-five. But that night, the word won’t come out of his mouth. He looks at you as if he wants to tear you apart and put you back together, and you’re not sure you want him to stop anymore.
❇ Main Tropes: Daddy’s best friend · Huge age gap · “kid” (irony) · First time / loss of virginity · Breeding kink · Belly obsession · Sperm play · Possessive language · Guilt · Mutual desire · Gentle aftercare following intense sex · Forbidden relationship · Secret
⚠ This story contains highly explicit mature content (age gap, father’s best friend, MDNI, explicit scenes, forbidden relationship, guilt, first time, oral sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, belly obsession, gentle aftercare, plot-driven erotica) intended strictly for an adult audience (18+ / MDNI). Reader discretion is heavily advised.
I'm still posting my one-shots and you've got to see how I made Steve so dumb that he's going to drive you all crazy.
❇ Warnings & Tags: Bucky calls the reader “kid” (even though she's 25) · Gentle but naughty Bucky · Slightly spoiled Reader · Use of nicknames
✧ Bucky's masterlist
Next Part: Part 2 →
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❇❇❇
You’ve been waiting for him since this morning.
Your dad dropped the news at breakfast, between sips of black coffee: “Bucky’s spending the weekend here. ” That was it. And you spent the next four hours changing clothes like a maniac, switching between jeans that were too conservative and a dress that was too obvious, before settling on a white tank top so thin you can see your nipples poking through, and shorts. No bra. Just a lace thong that cuts into your cleavage. You know exactly what you’re doing. You also know it’s stupid, that it’s dangerous, that he’s your dad’s best friend, and that he’s called you “kid” your whole life. But damn it, you’ve been thinking about him for a year. It’s been a year since you’ve been touching yourself while imagining his hands. So stupid or not, you’re owning it.
The car pulls into the driveway at 3:37 p.m. The engine roars—a deep V8 that makes the living room windows rattle and your stomach churn at the same time. Your dad jumps up like a kid on Christmas morning, throws the door wide open, and the harsh July sunlight floods into the living room.
“Damn, Buck! It took you forever!” ”
“There was an accident on I-95.” Bucky’s voice hits you right in the chest. Deep, hoarse, a little tired. “It took me two hours to drive eighty kilometers. I almost killed someone.”
“You’re here, that’s all that matters. Come on in, put your bag down.”
He steps into the light. A black gym bag slung over his shoulder, a gray T-shirt clinging to his shoulders and biceps as if the fabric had given up all hope of staying loose, dark jeans. Brown hair tied back in a loose bun, strands stuck to his temples from the sweat of the road. He has dark circles under his gray-blue eyes, a small, fresh cut on his chin. He’s tired, unshaven, and damn, he’s handsome.
Then he sees you.
His eyes drift toward the couch. They settle on you. And everything freezes. He stands rooted in the doorway, the sun at his back, his massive silhouette silhouetted against the light, staring at you as if he’d just been headbutted right in the face.
“Shit. ”
The word slips out on its own. A barely audible whisper. But you hear it. And your stomach clenches.
“What?” your father says. “You look weird, Buck.”
“The road. I’m thirsty.”
But his eyes haven’t moved a millimeter. They slowly trace down your face, glide over your neck, linger on your bare shoulders, then plunge toward your breasts. There, they stop. For a long time. The white cotton hides nothing,the curve of your breasts, everything is visible. Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly that you can see the muscle twitch beneath his beard.
Then his eyes continue their descent. Your bare stomach. The curve of your hips. Your thighs, long and tanned, bare almost all the way down.
“Kid.”
The word slips out mechanically, like a reflex honed over twenty years. Except this time, it’s not a nickname. It’s a growl. A warning. A veiled admission.
“James,” you reply.
Just his first name. But the tone you use, the way you look him in the eyes as you say it… it’s anything but innocent.
Your dad, that blind bastard, is already rummaging through the fridge in the kitchen.
“I’m bringing back some beers! Buck, have you eaten yet or not? ”
“No,” Bucky replies without taking his eyes off you. “But I’m hungry.”
And he’s clearly not talking about food.
“Spill it,” your father says, setting the beers on the table. “How’s it been going all this time? Still single?”
Bucky grabs a bottle, pops the cap off with a sharp twist, and takes a long swig. A drop runs down his beard, sliding over his Adam’s apple.
“Yeah. Always.”
“How come?”
He looks at you as he answers.
“I’m picky. ”
The silence that follows weighs three metric tons. Your father nods as if he’s just heard some profound wisdom, then turns back to the TV. You get up from the couch, pretending to look for chips, and as you walk past Bucky, your arm brushes against his. His skin is burning hot. His fingers tighten around the bottle.
“You’ve changed,” he blurts out suddenly.
You stop.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve changed. A lot.”
He looks you over from head to toe, without any restraint. His eyes linger on your breasts, then drift down between your thighs before moving back up to your face.
“She’s grown up, Buck,” your father says absentmindedly, already glued to the game. “Twenty-five now. ”
“Twenty-five,” Bucky repeats.
He savors the number, rolling it around in his mouth like a sip of whiskey.
“So it’s official, then. You’re not a kid anymore.”
“Exactly.” You lock eyes with him. “I’m not a kid anymore, James.”
Your dad gets up to take a piss. The bathroom door slams at the end of the hallway. You’re alone. Bucky sets down his beer, takes two steps toward you, and stops twenty centimeters away. He’s so tall that your nose barely reaches his chin. His scent washes over you,soap, clean sweat, something woody and dark.
“Did you put that on for me?” His voice has dropped a notch.
“What?”
“Stop it.” He lowers his voice even further, to a hoarse whisper. “That tank top that shows everything. Those shorts that don’t even cover your ass. You put that on for me. Say it.”
“So what if I did?”
“Then say it. ”
“Yeah.” You hold his gaze without flinching. “I put this on for you.”
Bucky closes his eyes for a second, exhales slowly. When he opens them again, his pupils are so dilated that the gray has almost disappeared.
“You have no idea what you’re doing, kid.”
“Explain it to me. ”
“Your father’s like a brother to me. I saw you being born, for fuck’s sake. I carried you on my shoulders when you were four. And now, I can’t take my eyes off your breasts.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Ever since I walked in, I’ve been hard as a rock. It hurts.”
“Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me that you’re hard.”
He stares at you as if you’d just asked him to kill someone. Then, slowly, he grabs your right hand and presses it against his crotch. Under the denim, his cock is hard as marble, enormous, burning hot. It throbs against your palm.
“There you go, kid,” he growls. “That’s what you’ve been doing to me for the past hour. Are you happy now?”
“Yes.”
He pulls your hand away but keeps it trapped in his.
“I’m not allowed to do anything.”
“I know.”
“If I touch you, I’ll lose Steve.”
“My dad doesn’t need to know.”
Silence falls. The TV blares in the living room; the toilet flushes at the end of the hallway. Bucky lets go of your hand just before your dad reappears.
“Well,” your dad says as he sits back down, “are we having dinner tonight or what?”
Bucky answers without taking his eyes off you.
“Yeah. I’m starving.”
And he smiles. A little smirk that promises absolutely nothing good.You sit back down on the couch. Your thighs stick together, soaked. This night isn't going to be anything like a quiet one. And Bucky just confirmed that without saying another word.
The pizzas arrived at 7:30 p.m., delivered by a sixteen-year-old kid sweating in his red polo shirt. Your dad brought out three plates, three beers, and seated everyone around the living room table, as if to say,
“We’re going to have a nice, quiet evening.”
Except nothing is quiet. Not at all. The air is thick with tension, heavy like before a storm, and every time you shift in your chair, you feel Bucky’s gaze sliding over you.
He’s sitting across from you. Right across from you. The table is maybe one meter twenty wide,which is practically nothing. You can see every detail of his face,the pale scar near his lower lip, the salt and pepper starting to show in his beard, the way his pupils dilate every time your eyes meet his. He’s still wearing the same gray T-shirt, but he’s let his hair down. It falls in dark waves around his shoulders, and damn, it makes him look even more dangerous.
“So Buck, tell me about your job,” your dad says, grabbing a slice of pepperoni. “Still in security?”
“Yeah.” Bucky takes a bite of his pizza without taking his eyes off you. “I had an assignment last week. Close protection. An actress.”
“Damn, really? Which one? ”
“I can’t say. Non-disclosure agreement.”
He wipes a streak of tomato sauce off his lip with his thumb, and your eyes follow the movement like an idiot.
“Let’s just say she was a pain in the ass.”
You break your slice in half to eat it more easily, and as you lean forward, your tank top gapes open a little. Just a little. Enough for Bucky to see the tops of your breasts. Enough for him to set his slice down on the table and clench his jaw.
“What about you, kid?” His voice is a notch lower. Slower. “Still at your graphic design school?”
“I’m not in school anymore. I finished last year.”
“Oh yeah? So where are you working now?”
“I’m freelancing. I work from home.”
You pick up an olive between your fingers, bring it to your mouth, suck on it a little before biting into it. An innocent gesture,except it’s not; you know exactly what you’re doing.
“I make a good living.”
Bucky watches you suck on that olive as if he wanted to be in your place.
“You sure look like it, yeah.”
“What do you mean, ‘you look like it’?”
“You look like a woman who makes a good living.” His eyes drift down to your lips. “You look like a woman who gets what she wants. ”
“Maybe I do.”
Your father wipes his mouth and burps discreetly.
“She’s talented, you know. She redesigned the whole company website for me. For free, no less.”
“For free,” Bucky repeats. “You’re a nice kid. ”
“I’m nice to the people I love.”
Silence. A fucking three-second silence where the word “love” hangs over the table like a vague threat. Bucky puts down his fork.
“What about the people you don’t love?” he asks softly.
“I’m not a nice person. ”
“I figured as much.”
You lean forward to grab the bottle of Tabasco. Your tank top gapes open again; the entire curve of your left breast is almost visible, your nipple brushing against the edge of the fabric. You sit back up slowly, very slowly, and meet Bucky’s gaze. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t said a word. But his plate has been untouched for five minutes, and the bulge in his jeans is pressing against the table.
“Are you hot, Buck?” your father asks without looking up from his pizza.
“A little, yeah.”
“No surprise, it’s thirty out there. Drink your beer.”
Bucky obeys mechanically, takes a sip, and sets the bottle down too hard. The noise makes your father jump.
“Hey, easy on the table. ”
“Sorry.”
It’s not the table that’s the problem. It’s you. It’s your lips around that damn olive. It’s your neck, exposed every time you toss your hair back. It’s that little vein pulsing beneath your jaw that he stares at as if he wants to bite it.
“Can I have another piece?” You reach for the box.
“Here.”
Bucky pushes the box toward you. Your fingers brush against each other. Just for a second. But a spark shoots through you, electric, all the way down to your groin.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, kid.”
That word burns you now. Before, it was cute. Before, it was affectionate. Now, every time he says it, you hear something else. You hear,
“I call you ‘kid’ to remind myself I shouldn’t, but it’s the only thing keeping me from ripping those shorts off you right here on this table.”
“Do you remember that time we went camping?” your father suddenly asks. “Buck, you had to carry the little one on your shoulders for three kilometers because she’d twisted her ankle.”
“I remember,” says Bucky without taking his eyes off your neck. “She weighed nothing. She clung to my hair like reins.”
“I was twelve,” you protest.
“You were light.” He takes a sip of beer. “Now…”
“Now what?”
“Now I’m not sure I could carry you for that long. ”
“Because I’ve gained weight?”
“Because I don’t have the same stamina anymore.” He smiles—a small, wry smile. “And because carrying you now would be… different.”
Your father bursts out laughing.
“Yeah, no kidding. She’s heavier than she was when she was twelve. ”
Bucky isn’t talking about weight. You know that. So does he. And he confirms it by letting his gaze drift over your mouth, then down your neck, then along the line of your collarbones.
“Do you not wear necklaces anymore?” he asks suddenly.
“Excuse me? ”
“You used to always wear a little silver necklace. With a moon pendant.”
You absentmindedly touch your bare neck.
“I… you remember that?”
“I remember everything, kid.”
Silence falls again, even heavier than before. Your father chews quietly, now glued to his phone, checking the scores. He has no idea what’s going on just one meter twenty away from him.
“I can’t wear it anymore,” you say softly. “The clasp broke. ”
“Too bad. It looked good on you.”
“I can fix it.”
“You should.”
His eyes drift up to your neck. He stares at that exact spot, just below your jawline, where the skin is thin and tender, where your pulse beats against your carotid artery. You know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking about pressing his lips there. To suck on your skin until it leaves a purple mark. To hold you by the hair while he bites your neck, and to hear the little sound you’d make.
“You’ve got a sauce stain,” he says suddenly.
“Where?”
“There.” He touches the corner of his own lips with his thumb. “On your mouth.”
You reach for your napkin, but he raises his hand.
“Leave it. I’ll do it. ”
He leans over the table. It’s an absurd, dangerous, completely inappropriate gesture. But your father isn’t looking, and Bucky reaches out, places his thumb on the corner of your lower lip, and wipes away the smudge of tomato sauce with a slow motion.
“There. ”
His thumb lingers. One more second. Two seconds. You feel the texture of his calloused skin against your lip, the warmth of his finger, the immense possibility of what might happen if you opened your mouth right now.
“Thanks,” you whisper against his thumb.
“You’re welcome, kid.”
He sits back down. His knuckles are white as he grips his beer bottle. The bulge in his jeans is pressing so hard against his fly that the metal must be digging into his skin.
“Well,” says your father, putting down his phone. “I’m going to get another beer. Do you guys want one? ”
“No,” Bucky replies a little too quickly. “I mean, yes. Yes.”
“You have some nerve.”
Your father stands up and disappears into the kitchen, whistling.Bucky immediately leans forward, both elbows on the table, his voice reduced to a whisper.
“Stop it. ”
“Stop what?”
“Stop sucking on olives like that.”
“I’m eating normally.”
“You eat like a slut, yeah.”
The word hits between you like a slap.
“Don’t say that,” you say, but your voice trembles.
“Why? It’s the truth.” He holds your gaze without flinching. “You spent the whole dinner torturing me, kid. Every time you open your mouth to speak, I look at your lips. Every time you lean over, I look at your neck. Every time you shift in your chair, I wonder if you’re already wet.”
“I am,” you let slip.
Bucky closes his eyes for a second. He takes a long breath. When he opens them again, they’re almost black.He sits up straight just as your dad comes back with three more beers.
“So, what were you two talking about?” your dad asks cheerfully.
“Nothing,” Bucky replies, his eyes still locked on yours. “The kid was telling me about his plans.”
“Oh yeah? Tell us, sweetie.”
You look at Bucky.
“It’s a surprise. You’ll find out later.”
“Okay, okay,” your father grumbles. “Secrets, I suppose.”
“Exactly,” says Bucky, handing you a cold beer. “secrets.”
His fingers brush against yours one last time. And he smiles. That same slow, dangerous, crooked smile that promises the night is going to be very, very long.
***
Dinner drags on for another hour. An hour of stolen glances over empty bottles, of fingers brushing as you pass the plates, of heavy silences that your father fills with work stories that interest no one. Bucky responds in monosyllables. “Yeah.” “Seriously.” “Crazy. ” But his eyes never leave your face, your mouth, your neck. Every time you laugh at one of your father’s jokes, he clenches his jaw. Every time you run your tongue over your lips to wipe away a crumb, he swallows. Every time you bend over to pick up your napkin that fell on the floor, he watches your tank top gape open and forgets to breathe.
At 10:30 p.m., your father yawns. A huge yawn that almost dislocates his jaw.
“Well, I’m going to bed.” He gets up from the couch, stretching, his T-shirt riding up over his potbelly. “Bucky, you know your room. Same as always.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And you, sweetie…” Your father absentmindedly kisses your forehead. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“I promise.”
“Yeah, right.” He laughs to himself, already on the stairs.
The sound of his footsteps fades away. A door opens upstairs, then closes. Silence falls over the living room like a lid.
Bucky doesn’t move. He’s sitting in the armchair, legs spread apart, his empty beer bottle in his hand. He’s looking at you. You’re standing near the couch, your arms crossed under your breasts,a gesture that lifts them and makes them spill out a little more from your tank top. You’re doing it on purpose, of course. You’ve been doing everything on purpose since this morning.
“I’m going to clean up the kitchen,” you say in a neutral voice.
“I’m here to help you.”
“No need. ”
“I insist.”
You turn on your heel without waiting for his reply. The kitchen is ten steps from the living room—a small, square room with a central island and light-wood cabinets. You set the dirty plates in the sink, turn on the faucet, and let the hot water run. Steam fogs up the window above the sink.
And then you hear him.
The sound of his boots on the tile floor. Slow. Steady. The kitchen door closing behind him with a soft metallic click. You don’t turn around. You keep rinsing the plates, your heart pounding like a damn jackhammer in your chest.
“Kid.”
His voice is right behind you. Thirty centimeters away. You feel his heat on your back, that intense, animalistic heat radiating from him like a furnace.
“Bucky.”
“Turn around.”
You turn off the water. You wipe your hands on your shorts,a pointless gesture, since the fabric is already soaked, but it buys you three seconds. Then you turn around.
He’s there. Right in front of you. His gray-blue eyes have turned almost black, his pupils so dilated they swallow up his irises. His beard looks darker in the dim light of the kitchen; his hair falls in waves around his shoulders. He must have taken off his boots somewhere between the living room and here. He’s barefoot. And damn, even his feet are beautiful.
“You’ve been doing this on purpose all dinner,” he says softly. Not a question. A statement.
“What exactly?”
“Leaning over so I could see your breasts. Sucking your fingers after every slice of pizza. Running your tongue over your lips while I was talking to you.” He takes a step forward. “You tortured me for two hours, kid.”
“I didn’t do anything special. ”
“Stop it.” His voice cracks like a whip. “Stop playing with me.”
Another step. You instinctively step back, and your back hits the edge of the counter. The kitchen island is behind you, cold against your shoulder blades. Bucky stops ten centimeters away, his two hands resting on the counter on either side of your hips, and he pins you there, trapped between the marble and his massive body.
“Do you know what you’re doing to your old uncle, kid?”
The word “uncle” stings. He’s not your uncle. He never has been. But he uses that word to remind himself that this is forbidden, that it’s dangerous, that your father is upstairs, and that what he’s about to do could destroy thirty years of friendship.
“You’re not my uncle,” you whisper.
“No.” He lowers his head, his forehead almost touching yours. “I’m worse than that. I’m the guy who watched you grow up and who hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you since you walked through the door this morning.”
“James…”
“Shut up.” His fingers clench the marble. “Let me talk. Otherwise I’m going to do something we’ll both regret.”
You fall silent. Your breath is short, your pussy is soaking wet, your nipples are pressing so hard against your tank top that they almost hurt.
“Ever since I got here,” he begins, his voice hoarse and low, “I’ve been thinking about one thing. Just one.”
“What is it?”
“To take you.” He looks you straight in the eyes as he says this. “To bend you over that counter. To rip off those slutty little shorts. To spread your thighs and eat your pussy until you beg me to stop.”
You let out a little sound. A barely stifled moan.
“That turns you on, doesn’t it?” He tilts his head. “Knowing I’ve had a hard-on for you for the past six hours. That I had to hold myself back from touching you in front of your dad. That I almost lost it when you sucked on that damn olive.”
“You saw that. ”
“I saw everything.” His right hand leaves the counter, moves slowly upward, stopping a centimeter from your breast. “I saw your nipples harden when I watched you. I saw your thighs clamp together under the table. I saw the way you bit your lip every time I said ‘kid.’”
His hand moves forward. His fingers brush against your nipple through the cotton. Just a light touch. Just enough to make you moan.
“James, my father…”
“Your father’s asleep.” His hand is now pressed fully against your breast, his warm palm against its soft curve. “And you’re going to be quiet. You’d better be. ”
He gently kneads your breast, his thumb rubbing your nipple in small circles. Your head falls back, the nape of your neck hitting the edge of the closet, but you don’t care.
“Look at me,” he orders.
You open your eyes again. His face is five centimeters from yours. His beard, his slightly parted lips, his almost black eyes. He’s gorgeous and terrifying.
“Tell me to stop.”
You don’t answer.
“Say it, kid. Say ‘James, stop,’ and I’ll go back up to my room and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”
The silence drags on. You could say it. You should say it. That’s what reason demands, what morality commands, what thirty years of friendship between him and your father call for.
“Say it,” he repeats, almost pleading now. “Please. Say it.”
“No.”
The word falls like a guillotine.
Bucky closes his eyes. A long shiver runs through his body, from his shoulders down to his thighs. When he opens them again, there’s no restraint left in his gaze. No more struggle. No more morality.
“You’re going to regret this,” he whispers.
“I know.”
His other hand leaves the counter. It grabs the back of your neck, his fingers getting lost in your hair, holding your head back. His mouth descends on your neck without warning. Not a gentle kiss—a bite. His teeth catch the tender skin just below your jaw, his tongue runs over it, and he sucks hard and long.
“Shit,” you moan, grabbing his T-shirt with both hands.
“Shh.” His mouth moves up toward your ear. “You’d better be quiet. I told you so. ”
His hand lets go of your hair, slides down your back, and moves down to your buttocks. He grabs your right buttock with his whole hand, kneads the flesh, his fingers digging into the muscle.
“Those little shorts,” he growls against your ear. “Ever since this morning, I’ve been dreaming of taking them off. ”
“Take it off.”
He pulls his head back, looks at you. His eyes are blazing.
“Not tonight.”
“What?”
“Not tonight.”
His hand leaves your butt, moves back up, and rests on your cheek. A gesture that’s almost tender now.
“Tonight, I just want to… taste you.”
“James…”
“I want to know what you taste like.” His thumb strokes your lower lip, pressing gently. “I want you to come on my tongue. Once. Just once. And then you’ll go back up to your room and sleep. ”
“What about you?”
“I’ll jerk off in my room, thinking about you.”
He smiles. That same dangerous smile.
“And tomorrow morning, we’ll have breakfast with your dad like nothing ever happened.”
Your breathing is ragged.
“What if I want more? ”
“We’ll see tomorrow.”
His hand slowly slides down your stomach, his fingers stopping at the waistband of your shorts.
“But right now, you’re going to spread your legs and let me do it.”
His thumb slides under your jeans, finds the lace of your thong, and presses just above your clitoris.
“You’re soaking wet,” he observes.
“For you. ”
“I know.” He presses harder, his thumb slowly circling the damp fabric. “You’ve been soaking wet for me since this morning. Ever since I walked into this living room, your little pussy has been dripping for your old uncle.”
“Stop saying ‘uncle.’ ”
“Why? It turns you on.”
He increases the pressure of his thumb, finds your clit through the lace, and rolls it.
“Your dad calls me his brother, and you’re getting wet in my hand.”
“James, please…”
“Please what?”
“Fuck me.”
He pulls his hand away abruptly. Takes a step back. His chest heaves rapidly; his breathing is as ragged as yours.
“Tomorrow,” he says, his voice choked. “I told you. Tonight, you come on my tongue, and that’s it. ”
“Why?”
“Because.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Because if I fuck you now, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll take you right here on this counter, then on the couch, then in your bed, and your dad will wake up and find us, and I’ll lose everything. ”
Silence falls. You understand. He’s still struggling. He’s trying to maintain a shred of control, a final line he won’t cross.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Tomorrow. ”
“Tomorrow,” he repeats. His eyes drift down one last time over your body, over your breasts, over your clenched thighs. “Go to bed, kid.”
“Are you really going… to your room…?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna jerk off thinking about your little wet pussy.” He grabs the doorknob. “Good night, kid. ”
He walks out. The door closes behind him. You remain leaning against the counter, your legs feeling like jelly, your panties soaked, your nipple still sensitive where he touched you.
D A D D Y ' S B E S T F R I E N D
[Bucky Barnes × F!Reader | Daddy’s Best Friend AU | Part 2/3]
❇ Official Pairing: Bucky Barnes × F!Reader
❇ Synopsis: Your dad must never find out that his best friend can’t take his eyes off you every time he walks by. Bucky Barnes still calls you “kid,” even though you’re twenty-five. But that night, the word won’t come out of his mouth. He looks at you as if he wants to tear you apart and put you back together, and you’re not sure you want him to stop anymore.
❇ Main Tropes: Daddy’s best friend · Huge age gap · “kid” (irony) · First time / loss of virginity · Breeding kink · Belly obsession · Sperm play · Possessive language · Guilt · Mutual desire · Gentle aftercare following intense sex · Forbidden relationship · Secret
⚠ This story contains highly explicit mature content (age gap, father’s best friend, MDNI, explicit scenes, forbidden relationship, guilt, first time, oral sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, belly obsession, gentle aftercare, plot-driven erotica) intended strictly for an adult audience (18+ / MDNI). Reader discretion is heavily advised.
I stumbled upon this, but I believe, if I'm not mistaken, that I was inspired by someone who, in turn, had been inspired by another person's request. If, by some miracle, this rings a bell for you, please let me know so I can cite my sources.
❇ Warnings & Tags: Bucky calls the reader “kid” (even though she's 25) · Gentle but naughty Bucky · Slightly spoiled Reader · Use of nicknames ("honey," "sweetheart," "baby") · No use of "yes/no" · Anxiety · Hurt/comfort
✧ Bucky's masterlist
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❇❇❇
You climb the stairs as if each step weighed a ton.
Your legs are still shaking from what just happened in the kitchen. Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears. Bucky’s promise still echoes in your head.
Those words keep playing on repeat, and your panties are completely soaked. You feel your juices running down your thigh with every step.
You finally make it to your bedroom and close the door behind you without turning on the light. The room is lit only by the moonlight filtering through the curtains. You lean back against the wood for a moment, eyes closed, trying to catch your breath. It’s not working. Your body is on fire. Your breasts feel heavy, and your rock-hard nipples rub against your tank top.
“Damn…” you murmur in a hoarse voice.
You take a few steps toward your bed and sit on the edge. Your hands tremble as you run them over your thighs. You slowly pull your shorts up, then slide your fingers under the waistband of your panties. As soon as you touch your pussy, you let out a muffled moan. You’re wetter than you’ve ever been. Your clitoris is swollen, extremely sensitive. You trace slow, small circles and close your eyes.
In your mind, it’s Bucky touching you.
You see his dark eyes again as he pinned you against the countertop. You see his huge hand gripping your throat. You remember his deep voice when he told you he was going to lick you until you screamed his name. Your fingers speed up. You slide two fingers between your wet lips and begin to push them in gently.
“James…” you whisper into the silence of the bedroom.
You fall back onto the mattress, legs spread wide. Your shorts and panties are pulled down to your knees. You thrust your fingers deeper, imagining that it’s his tongue devouring you. You remember how he rubbed his erection against you in the kitchen—huge, hard, almost menacing. You want that cock. You want it so badly it hurts.
“I need you… shit… I need you to fuck me… ”
Your words grow increasingly raw. You add a third finger and moan louder. The wet sound of your pussy fills the room. You lift your hips to finger yourself better, imagining Bucky on his knees between your legs, his powerful hands spreading your thighs as he sucks your clit like an animal.
You turn your head and bite the pillow to stifle a louder moan.You pull your fingers out for a moment and rub your swollen clitoris with the palm of your hand, using quick, firm strokes. Your back arches. You gasp.
“James… Damn it, James…”
You talk to yourself, your voice hoarse, almost pleading. You push your fingers inside again, this time more roughly. You imagine his beard rubbing against the inside of your thighs, his tongue penetrating you, his groans against your soaking wet pussy. You imagine his thick fingers taking his place, fucking you while he sucks your clit mercilessly.Your breasts jiggle with every hip thrust. You slide your free hand under your tank top and pinch your right nipple hard. The pain mixes with the pleasure. You moan his name over and over, louder and louder, unable to control yourself.
“Yes… just like that… eat me here… I’m yours… ”
You feel yourself about to come. Your stomach contracts violently. Your toes curl. You speed up the movement of your fingers, curling them to touch that precise spot that drives you wild. The image of Bucky looking you straight in the eyes while he devours you sends you over the edge.
Just before you come, you hold your breath.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway suddenly freezes you in place.
You remain motionless, your fingers still deeply buried in your throbbing pussy, your heart ready to explode. The footsteps stop in front of your door. You don’t move. You don’t even dare to breathe.
The footsteps resume and fade away toward Steve’s room. It was probably just him going to the bathroom.You close your eyes, feeling relieved and even more turned on. Your body is covered in sweat. Your pussy is dripping onto your sheets. You slowly pull your fingers out and bring them to your mouth. You suck on them, imagining they’re Bucky’s cock after he made you come.
“I’m going completely crazy…” you whisper, your voice trembling.
Your bedroom door opens without a sound. Bucky walks in and closes it behind him with a slow motion. He doesn’t say anything right away. He just stands there, in the dim light, watching you. You’re lying on your back, legs spread apart, your fingers still buried in your soaking wet pussy, your tank top pulled up over your breasts. Your breathing is ragged. You pull your fingers out suddenly, as if caught in the act.
“Damn… you couldn’t wait, could you?” he growls in a low, hoarse voice.
He crosses the room in three strides. His eyes are almost black. He grabs your ankles and yanks you roughly to the edge of the bed. Your back slides across the sheets. You let out a little cry of surprise. Bucky drops to his knees between your spread legs as if he were starving.
“I told you I was going to eat your until you cried. I stood at the kitchen door for ten minutes trying not to come up here. You won.”
He rips off your shorts and panties in one sharp motion. The fabric tears a little. He spreads your thighs so wide that your hips crack. His large hand presses down on your stomach to keep you pinned to the mattress. Without any foreplay, he plunges his mouth onto your pussy.
The first lick is intense. He runs his entire broad, warm tongue from your opening all the way to your swollen clit. You arch your back so hard you almost lift yourself off the bed. Bucky growls against your flesh, and the sound vibrates straight into your belly.
“Damn, you’re soaking wet. You’ve soaked your sheets thinking about me, you dirty little girl. ”
He closes his lips around your clit and sucks hard. Really hard. The sound is obscene, wet, almost embarrassing. You bring your hand to your mouth to stifle your moan. Steve is right next door. You can still hear his footsteps in the hallway from a few minutes ago. Bucky doesn’t give a damn. He sucks on your clit as if he wants to rip it off, his tongue swirling around it mercilessly.
You clench the sheets in your fists. Your thighs are already trembling.
“…Shit… my dad’s going to hear us…”
He barely lifts his head. His beard rubs against the sensitive inside of your thighs. His lips glisten with your juices.
“Then you’d better shut the hell up. Because I’m not going to stop until you’ve come at least three times on my tongue.”
He dives back in. This time he thrusts two thick fingers inside you all at once. He curves them immediately and attacks that precise spot that makes you see stars. His mouth never leaves your clit. He alternates between violent sucking and broad, flat licks that cover your entire pussy. The sound of his fingers fucking you is loud, wet, and steady.
You bite your forearm to keep from screaming. Your stomach is already clenching. He can tell you’re about to come, so he picks up the pace.
“That’s it. Come. Come on my fucking tongue like the little slut you are.”
The orgasm hits you like a truck. Your walls clamp down on his fingers so tightly that he groans. You come in silence, your mouth wide open, your eyes rolled back. Your juices drip down his chin and onto the edge of the bed. Bucky doesn’t slow down. He keeps licking you throughout your orgasm, sucking up every drop.
“One. ”
He pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his tongue. He pushes it deep inside you, swirling it around inside your throbbing pussy. His powerful hands hold your thighs spread so wide that you know you’ll have marks tomorrow. He growls like an animal as he devours you.
“You taste the hottest I’ve ever tasted. I could spend the whole night with my head between your legs.”
You gasp. Your body is still shaking with spasms. He moves his mouth back up to your hypersensitive clit and starts sucking on it again, more gently this time, almost cruelly. You shake your head.
“Bucky… it’s too much… I just…”
“Shut up.”
He slaps your right thigh hard. The pain immediately turns to pleasure. He thrusts three fingers inside you again, spreading them wide to open you up. His tongue hits your clit with quick, precise movements. You can already feel a second orgasm building, even stronger.
“Look at yourself. You’re squirting like a fountain all over my beard.”
His crude words drive you wild. You grab his hair with your free hand and pull on it. Bucky growls with pleasure and gets even rougher. He pumps his three fingers quickly while he sucks your clit relentlessly. The sound is wet, slapping, indecent.
You feel like you’re going to explode.
“I’m going to…, I’m going to come again…”
“Second time. Give it to me.”
You come harder this time. Your body tenses like a bow. A little cry escapes you despite yourself. Bucky immediately presses his big hand over your mouth to silence you. He keeps licking you while you shake violently, swallowing everything that comes out of you. Your legs thrash around his head.
When he finally removes his hand from your mouth, you’re breathing as if you’d just run a marathon.
“You’re making too much noise, kid. Steve’s going to come see what’s going on. Do you want him to see you like this? Legs spread wide, your pussy red and swollen, dripping onto my tongue?”
You shake your head. Bucky smiles against your skin. He’s relentless. He slides his forearms under your knees and bends you almost in half. Your hips are completely raised. He plunges in again, this time with even more force. His tongue, his lips, his teeth grazing you, his constant growls.
He devours you like a man who hasn’t touched a woman in years. For a long time. Brutally. Without a single pause. He alternates between slow, deep licks and quick, short sucks on your tormented clitoris. His fingers return again and again, fucking you deeply, curved, rubbing that spot that drives you wild.
“Third time. I want you to cry.”
You feel tears welling up in the corners of your eyes. The pleasure is so intense it’s almost painful. Your clit is so sensitive that every stroke of his tongue makes you jump. Bucky notices this and takes advantage of it. He sucks your clit between his lips and gently tugs on it while looking you straight in the eyes.
“Look at me while I tear your pussy apart with my mouth.”
You come a third time. This time it’s too much. A sob escapes you. Your tears stream down your face. Your body convulses. Bucky presses his hand over your mouth again as you scream his name into his palm. He drinks it all. He licks it all. He keeps going even after the orgasm has passed, keeping you in this delicious torture until you beg.
“James… please… it’s too much… I can’t take it anymore…”
He finally lifts his head. His beard and chin are completely soaked with you. His eyes are wild. He looks at you as if he wants to devour you whole.
“I’m not done yet. I promised to make you cry. And I always keep my promises.”
He dives back in without giving you time to catch your breath.
You’ve barely come down from your third orgasm when you hear the stairs creaking. Bucky looks up from between your thighs, his mouth and beard glistening with your juices. His eyes meet yours. He recognizes the sound immediately. Steve is coming up to bed. His footsteps are slow and heavy, as if he’s taking his time.
“Shit, he’s coming,” Bucky growls in a low, tense voice. “Don’t make a sound. You’re going to come quietly now.”
Before you can answer, his large hand slaps down hard over your mouth. His fingers cover your lips and part of your nose. His palm is broad, warm, merciless. He presses down just hard enough for you to understand that you’re no longer allowed to make a single sound. His gaze is dark, almost menacing.
“You begged me to eat your pussy all night long. Now you’ve got to deal with the consequences. Steve is three meters away, and I’m going to make you come again. Several times. ”
Steve’s footsteps are getting closer in the hallway. Bucky doesn’t waste a second. He dives back between your spread legs and runs his broad, flat tongue all over your soaking wet pussy. The sensation is electric after your previous orgasms. Your clit is swollen, hypersensitive. You arch your back, but his hand over your mouth turns your scream into a muffled moan that vibrates against his palm.
“Shh, damn it,” he whispers against your skin without stopping. “Can you feel how wet you still are? Your pussy gives it all away.”
You shake your head frantically. Fear and excitement swirl together in your stomach. Steve is right behind the door now. You hear the floorboards creak beneath his feet. Bucky thrusts two thick fingers inside you in one sharp motion while sucking your clitoris between his lips. He sucks hard, mercilessly, while his fingers fuck you deep, pressing against your G-spot.
Your whole body is trembling. You try to breathe through your nose, but his hand presses down harder. An orgasm is already building, fast and intense. You dig your nails into his forearm. Bucky growls against your pussy, and the sound vibrates right into your stomach.
“That’s it. Come on my tongue while your father walks down the hall. I can feel your pussy squeezing my fingers like a whore. Come on, give me the fourth one.”
You come. Hard. Your back arches violently and your legs clamp shut around his head. The scream that escapes your throat is completely muffled by his hand. It turns into a long, hoarse, desperate moan against his palm. Bucky doesn’t slow down. He keeps pumping his fingers and sucking your clit while you convulse. Your juices flow freely down his chin and onto the sheets.
Steve stops right in front of your door. You can hear him clearly. He seems to be looking for something in his pocket. Your heart is pounding so hard you feel like he’s going to hear it. Bucky barely lifts his head, just enough to whisper:
“Look at yourself. You keep coming like a fountain even though he’s right there. You really have no shame. I’m going to make you come one more time before he goes into his room.”
He pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his tongue, which he pushes deep inside you. He swirls it around as if he wants to fuck you with it. His free hand holds your thigh apart so tightly that his fingers will leave bruises. With his other hand still pressed against your mouth, he prevents you from breathing properly. You gasp through your nose, your eyes filled with tears.
“Breathe through your nose and come again. I want to feel your pussy throbbing on my tongue. You’re mine tonight.”
The footsteps resume. Steve enters his room right next door. The door closes with a quiet click. Bucky immediately takes advantage of this moment to get even rougher. He moves his mouth back up to your clitoris and sucks on it with quick, short strokes while thrusting three fingers inside you this time. The stretching is intense. You feel your walls parting around him.
You moan loudly against his hand. The sound is muffled but still audible in the room. Bucky squeezes harder, almost to the point of hurting you.
“Shut the hell up. Do you want him to come back? Do you want him to open that door and see you with your legs spread over my face? Because I’m not going to stop. I’ll keep eating you out until you cry.”
Your fifth orgasm hits without warning. It’s more powerful than the previous ones. Your stomach contracts so hard you feel like you’re breaking. Your eyes roll back. You scream into his hand—a long, primal scream, completely muffled. Bucky growls with satisfaction and swallows everything that comes out of you. He licks, sucks, and gently nibbles your hypersensitive clitoris without ever removing his hand from your mouth.
“Five. You’re crying now. Just like I promised. Your tears are running down my fingers. You’re beautiful like this.”
He finally pulls his hand out of your mouth for three seconds. You take a deep breath. Your lips are swollen and red. Before you can speak, he roughly flips you onto your stomach. He pulls your hips up so you’re on all fours, your face buried in the pillow.
“Steve’s in his room, but he’s not asleep yet. We’re going to keep going like this. I want a sixth. And you’re going to take it in silence.”
He spreads your butt cheeks with both hands and plunges his tongue straight into your asshole this time. You flinch violently. No one had ever touched you there before. Bucky growls and then moves back up toward your dripping pussy. He alternates between your clit and the inside of your slit, lapping up everything that’s flowing out.
“Damn, you’re wet all the way down to your knees. You really love taking risks, don’t you? Say it. Tell me you love it when I eat you .”
You whisper in a hoarse voice, still out of breath:
“I love this, I’m going crazy… he’s going to hear us…”
“Louder. I want to hear you say it while I lick you.”
He slides two fingers into your pussy and starts pumping them quickly while his tongue works on your clit. You manage to say between gasps:
“I love it when you eat my pussy … I’m such a slut… I’m going to come again…”
Bucky picks up the pace. His fingers make a wet, obscene slapping sound inside your soaking wet pussy. He slaps your right butt cheek with the flat of his free hand.
“Say it again. Tell me who this pussy belongs to now.”
“To you… it’s yours…”
The words come out almost too loudly. Bucky presses his hand over your mouth again from behind, smashing your face into the pillow. He fucks you harder with his fingers while sucking your clit mercilessly. Your sixth orgasm hits you like a wave. You scream into his palm. Your body shakes violently. Your legs almost give out. Bucky holds you in place, continuing to stimulate you throughout the orgasm.
“Six. You’re completely spent, and we haven’t even fucked yet. ”
He pulls his fingers out and rolls you back onto your back again. Your body is covered in sweat. Your hair is stuck to your forehead. Tears have streamed down your cheeks. Bucky looks at you with animalistic hunger. He runs his tongue over his lips, still savoring your taste.
“We’re not done yet. I want one more seventh from you. Steve just turned off his bedside lamp. We’re going to take it slow this time. Very slowly. But you’re still going to come. And my hand stays over your mouth. ”
He spreads your trembling thighs and returns his mouth to your pussy. This time his movements are slower, deeper, almost languid. His tongue traces wide circles around your clitoris before moving down to lick the inside of your labia. His hand presses back against your mouth, less firmly this time, but still there.
“Breathe through your nose. Feel how I possess you completely. Every time you come, you become a little more mine…”
You moan long and hard against his palm. The pleasure is almost unbearable now. Your clitoris is so sensitive that every stroke of his tongue makes you jump. Bucky takes his time. He looks you straight in the eyes as he licks you. His fingers gently slide back inside you just two of them but he curves them perfectly.
“Look at me. Look at who’s making you come like this.”
You feel your seventh orgasm slowly building, like a distant wave growing stronger. Bucky continues to whisper, his voice hoarse and full of desire:
“That’s it… let it come. Come for me one last time before I let you catch your breath. Your pussy is so hot and wet. I could spend hours like this. I’m so hard it hurts, but tonight it’s your pussy that matters.”
When the orgasm hits, it’s different. Deeper, longer. Your whole body trembles. Your insides squeeze his fingers rhythmically. You’re really crying now; tears stream down his fingers pressed against your mouth. Bucky swallows it all, groaning with satisfaction against your flesh.
“Seven. You kept your promise. You cried just like I wanted you to. ”
He finally pulls his hand away from your mouth. You take a deep breath, your body completely limp, exhausted, sticky with sweat and your own juices. Bucky moves up your body and kisses you for the first time. You taste yourself on his tongue. He whispers against your lips:
“Steve’s asleep now. But we’re not done yet. Rest for two minutes. Then I’m going to fuck you. And this time, I won’t stop until morning.”
You lie there, breathless, your legs still trembling, while Bucky slowly caresses the inside of your thigh. The tension is still there. And you already know you won’t say no.
You were still lying on your back, your body trembling, your pussy red and swollen after the seven orgasms Bucky had just wrung from you with his mouth. Your breath was ragged, your cheeks wet with tears. The house was silent, but your heart was pounding like a drum. You watched Bucky as he sat up between your legs, his beard glistening with your juices, his dark gaze fixed on you.
“James… I beg you… fuck me now.”
He didn’t move right away. He remained on his knees, shirtless, his pants still zipped up but with a huge bulge straining against the fabric. His hand slid slowly down your trembling thigh, spreading your legs a little wider.
“Do you know what you’re asking me to do?” he said in a low, almost gravelly voice. “Look me in the eyes. If I take out my cock and penetrate you, it’s over. Do you understand that? ”
You nodded quickly, your body burning with desire. Your pussy throbbed, still tight from the previous orgasms.
“I don’t care… I want your cock. I need you to fill me up. Please… fuck me. Destroy me.”
He leaned over you, one hand on either side of your head. His face was just a few centimeters from yours. You could taste yourself on his breath.
“I’m serious. If I start fucking you, I’m not going to stop after just one round. I’m going to take you all night long. I’m going to fuck you in every position until your pussy is completely wrecked. You won’t be able to walk tomorrow. You won’t be able to look your father in the face without thinking about my cock that tore you open. Is that what you want? ”
His voice was tense, almost threatening. His eyes never left yours. You felt a violent shiver run through you. Your hand slid down of its own accord between your two bodies, and you grabbed the belt of his pants.
“Yes… that’s exactly what I want. I want you to ruin me. I’m begging you.”
He grabbed your wrist and pinned your hand above your head with a sharp movement. His body pressed down on yours. You could feel his massive erection pressing against your bare pussy, separated only by the fabric of his pants.
“Last warning. Once I’ve penetrated you, you’ll be mine. Not just tonight. Not just this week. Mine. Whenever I want to fuck you, you’ll spread your legs. Even if Steve’s in the next room. Even if he’s in the house. You’re becoming my very own little slut. Say it.”
You were panting beneath him. Your clit was rubbing against the hard bulge in his pants, and it was driving you crazy. You lifted your hips to grind against him like a bitch in heat.
“I’m becoming your slut… I’m yours. Fuck me. Shove your cock inside me. I can’t wait any longer.”
Bucky growled. He gripped your wrist tighter. His jaw was clenched. You could see the struggle in his eyes. He was still trying to give you one last chance to back out.
“You don’t get it. It’s thick. Once I’m deep inside your pussy, I’m not coming out. I’m going to pound you until you’re crying again. You’re going to come all over my dick . And then I’ll flip you over, take you from behind, pull your hair, and fill you up. Are you ready to betray your father like this? To become a real little slut for me?”
You had tears in your eyes, the desire was so strong. You moved your hips in circles, desperately trying to feel more friction against your swollen pussy.
“Yes! I’m ready!”
Bucky closed his eyes for a second, breathing heavily. When he opened them again, something had changed. The last line of defense had just crumbled. He let go of your wrist and slid his hand down between your bodies. You heard the sound of his belt as he unbuckled it, then the zipper of his fly.
“You asked for this. Remember this moment. This is the point of no return. ”
He pulled his pants down just enough to free his cock. The enormous member slapped against your stomach. It was heavy, veiny, the head swollen and already glistening with pre-cum. Your eyes widened as you saw it up close for the first time.
“Oh my God… it’s even bigger than I thought… ”
“And it’s going to go all the way inside you,” he replied in a hoarse voice. “Last chance to say no. Because in ten seconds I’m going to impale you, and after that I won’t stop until I’ve emptied my balls deep inside your pussy at least three times.”
You grabbed the back of his neck with both hands and pulled his face toward you. Your lips brushed against his as you spoke in a pleading, broken voice:
“Shove it in. Tear me apart. I want to feel you deep inside my belly. Fuck me like I’m your property. I’m yours, Bucky. Take me. Make me scream into the pillow.”
Bucky growled like an animal. He grabbed his thick cock at the base and rubbed the thick head between your soaking wet lips, up and down, tapping your hypersensitive clit several times. Every touch made you jump.
“You’re soaking wet like a real slut. Look how your pussy is already trying to swallow me up. Are you sure? Are you really sure? Because once I’m inside, I won’t be coming out for hours.”
“Yes… I’m sure… stop talking and fuck me. Shove it in. I want to feel every bit of it. Every centimeter. Pound my pussy. Please… please, Bucky… I’m going crazy… ”
He positioned the tip of his cock right at the entrance to your hole. You felt the immense pressure against your little opening. He looked you straight in the eyes, his face tense, his voice low and deep:
“All right. You asked for it.”
Bucky pushed slowly. His thick cockhead forced its way into your pussy, which was already soaking wet yet still tight despite all the orgasms he’d wrung from you. You immediately felt the brutal stretching. Your mouth opened wide, but no sound came out. He held your gaze captive in his.
“Breathe. Look at me. You’re going to take it all. Every fucking centimeter.”
He pushed in further. Two more centimeters. Your pussy opened around him like a clenched fist. The sensation was almost unbearable—a mixture of burning and pleasure so intense that your eyes filled with tears again. Bucky growled, his jaw clenched.
“Damn… your pussy is so tight. It’s trying to push me out and at the same time it’s sucking me in. Can you feel how I’m opening you up?”
He pressed his large right hand against your stomach, just below your belly button, and kept pushing. Another three centimeters disappeared inside you. You gasped loudly, your nails digging into his forearms. The pressure of his palm against your stomach made everything more intense, as if he could feel for himself the path he was carving inside your body.
“Yes… right there… I can feel my glans pushing against your walls. Look at my hand. When I’m all the way inside you, you’ll see your belly rise with every thrust. ”
He gave a sharper thrust with his hips. Half of his cock was now inside you. You felt your labia completely spread apart, stretched to the limit around his thickness. Bucky was breathing through his mouth, his eyes fixed on the spot where your bodies met.
“A few more centimeters and I’ll hit the bottom. You’re going to take my whole cock tonight. No half-measures. No gentleness. I warned you.”
You begged in a broken, almost sobbing voice:
“Deeper… push it all the way in… I want to feel you inside my belly… please… ”
He pressed harder on your stomach with his palm, as if to hold you in place, and thrust deeply and continuously. The rest of his cock slid brutally all the way in. You felt his thick glans slam violently against your cervix. A hoarse scream escaped you. Bucky immediately clamped his other hand over your mouth.
“Shh. Your dad’s sleeping right there. Take my whole cock like a big girl. Feel it.”
He stayed still for a moment, buried deep inside you. His hand pressed against your stomach, gently caressing it. You could clearly feel the hard bulge beneath his palm, the shape of his cock distorting your stomach from the inside. Bucky smiled darkly, looking satisfied.
“See that? My cock is so deep it’s pushing your skin up. I’m completely buried in your pussy. That’s where I belong now.”
He began to move. Slow, deep, controlled thrusts. Each withdrawal left your pussy gaping for a moment before he plunged back in all the way. The sound was obscene: a wet, steady slapping every time his balls hit your ass.
“Can you feel how full I’m making you? Every time I push in, I hit your uterus. That’s where I’m going to cum. Right inside it. ”
You moaned against his hand, your eyes rolled back. The sensation was indescribable. His cock was so big it rubbed against every nerve ending inside you. His palm remained firmly pressed against your stomach, intensifying the pressure with every thrust.
“… it’s too big… I’m going to come again…”
“Already?” he growled with a cruel smile. “We’ve barely even started. I’m going to make you come on my cock until you can’t speak anymore. And then I’m going to fill you up.”
He picked up the pace slightly while maintaining maximum depth. His hand on your stomach moved a little lower, just above your pubic bone, and he pressed harder. The sensation became even more intense. You could almost see the shape of his glans pushing against your skin with every thrust.
“I’m going to get you pregnant tonight. Do you hear me? I’m going to unload every drop from my balls deep inside your womb. Your pussy is going to drink all my cum…”
The crude words made you clench violently around him. Bucky groaned with pleasure.
“Oh yeah… squeeze me like that. Your pussy loves the idea of me getting you pregnant, doesn’t it? Say it. Tell me you want me to fill you up until you’re carrying my baby.”
Bucky pulled his hand away from your mouth and grabbed your right leg, lifting it high, almost up to your chest. The new position allowed him to enter you even deeper. His hand immediately returned to press against your stomach, as if he wanted to feel his own member through your abdominal wall.
“Look at my hand. Feel how I’m tearing through your womb. I’m going to impregnate you tonight. ”
Every thrust was now powerful, precise, brutal. The bed was banging softly against the wall. You both knew Steve could hear it if he woke up, but neither of you stopped. Bucky pounded you relentlessly, his hand still pressed against your stomach.
“Feel that bulge? That’s my cock claiming your pussy. From now on, this pussy belongs to me. I’m going to fuck you every day. I’m going to fill you up every day until you’re pregnant with my baby.”
You suddenly came, without warning. Your body arched violently. Your pussy clenched around his cock in powerful, prolonged spasms. Bucky groaned but didn’t slow down. He kept fucking you through your orgasm, his hand pressing even harder against your stomach to prolong the sensation.
“That’s it… come on my cock. Squeeze it. Milk it. It’s going to give you all its cum soon. I’m going to flood your pussy.”
Your orgasm lasted a long time, almost painful because it was so intense. When he finally finished, Bucky rolled you slightly onto your side without pulling out of you, one leg still raised. He resumed his deep thrusts while keeping his hand on your stomach.
“We’re not done yet. I want two more orgasms before I come. And when I come… you’re going to take it all. Every last drop. I’m going to breed you like a little bitch.”
He picked up the pace. The room was filled with the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of your soaking wet pussy, your ragged breathing, and his hoarse groans. His hand never left your stomach. He felt around, pressed down, sensing exactly where he was inside you.
“Say my name when you come this time. I want to hear you scream my name while I make you pregnant.”
You were gasping, completely lost in pleasure. Your voice was hoarse and broken:
“James… harder… I’m yours… fill me… get me pregnant… I want to feel your hot cum deep inside… ”
He growled with satisfaction and shifted the angle of his hips slightly. His glans was now hitting a specific, sensitive spot with every thrust. You felt a new orgasm building very quickly.
“I’m going to give you everything. My balls are heavy with cum for you. I’m going to pump all my cum right into your womb. You’re going to leave here full of me.”
You came a second time, even harder. This time, you muffled your scream with your own hand. Bucky kept pounding you mercilessly, his palm still pressed against your stomach, feeling every contraction of your pussy around his cock.
“Second one. You’re milking me so hard I won’t last much longer. But I want a third one before I fill you up. Come on. Give me another one.”
He put you back in the missionary position, both your legs on his shoulders this time. The position was extremely deep. His cock was touching places no one had ever reached before. His hand pressed down on your stomach again, lower this time, almost at your pubic bone.
“Look. I’m so deep inside you that my cock is pushing your stomach out with every thrust. This is where I’m going to come. Right here. Inside your womb. You’re going to feel every spurt.”
The next few minutes were a succession of brutal thrusts, crude words, and extreme sensations. Bucky alternated between long sentences and animalistic growls while keeping you open and exposed.
“This pussy is made for my cock. Starting tonight, I’m the one who owns you. I’m going to fuck you in their bed if I want to. I’m going to fill you up every morning . You’re going to feel my cum dripping out all day long while you think about me.”
You came a third time, your body shaken by violent spasms. This time you screamed his name without being able to hold back:
“Jmaes! Fuck… !”
He growled loudly, his rhythm becoming erratic. His hand pressed so hard against your stomach that you could clearly feel the shape of his cock throbbing inside you.
“I’m going to come. I’m going to fill you up. Take it all. Take my cum. I’m going to get you pregnant tonight.”
His body tensed. You felt his cock swell even more inside you. The first spurt of hot cum hit your cervix directly. Bucky growled long and hard, his teeth clenched, while continuing to thrust deep and hard to drive his seed as far inside you as possible.
He continued to come for several long seconds, ejaculating copiously inside you. You could feel every pulse, every thick spurt filling your belly. His hand remained pressed against your belly as if to keep the semen inside.
When he finally finished, he remained buried deep inside you, panting. His hand was now slowly caressing your belly, almost tenderly, as if he were already imagining what might happen there.
“You’re full. Completely full of me. And this is just the beginning. I won’t leave this room until I’ve emptied my balls inside you at least three more times tonight.”
He leaned in, kissed you roughly, then whispered against your lips:
“There’s no turning back now. You’re mine now.”
Bucky remained buried deep inside you for several long seconds, his cock still throbbing after the first load. Your belly was already heavy with his cum. You were gasping for breath, your body covered in sweat, your pussy clenched around his thick shaft. He was staring at you with eyes that were completely black, as if he’d lost all reason. His hand was still pressed against your stomach, feeling the bulge his cock made.
“I can’t stop now. I warned you. Now I’m going to destroy you. Turn around. Get on all fours. Right now. ”
You obeyed without thinking, your legs trembling. You got down on all fours on the bed, your elbows dug into the mattress, your ass raised toward him. Bucky positioned himself immediately behind you. He didn’t even take the time to caress you. He grabbed your hips forcefully and thrust his entire cock in one brutal stroke all the way to the hilt.
“Fuck, yes… that’s how I want to take you right now. Look how your pussy swallows it all. It’s made for that. To be filled by me.”
The slap of his hips against your buttocks echoed through the room. He wasn’t even trying to be quiet anymore. His thrusts were hard, deep, and repeated. Every time he thrust all the way in, his balls would slap against your swollen clit. You bit down on the pillow to stifle your moans, but it was getting harder and harder.
“Bucky… too hard… my dad’s going to hear us…”
“I don’t care. I want your pussy completely wrecked. I’m going to fill you up again. And again. And again. Until you’re brimming with my cum. You’re going to carry my baby. It’s decided. ”
He picked up the pace. His hands gripped your hips so tightly that his fingers dug into your flesh. The bed was now banging against the wall in a steady, loud rhythm. Bucky growled like an animal with every thrust. His cock slid in and out of your soaking wet pussy with a wet, obscene slapping sound.
“Feel how deep I am. I’m hitting your uterus every time. That’s where I’m going to cum. Right inside. I’m going to mark you. Fill you up. Get you pregnant tonight. Your pussy will be good for nothing else. Just for taking my seed.”
You suddenly came, violently, the walls of your pussy clamping down on his cock like a vise. Bucky didn’t slow down. He kept pounding you through your orgasm, even harder.
“That’s it. Come. Milk my cock. I’m going to give you all my cum. Take it. Take it all. I’m going to breed you like a bitch. ”
He thrust several times particularly deep, then pressed himself against your buttocks. You felt his cock swell inside you. The first powerful jet of hot cum hit your cervix. Bucky growled loudly, making no effort to hold back.
“Fuck… I’m coming… I’m filling you up… take my seed… I’m getting you pregnant…”
He kept coming for a long time, in thick, heavy spurts. You could feel your belly filling up. When he was done, he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried inside you and started moving slowly again, spreading his cum inside your pussy.
“I’m not pulling out. I’m staying inside you. I’m going to fuck you again with my cock full of cum. You’re mine. Completely mine. This pussy is mine now. ”
He picked up a steady rhythm. The cum from his first load was flowing around his cock with every thrust, making everything even slipperier and noisier. Your moans were getting louder and louder. You couldn’t hold them back anymore.
“… I beg you… harder… fill me up again…”
“You’re already asking for more? You dirty little whore. You want me to get you pregnant, don’t you? Say it. Say it loud.”
“Yes! Get me pregnant! Fill me up! I want your cum! I want to carry your baby!”
Bucky growled with satisfaction and shifted his angle slightly so that his cockhead would slam even harder against your cervix. He was now fucking you with an almost disturbing intensity. His hands slid over your sweat-soaked back, yanked your hair, and slapped your ass.
“I’m going to mark you from the inside. Every drop of cum I’m going to put inside you tonight is going to stay inside you. I’m going to fill you up five times. Six times. As many times as it takes to get you pregnant. Your pussy is going to overflow with me.”
The second orgasm came quickly. You screamed into the pillow. Bucky kept going without slowing down, repeating the same crude phrases over and over, as if he were possessed.
“I’m going to fill you up. I’m going to get you pregnant. This pussy is mine. I’m going to breed you. You’re going to feel my cum dripping out of you for days. I own you. Completely. ”
He came a second time, even more profusely. You felt the powerful spurts hitting deep inside you. He growled loudly—almost a roar—pressing himself against your buttocks so that not a single drop would be wasted.
“Second load. Feel how I’m drowning you. Your womb is drinking up all my cum. You’re going to be full. So full of me. ”
He stayed inside you once more without pulling out. His cock remained hard, throbbing inside your overflowing pussy. The cum was starting to flow freely down your thighs. Bucky slid a hand between your legs and smeared the mixture over your clit while continuing to thrust deep inside you.
“Look at all that’s flowing out. That’s me. That’s my mark. And I’m not done. Not by a long shot.”
He pulled you down onto the bed, pinned you face-down, and continued fucking you in reverse missionary for several minutes, just as brutally as before. Then he lifted you up onto all fours and started again. The cycle repeated itself. He pounded you, talking nonstop about filling you up, making you pregnant, marking you, came copiously inside you, stayed inside, and started right back up.
With each new orgasm, his words became more obsessive.
“You’re my breeding bitch now. I’m going to keep you full all the time. Every morning I’ll come and fill you up before Steve wakes up. You’re going to smell my cum all day long while you’re running errands, while you’re talking to him. You’ll be full of me.”
You were getting louder and louder. The bed was banging against the wall. Bucky was growling loudly. You were moaning, unable to hold back any longer. The room smelled of sex, sweat, and cum.
Suddenly, you heard a noise coming from Steve’s room. The floorboards creaked. His bedroom door swung open.
Bucky froze for a moment, still buried deep inside your pussy. Your heart stopped. You were both sweaty, breathing heavily. Steve was walking down the hallway. He was going to the bathroom.
“James… stop… he’s right there…” you whispered in a panicked voice.
Bucky pressed a hand over your mouth and started moving again. Slowly, but deeply. His cock slid in and out of your cum-filled pussy with a wet sound that was impossible to hide.
“I won’t stop. Even if he opens that door. I’m going to keep filling you up.”
Steve’s footsteps echoed down the hallway. He was less than two meters away. Bucky picked up the pace slightly, his hand still over your mouth. With his other hand, he pressed against your stomach to feel his cock through your skin.
“Can you feel how your pussy keeps milking me even when you’re scared? You’re soaking wet. You love the risk…”
Steve walked into the restroom. The door closed. Bucky removed his hand from your mouth and grabbed both your wrists, pulling them back like reins while pounding into you violently.
“Now you’re going to come again. And you’re going to do it in silence. But I’m going to talk to you. I’m going to tell you exactly what I’m doing to your pussy.”
He was now fucking you with obsessive fury. Every thrust was meant to leave its mark on you. His balls slapped against your pussy, still dripping from his two previous loads.
“I’m filling you up for the third time. I’m going to cum even more than the first two times. Your belly is going to be so full that you’ll feel like you’re pregnant by tonight. I’m going to put my baby inside you. You’re going to swell up with my cum.”
You came, your face buried in the mattress to stifle your cry. Bucky kept going without slowing down, his voice hoarse and low but perfectly audible.
“Take it. Take my third load. I’m marking you. I own you. This pussy will never be the same after tonight. It’ll hold the shape of my cock. It’ll hold my scent. ”
He came with a long, low growl. You felt the powerful spurts—almost painful, they were so intense. He stayed pressed against you, slowly grinding his hips to push the cum as deep inside you as possible.
“Three. You’re officially full. But I’m not stopping. Turn around. We’re going to spoon. I want to hold you close while I fuck you some more.”
He finally pulled out. A thick stream of cum flowed from your pussy onto the sheets. Bucky lay down behind you and pulled you against him. He slipped one arm under your head, the other around your waist, and lifted your right leg. His cock immediately found the entrance and sank deep inside you again with a wet sound.
The position was extremely intimate. He was pressed against your back, his mouth against your ear. He started moving again, slowly but deeply, pressed tightly against you as if he wanted to merge with your body.
“Just like that. I want to feel you completely pressed against me while I fill you up again. Can you feel my cum flowing between us? I’m the one who did this to you. And I’m going to give you more.”
His thrusts were now smoother, more controlled, but just as deep. His free hand slid down to your stomach and pressed hard.
“I can feel my cock through your stomach. I’m so deep inside you. That’s where I’m going to come for the fourth time. Right into your womb. You’re going to be so full that you won’t be able to close your legs without my cum leaking out.”
Steve flushed the toilet. The sound of the water momentarily drowned out your heavy breathing. Bucky took the opportunity to pick up the pace and speak louder into your ear.
He came a fourth time, clenching his teeth, his face buried in your neck. You felt the powerful contractions of his cock as it expelled even more cum. Your belly was so full it was almost painful. Yet you came too, shaken by spasms, your pussy pulsing around him.
Bucky didn’t stop. He kept moving slowly in the spooning position, his cock still hard, bathed in all the accumulated cum.
He started to pick up the pace again. The tight spooning position made every movement extremely intimate and deep. His hand never left your belly. He caressed it, pressed against it, as if he already wanted to feel a baby.
The next few minutes were a long sequence of slow, deep thrusts, obsessive dirty talk repeated over and over, and grunts and moans you could no longer control.
Steve went back to his room. The door closed. Bucky whispered in your ear, his voice hoarse with desire:
“He’s gone back to bed. And I’m still filling you up. Fifth load coming. Open your pussy wide. Take all my cum. I’m going to make you a baby tonight.”
He came a fifth time, long and hard, holding you so tightly against him that you felt like he was going to break you. Cum was now spilling out everywhere. The sheet beneath you was soaked.
Hours had passed. The room was plunged into deep darkness, lit only by the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains. The bed was a complete mess, the sheets soaked with sweat, pussy juice, and several loads of cum. Your body was still trembling from the repeated orgasms. Bucky had fucked you relentlessly for over four hours, moving from one position to the next with unflagging intensity. Your pussy was red, swollen, and dripping. Cum flowed nonstop down your thighs, forming a large stain beneath your buttocks.
He gently rolled you onto your back. This time, he wasn’t rough. Bucky positioned himself between your spread legs, his massive body hovering over yours. His cock, still hard despite all the times he’d come, pressed against your soaking wet entrance. He looked you straight in the eyes. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. His breathing was heavy and raspy.
“Look at me. Don’t close your eyes. I want to see you while I take you this time.”
You nodded, exhausted, your voice hoarse from moaning too much.
“I can’t take it anymore… I’m completely drained… but I still want to feel you…”
He pushed slowly. His thick cock parted your sensitive lips and slid all the way in with a wet, obscene sound. The cum from the five previous loads made entry easier, but your pussy remained tight around him. Bucky placed his large right hand flat on your stomach, just like before. His eyes never left yours.
“Can you feel that? My cock is deep inside you again. After everything we’ve done tonight, your pussy keeps squeezing me as if it wants to keep me forever. I can’t stop now. It’s over. You’re mine.”
He began to move. Slow, deep, almost lazy thrusts but so intense that each stroke rubbed against every sensitive part of you. His hand gently pressed against your stomach every time he thrust in, as if he wanted to feel his own cock through your skin. The sound was constant: a slow, wet squelch with every withdrawal and every thrust.
“Look me in the eyes while I fuck you. I want you to see who this pussy belongs to now. ”
You gasped, your hands clenched around his forearms. Your legs trembled around his hips. The exhaustion was overwhelming, but the pleasure remained intense, almost painful, given how much your pussy had been stretched for hours.
“… I’m yours… I can feel it… your cock is so deep… I’ve been full of your cum since earlier…”
He barely quickened the pace, maintaining that slow, controlled rhythm. His hand was now caressing your stomach in slow circles while continuing to press firmly with every thrust. His blue eyes were fixed on yours without ever blinking.
“This hand on your belly… it’s so you’ll understand. I’m marking you from the inside. All that cum I put inside you last night—it’s doing its job. I’m going to get you pregnant. I can feel it. Your pussy is drinking up the last load I’m going to give you. Look at me. Tell me you understand that you’ll never be able to go back.”
You moaned for a long time, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes from the intensity and exhaustion. His cock hit a spot so deep with every slow thrust that your belly visibly rose beneath his palm.
“I understand… I’m yours now… … I only want your cock… I want you to fill me up again… even if I can’t walk anymore…”
Bucky growled softly. He leaned in a little closer, without breaking eye contact. His face was just a few centimeters from yours. You could feel his warm breath on your mouth. His hand remained pressed against your stomach, possessive, heavy.
“You’re mine. Completely mine. After tonight, every time I see you with him, I’ll know your pussy is still full of my cum. I’ll come and fuck you in your bed. I’ll fill you up in the morning, at noon, and at night. You’re going to live with my seed inside you. Look me in the eyes and say it. Say you’re going to carry my child. ”
“I’m going to carry your child… I want you to get me pregnant… fill me one last time… I’m exhausted but I want all your cum… ”
He continued to fuck you slowly for several long minutes. Time seemed to stand still. All you could hear was your breathing, the wet, slow sound of his big cock sliding in and out of your dripping pussy, and the sound of your hushed voices. Bucky spoke almost nonstop, his voice hoarse, possessive, obsessive.
“Feel how your pussy throbs around me. It knows. It knows it belongs to me now. I’ll never be able to stop fucking you. Even if Steve catches us, I’ll keep pounding you right in front of him. You’re my wife now. My little personal breeding machine. My pussy. My womb. My cum.”
You suddenly come, a slow, deep, almost exhausting orgasm. Your walls contracted for a long time around his cock. Bucky never looked away. He kept moving at exactly the same rhythm, his hand pressing harder against your stomach to prolong the spasms.
“That’s it… come while you look at me. Come knowing that I’m going to fill you one last time tonight. I’m going to shoot everything I have left right into your womb. You’re going to sleep with my cum still dripping out of you. You’re going to wake up full of me.”
Your orgasm lasted a long time. Your legs trembled uncontrollably. Bucky slowed down a little more, savoring every contraction. His cock was swollen, throbbing inside you. The cum from his previous loads made every movement loud and slippery.
“Bucky… I beg you… give me everything… I’m yours… I can’t think of anyone else anymore… only you… only your cock… only your cum… ”
He picked up the pace slightly, still maintaining that intense eye contact. His hand left your stomach for a moment to wipe a tear from your cheek, then immediately returned to press against the spot where his cock was pushing against your abdomen.
“You’re so beautiful when you let yourself go completely. Look at me. I’m going to come. I’m going to fill you one last time tonight. But it’ll never really be the last. I’ll never be able to stop. You belong to me now. Body and pussy. Say my name when I come inside you.”
The next few minutes were a long, slow, deep dance. Bucky fucked you while looking into your eyes, his possessive hand on your stomach, whispering the same raw, obsessive promises over and over. You responded between moans, your voice broken by exhaustion and pleasure.
“…I’m yours… I’m your slut… fill me up… get me pregnant… I want to feel your hot cum one last time tonight…”
“You’re going to feel it. I’m going to give you everything. Look at me. Don’t close your eyes. I want to see the look on your face the moment I make you pregnant. Your pussy is mine. Your belly is mine. Your future is mine. . There’s only me left. Only my cock. Only my cum.”
He gradually picked up the pace. The thrusts remained deep but grew more insistent. His cock struck your cervix with every thrust. The wet sound was constant. Your belly was almost gurgling from all the cum already inside you. Bucky was now growling between each sentence.
“I’m going to come… I can feel it building… look at me… I’m going to fill you one last time… you’re going to fall asleep full… so full…”
You came one last time with him, your eyes locked on his. Your body arched weakly, exhausted. Bucky let out a long, hoarse groan and pressed himself against you. His cock swelled violently inside your pussy. The first spurt of cum, thick and hot, hit your uterus directly. He kept moving slowly as he came, as if to drive every drop as deep as possible.
“Take it all… take my last load… I’m filling you up… I’m making you pregnant… you’re mine now… I’ll never be able to stop… never… ”
He kept coming for several long seconds, growling your name softly between each spurt. His hand pressed firmly against your belly, feeling the throbs of his own cock. When he was done, he remained deeply buried inside you, panting, without pulling out. His forehead rested against yours. Your breaths mingled.
“It’s over for tonight… but this is only the beginning. You belong to me. Completely. Look at me one last time and say it.”
You whispered, your voice almost inaudible from exhaustion:
“I belong to you… I’m yours… I don’t want anyone else anymore… ”
He kissed you slowly, deeply, then finally pulled away. An impressive stream of cum immediately flowed from your pussy onto the already soaked sheets. Bucky lay down beside you and pulled you close. He wrapped his large body around yours in a tight spooning position, one arm tucked under your head, the other around your waist. His large hand rested possessively on your swollen belly, exactly where he’d been pressing for hours.
“Sleep now. Sleep with my hand on your belly. Sleep knowing that you’re full of me. Tomorrow morning, when Steve wakes up, you’ll still feel my cum running between your legs. And I’ll be there. I won’t leave anymore. ”
You closed your eyes, your body completely spent, sticky with sweat and cum. Bucky tightened his grip. His cock, still half-hard, rested against your buttocks. His hand didn’t leave your belly for a single second. He slowly caressed the taut skin, as if he were already imagining the result of this night.
“Can you feel how full your belly is? It’s me. All that cum is inside you. It’s going to do its job. You’re going to wake up different. You’re going to wake up as mine.”
He kept whispering in your ear as sleep overtook both of you. Possessive, low, repetitive phrases. His voice grew slower and slower, heavy with fatigue, but he couldn’t stop himself from speaking.
“You’re mine… my little pussy… my belly… I’m going to keep you full… every day… every day… sleep… sleep full of me…”
Your eyes closed completely. Bucky’s body was burning against your back. His hand remained heavy and protective on your belly. Cum continued to trickle slowly from your pussy, soaking the sheets even more. Bucky’s breathing became steady against the nape of your neck. He fell asleep holding you tight, his hand still resting in the same spot, like a silent oath.
The night was over. But something irreversible had just begun.
You fell asleep with the lingering sensation of his cock inside you, his cum filling your belly, and his possessive hand that wouldn’t let you go. Bucky slept pressed against you, wrapped around your body as if he were afraid you’d disappear. His large hand completely covered your belly, fingers spread apart, his palm pressed down as if to keep all his cum inside.
Neither of you spoke anymore. Silence fell over the room. Only your exhausted breaths and the distant sound of the wind outside accompanied the deep sleep that finally carried you away.
THE WEIGHT OF STILL WATER
[Single Dad! Bucky Barnes]
✦ Paring: Reader × Single Dad! Bucky
✦ Summary: You’ve returned to Hartwell, a small coastal town in Maine—for the summer to look after your grandmother’s house while she recovers from surgery. You thought you’d find some peace and quiet. Instead, you find James Barnes: the owner of the only fishing charter in town.
✦ AU pairings: Fishing charter AU · Coastal town AU · Single Dad!Bucky
Join a Taglist: Leave a comment or send an ask to be added to my oneshots | series | all writing
Hartwell in July smelled of salt, boat diesel and something sweet that came from the bakery on the main street, a smell you had forgotten and that came back to you all at once as soon as you opened the car door, like a gentle slap.You picked up the bag from the passenger seat. You looked at Marge's house.It needed a coat of paint. The gutter on the north side was hanging slightly. The garden had kept growing without supervision, which meant the hydrangeas had now colonized the side passage and you'd have to negotiate with them to reach the back door.You took out your phone. You called Marge.She picked up on the second ring.
"You're here," she said.
"I'm here. The gutter is dead."
"It was dead in May. I told you not to look at the gutter."
"You told me not to stress about the gutter. That's different."
Marge's smile passing through her voice even when she tries to hold it back.
"The freezer's full. I asked Lou to stop by before you."
"Lou Tran?"
"There's only one Lou in Hartwell."
"He's still there."
"Everyone's still there. This is Hartwell.How was the drive?"
"Long."
"This is Maine, honey."
You looked at the hydrangeas. They looked pleased with themselves.
"I'm fine, Marge."
"I know you're fine. I didn't ask if you were fine."
"You were going to."
"I was going to ask if you'd eaten on the road."
"I ate on the road."
"Good.Lou also left some coffee beans on the counter. Not the powder stuff you drink on weekdays."
"I can hear the judgment in your voice."
"I'm not judging. I'm observing."
You smiled despite yourself. You grabbed your bag and went into your grandmother's house, which smelled of lavender and old wood and slightly of the dust of a house that hasn't been aired out in three weeks.
"I'll call you tonight," you said.
"Don't call too late. They turn the lights off at nine here."
"It's a rehabilitation center, not a prison."
"You haven't met my roommate."
You hung up. You put your bag on the kitchen table. And you looked at the inside of Marge's house, the photos on the wall, the floral sofa she's refused to change since 2003, the window that looks onto the garden and the victorious hydrangeas, and you took a long breath.
Six weeks.You could do six weeks.
The End of the Dock was seven minutes on foot, which you had verified at sixteen and which hadn't changed. The town hadn't really changed either, a few facades repainted, a souvenir shop that had replaced the old grocery, but the dock was the same, the boats were the same, and the smell of low tide at seven in the evening was exactly the one you remembered.Lou Tran was behind his counter when you came in.He looked up. He smiled.
"Marge told me you were coming today."
"Did she tell you what time?"
"She said in the afternoon. I figured out the rest."
You sat down on a stool. The bar smelled of beer and damp wood and something frying in the kitchen, not unpleasant, on the contrary, the kind of smell that says it's time to eat and that you're somewhere real.
"You've grown," said Lou.
"I was twenty last time. It was inevitable."
"In your head I mean. You have the face of someone who has grown."
"Is that a compliment or an observation?"
"Both."
He put a glass of soda in front of you without asking, he'd retained that too apparently, that you didn't drink alcohol, and he rested his elbows on the counter with the ease of someone who has spent twenty years in this bar and no longer needs to pretend to be busy.
"Marge doing well?" he asked.
"She's complaining about her roommate. So yes."
"Good sign." He looked toward the window. "Did you see the dock when you came in?"
"Briefly."
"There's a good crowd this summer. The charter's doing well."
"What charter?"
"Barnes."
He said it with the neutrality of someone saying an ordinary name while watching at the same time how you receive it.
"James Barnes. He bought Danny's old charter four years ago. Now he's the only one around."
"I don't remember a Barnes."
"He came after you. His wife was from here.Rebecca Hartley. You must have known her."
Becca Hartley. You remembered her, red hair, easy laughs, she was in the year below at the summer school you did here every July.
"Was she doing well?" you asked, and you knew from the way Lou moved his head that it was the wrong tense.
"She died three years ago. Cancer."
You said nothing for a moment. You drank your soda.
"He has a daughter," Lou continued, quietly. "Gracie. Six years old. She's everywhere."
As if to confirm it, the door of the bar opened.The little girl had dark hair and clear eyes and the energy of a person who hasn't yet learned that strangers require an observation period before being approached.She stopped in front of you.She looked at you.
"You're new," she said.
"I'm not new. I was coming back."
"What's the difference?"
"I've been here before."
She thought about that with the seriousness of a child who takes information at face value.
"I wasn't here before," she said. "So for me you're new."
"That's solid logic."
"My name's Gracie."
"I know. Lou just told me about you."
She looked at Lou with an expression half proud half suspicious.
"What did you say about me?"
"That you were everywhere," said Lou.
"That's true," admitted Gracie with absolute simplicity. She turned back to you. "What's your name?"
You told her.She repeated your name once, as if testing it.
"It's good," she concluded. "Where do you live?"
"Marge Kowalski's house. On Pine Street."
"I know that house. It has big blue flowers out front."
"The hydrangeas, yes."
"My dad says they grow too much."
She climbed onto the stool beside you with the agility of a child accustomed to this bar.
"Do you like crabs?"
"Eating them or looking at them?"
"Both."
"Eating yes. Looking depends on the crab."
She nodded with a knowing air, as if you had just confirmed something important about your character.
"My dad catches crabs sometimes. When customers want them."
"Is your dad the one with the charter?"
"Yeah." She looked toward the door. "He's coming. He's putting stuff away."
As if she'd called him, the door opened.He was tall, that was the first thing you noticed, because he filled the doorframe in a way that wasn't aggressive but that took up space all the same. Dark hair, a little long. A fishing jacket over a t-shirt. Hands that looked like they'd worked.He saw Gracie. He saw Lou. He saw you.His expression didn't change, but something in his posture adjusted slightly, the way people do when they notice someone they hadn't anticipated.
"Gracie," he said. "I told you to wait outside."
"It was hot."
"It wasn't hot."
"It was hot for me."
He looked at Lou with an expression that silently asked if everything was all right. Lou made a hand gesture that meant yes, yes.
"Who's that?" asked Gracie, pointing at you, as if you weren't there.
"I don't know," said her father.
"It's the girl from Marge Kowalski's house," said Gracie. "She likes crabs. Well eating them. Looking depends."
He looked at you. You looked at him.
"Hello," you said.
"Hello."
"James Barnes," said Lou, who was clearly loving his role.
"I can read a face," said James without looking at Lou.
"What do you read on mine?" you asked, because something in his tone had slightly irritated you and you were tired from the drive and you hadn't had time to compose a polite version of yourself.
He looked at you a second longer than necessary.
"Someone who's come from far away and was expecting something else," he said.
He wasn't wrong. You said nothing.He put a hand on top of Gracie's head.
"We're going home," he said.
"But I haven't finished talking..."
"You're finished for tonight."
Gracie looked at you with the tragic expression of a child interrupted in the middle of something important.
"See you tomorrow," she told you, as if it were a given.
"See you tomorrow," you answered.
They left. The door closed.Lou wiped a glass with the quiet satisfaction of someone who has watched a scene unfold exactly as expected.
"So," he said.
"So nothing," you answered.
"Just saying."
"You didn't say anything."
"I was going to say dinner's ready if you want to stay."
You looked at the door. You looked at your empty glass.
"I'm staying," you said.
You discovered the problem with the boiler the next morning at six forty-five, in the shower, when the water went from lukewarm to icy in the space of three seconds.You said a word Marge would not have appreciated.You called Lou at seven because it was the only local number you had.
"The boiler," you said when he picked up.
"Good morning to you too."
"Lou. The boiler."
He exhaled, not irritated, more the sigh of someone who had anticipated this moment.
"Marge told me it had been making noises since April."
"She didn't tell me that."
"She didn't want you to stress."
"The gutter and now the boiler. What's the next surprise?"
"The shutter in the back bedroom bangs when there's an east wind."
You closed your eyes.
"Is there someone who can come look at it today?"
"There's Barnes."
You opened your eyes.
"There's no one else?"
"The local plumber is in Portland until Thursday. Barnes does everything. Boilers, gutters, whatever you need. He learned doing up his house."
"He seems like the type to want to help."
"He doesn't seem like any type at all. But he does it anyway.Should I tell him to stop by?"
You looked at the cold bathroom. You looked at your feet on the tile.
"Tell him to stop by," you said.
He arrived at nine with a toolbox and Gracie, who was wearing a pink backpack with stars on it and who walked into Marge's house as if she had her own habits there.
"Can she wait outside?" you asked.
"She never waits outside."
"I'm just looking," said Gracie from the entryway where she was already examining the photos on Marge's wall with methodical attention.
"The boiler's in the basement," you said to James.
"I know where boilers are."
"I was just showing you the way."
"I know this house."
You looked at him. He looked at you. It wasn't hostility, it was subtler than that, two people who hadn't yet decided what to do with each other and who were keeping their distance in the meantime.
"Fine," you said. "Then go ahead."
He went to the basement.Gracie settled at the kitchen table with her colored pencils, she had them in her backpack, with a pad of white paper and a pencil case shaped like a dinosaur, and she drew with the concentration of a child who doesn't need anyone to find something for her to do.You made coffee.
"Have you lived here long?" she asked without looking up from her drawing.
"Until August. Then I go back."
"Where?"
"Boston."
She thought about it.
"Is Boston big?"
"Big enough."
"Here it's small." She changed pencils. "But my dad says small is good. He says you can see the stars."
"He's right."
"You can't see the stars in Boston?"
"Not all of them. Too many lights."
She looked up at you with an expression that said this was serious information.
"That's sad."
"You get used to it."
"I wouldn't get used to it." She went back to her drawing. "I love stars. My dad shows me the names sometimes. When we go out in the evening on the boat."
"He takes you on the boat at night?"
"When the customers have gone. Just the two of us." She smiled at her drawing without looking at you. "It's my favorite time."
You drank your coffee. You watched this six-year-old drawing at your grandmother's table with her pencils and her dinosaur case, and you thought Lou was right, she was everywhere, and it wasn't a flaw.James came back up from the basement forty minutes later.
"The burner," he said. "I can adjust it now but it'll need replacing before winter."
"Can you replace it this summer?"
"If you find the part."
"Where is it?"
"Hardware store in Rockport."
He put his tools on the floor, opened his box, took something out.
"I won't be able to go get it before Friday. The charter's full this week."
"I can go."
He looked at you.
"You have a car?"
"I rented something at the airport."
"Rockport is forty minutes away."
"I can read a map."
He gave a brief nod, not approving, just neutral, the kind that says fine.
"I'll make you a list of what you need."
"I can write too."
Gracie looked up from her drawing, looked at her father, looked at you. She had the expression of a referee waiting to see if someone was going to score a point.Nobody scored a point.James took a pen from his pocket and wrote the references on a scrap of paper that he set on the counter.
"The boiler will hold until Friday," he said. "If it starts making noises again call Lou."
"Not you directly?"
"Lou finds me faster than you can."
"Do I have your number?"
"No."
A silence.
"You don't want to give me your number," you said, and it was an observation, not a question.
"If you need me, go through Lou."
You looked at the list on the counter. You looked at Barnes putting his tools away with methodical, economical movements, the kind of movements that say the conversation is over because he has decided it is.
"How much do I owe you?" you asked.
"Nothing."
"I owe you something."
"It's Marge's house."
"Marge isn't here."
"I know." He closed his box. "It's still Marge's house."
You wanted to insist. You held back, not out of politeness, but because something in his tone said it would do no good and you didn't have the energy to fight on that ground this morning.
"Gracie," he said.
"I'm almost done."
"You're almost always done."
"Because I like to finish what I start." She looked up at you. "This is for you."
She pushed the drawing across the table toward you.It was a house, Marge's house, recognizable by the big blue flowers out front, with two figures outside. A tall one with dark hair and a small one with dark hair too. And beside them, a third smaller figure with what looked like hair the color you had told her yours was.
"That's the three of us," she explained. "In front of your house. Because that's where we met."
You looked at the drawing.
You looked at James.He was looking at the ceiling with the expression of a man who had learned not to comment on his daughter's social initiatives.
"Thank you Gracie," you said. "It's very good."
"I know," she said simply.
She put her pencils away. She put her dinosaur case back in her backpack. She jumped off her chair.James picked up the toolbox. He looked at the drawing on the table for a second, just one, and something in his expression moved, imperceptibly, before going neutral again.
"The list is on the counter," he said.
"I saw it."
"Have a good day."
"You too."
They left. The door closed. You drank the rest of your cold coffee standing in Marge's kitchen, with Gracie's drawing on the table and the list of spare parts on the counter, and the boiler running again downstairs, steady and quiet.You took the drawing.You put it on the refrigerator with a lobster-shaped magnet that had been there since at least 2009.You weren't quite sure why.You didn't ask yourself the question.
The storm arrived on Wednesday without warning, without warning you at least. Lou seemed to have known since the day before, and Gracie too, and probably everyone in Hartwell who lived close enough to the water to read the sky like a familiar text.You found out when the rain started at seven in the morning and didn't stop.You stayed in Marge's house until noon. You went through two cupboards, fixed the banging shutter with strong adhesive tape you'd found in Marge's tool drawer, a temporary solution, an effective one, and reread the same chapter of your book three times without retaining a word.
At noon you went to the End of the Dock.It was busy for a Wednesday, fishermen whose outings had been cancelled, two or three faces you didn't recognize, and him at the far end of the counter with a coffee and something that looked like paperwork.Gracie wasn't there.You sat at the other end of the counter. Lou brought you a soda without you asking.
"How long will the storm last?" you asked.
"Until tomorrow morning." He looked toward the window. "Good storm. Not dangerous, just persistent."
"Poetic."
"I'm full of surprises."
You drank your soda. The rain hit the window steadily. Someone had put on music, something old, a radio, not a playlist, and it gave the bar that particular quality of places that don't try to be anything other than what they are.
"Where's Gracie?" you asked Lou, because the child's absence was almost as notable as her presence.
"School. She finishes at three."
"There's a school here?"
"Small one. Eight kids. The teacher comes from Rockport."
You nodded. You were watching the rain.
"You look bored," said a voice to your left.
You turned your head.He had moved his paperwork. He was now two stools closer, without you having heard him move.
"I'm not bored," you said. "I'm watching the rain."
"Same thing."
"It's not the same thing." You looked at his coffee. "Your outing got cancelled?"
"All outings until tomorrow."
"That's bad for business."
"It's the weather." He shrugged one shoulder. "It happens."
A silence. Not uncomfortable, just present, the kind that arrives between two people who haven't yet found the register that suits them.
"Do your customers complain?"
"Sometimes. People who come for a weekend and were counting on fishing Saturday."
"Do you refund them?"
"I reschedule if I can. If I can't, I refund." He drank his coffee. "It's in the terms."
"Do you have many regulars?"
He looked at you sideways, not suspicious, just surprised, as if it wasn't the question he was expecting.
"A few. People from Rockport, from Portland. A guy from Boston who comes every summer, three years running."
"Boston," you repeated.
"Yeah."
"I live in Boston."
"I know."
You looked at him.
"Gracie," he said simply.
"Obviously."
Something in his expression shifted, not a smile, just a lightening, like a tension releasing one notch.
"Did she tell you anything else about me?" you asked.
"That you liked crabs. Well, eating them."
"Looking depends on the crab."
"That's what she said."
Lou was moving behind the counter with the air of someone who didn't want to intrude but was listening anyway.You talked about the weather a little longer, not because it was fascinating, but because it was neutral, ground on which neither of you had a position to defend. He explained how he read the sky in the morning before an outing, the signs that didn't lie, what clouds to the west meant in summer versus autumn. He talked about it with a calm precision that wasn't pedagogical, he wasn't teaching you something, he was just saying what he knew.You listened.It wasn't something you had planned to do.
"Did you grow up near the water?" you asked.
"No. Brooklyn."
"How do you get from Brooklyn to Hartwell?"
A silence. Not long, two seconds maybe, but perceptible.
"Rebecca was from here," he said. "We came to spend a summer. We stayed."
He'd said it with the economy of someone who has learned to summarize a complex story in one sentence, so as not to have to say more.You didn't ask more.
"What's Hartwell like in winter?" you said instead.
He looked at you, and something in his gaze said he'd noticed you hadn't followed the thread, and that it was fine.
"Quiet," he said. "The people who stay for winter are the ones who like it that way."
"And you like it."
"I like Hartwell."
"That's not the same thing."
He thought about it seriously, as if it deserved a real answer.
"No," he said. "It's not the same thing. But both are true."
Gracie arrived at twenty past three with her backpack and her dripping yellow raincoat, she pushed the bar door open with both hands and she saw you before she'd even taken off her hood.
"You're here!" she said, as if it were a planned surprise.
"It's raining," you answered. "I came to get dry."
"We came to get dry too." She looked at her father. "We're the same."
"We're not the same," he said.
"We're both here."
"That doesn't mean we're the same."
"It means we had the same idea."
He looked at the ceiling with the expression of a man who had this conversation several times a week and had stopped trying to win it.Gracie climbed onto the stool between you two, the empty one, exactly in the middle, with the satisfaction of a child taking her rightful place.
"I want a hot chocolate," she announced to Lou.
"Please," said her father without looking at her.
"Please Lou."
"There we go," said Lou.
She turned to you.
"What did you do today?"
"I fixed a shutter."
"By yourself?"
"With adhesive tape."
She thought about it.
"My dad would have used real tools."
"Your dad has real tools."
"That's true," she admitted. She looked at her hot chocolate arriving. "Do you have tools?"
"Not here."
"We can lend you some."
"Gracie," said her father.
"What? We have lots of tools." She blew on her chocolate. "It's normal to lend things."
You looked at the profile of this man beside his daughter, the way he wasn't smiling but something around his eyes was less closed than an hour before, and you thought that Lou might have been right about certain things without needing to say them.The rain kept going outside.You stayed until five.
It happened on a Thursday evening, by accident.He had left to pick up Gracie from a friend's house, he'd said that on the way out, briefly, to Lou, not to you, and you'd stayed at the bar because you didn't feel like going back to Marge's house and looking at the gutter.Lou wiped the counter. He set a glass in front of you. He looked at you with the expression of someone who has something to say and is just waiting for the right moment.
"Say what you have to say," you said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was just observing you."
"That's worse."
He smiled. He put his elbows on the counter.
"Rebecca," he said. "Had you heard of her?"
You took a sip of your soda.
"A little. We'd cross paths in summer at school. We didn't really know each other."
"She was good." He said it simply, like a fact. "Luminous. The kind of person who made places more alive just by being there."
He looked at the counter.
"James met her here, one summer. He must have been twenty-six. She was twenty-four. He left for Brooklyn in September and came back in October."
"For her."
"For her." He lifted his head. "He didn't hesitate. He's the kind of man who decides and does.When she got sick, he stopped everything. The work in New York, the plans, everything. He spent two years just being there."
You said nothing.
"Gracie was three when Rebecca died," Lou continued. "Three and a half."
He unhooked a glass from the rack above him, started wiping it for no particular reason.
"She remembers her mother. Not everything. But things. Sometimes she says something and James gets that look, you know the kind, like someone has pressed on something."
"Does he show it?"
"No. That's why you need to know him to see it."
You looked at the window. Outside Hartwell was getting on with its Thursday evening, a few cars, the lighthouse in the distance, the black water under the sky.
"Why are you telling me this?" you asked.
Lou set down the glass.
"Because you seem like someone who prefers to know," he said. "And because he'll never say anything about himself unless you ask. And if you ask he'll say the minimum."
He shrugged.
"It's just useful to have the context."
"Context for what?"
"Nothing in particular. To understand why he is the way he is."
"How is he?"
Lou thought seriously about the question.
"Solid," he said. "But the kind of solid that cost something."
He picked up his cloth again.
"He's a good father. Really good. Gracie is happy, she's stable, she wants for nothing. He's built something here.But sometimes I look at him and I think he's put so much energy into staying upright that he's forgotten to check whether he still likes it."
You said nothing for a moment.
"Is that an observation or a worry?" you asked.
"Both."
You thought that word sounded familiar.He came back at eight with Gracie asleep on his shoulder, truly asleep, deeply, the way children sleep when they've spent everything they had and have nothing left to give. He was also carrying her backpack and her coat on the same arm, with the automatic balance of someone who has done this hundreds of times.He saw you.Something crossed his face, not surprise, more a reconfiguration, like someone adjusting their settings.
"She fell asleep in the car," he said quietly so as not to wake her.
"I see."
"I just came to say good night to Lou."
"Good night Lou," said Lou from the kitchen without appearing.
He looked at his sleeping daughter. He looked at the bar. There was something particular in his expression, not embarrassment, more that sharp awareness of people who aren't used to being seen in ordinary moments.
"I'll put her to bed," he said.
"Go ahead."
He didn't move right away.
"Did she tell you about her drawing?" he asked.
"Which one? She made me three drawings."
Something shifted around his eyes.
"The first one. The one with the house."
"Yes. It's on Marge's fridge."
A silence.
"She does that," he said. "With people she likes." He looked at Gracie. "She decides quickly."
"I see that."
"It's not a flaw."
"I didn't say it was."
"No." He adjusted Gracie on his shoulder. "Just saying."
You watched him carry his sleeping daughter, with her backpack and her coat and that way he had of holding it all without making a show of it, and you thought about what Lou had just told you, solid, but the kind of solid that cost something, and you found it was an exact description.
"Good night," you said.
"Good night."
He left.Lou came out of the kitchen with a bowl he set in front of you.
"You haven't eaten," he said.
"What is it?"
"Clam chowder. Leftover from tonight."
You ate the clam chowder without protesting.Lou wiped the counter in silence for a moment.
"He looked at you," he said.
"He was looking at Gracie."
"He looked at you first."
"Lou."
"Just saying what I saw."
"This is a bar, not a therapist's office."
"I can be both."
You finished your soup. You put down the spoon.
"He seems lonely," you said despite yourself.
Lou didn't answer. He just wiped the counter.Which was an answer in itself.You walked back to Marge's house under a sky that had stopped raining but hadn't yet decided whether it would start again. The air smelled of tide and wet earth. The dock was empty at this hour, the boats moored, their red and green navigation lights reflected in the black water.You looked at the charter moored at the far end, Barnes Fishing Co., painted in white on the hull, clean and maintained with that same economical attention he put into everything.You thought about a six-year-old girl who made drawings for people she liked and who decided quickly.You thought that quick decisions might be hereditary in this family. That maybe he decided quickly too, except that for three years he had learned not to.You went into Marge's house.You looked at the drawing on the fridge.Three figures in front of a house with blue flowers.You went to bed.
Sam arrived on a Friday afternoon in a rental car too large for Hartwell, which he parked diagonally in the dock parking lot with the nonchalance of someone who had never had a parking problem in their life.You saw him from the terrace of the End of the Dock where you were reading, or holding a book, which wasn't exactly the same thing.He got out of the car. He looked at the dock. He looked at the water. He smiled the way someone does when they arrive somewhere they like and don't need to say so out loud.Then he saw you.His smile didn't change but it took on a different shade, more attentive, more calculating, the kind of smile of someone filing away a piece of information carefully.He crossed the parking lot.
"You must be the girl from Marge's house," he said.
"And you must be Sam."
"Did Gracie tell you about me?"
"Lou."
"Both probably." He held out his hand. "Sam Wilson."
You shook it. He had a frank handshake, the kind that has nothing to prove.
"Where is he?" you asked.
"On the boat. He's finishing a trip." He looked at the book on the table. "How long have you been here?"
"Three weeks."
"And you're planning to stay until?"
"Early August."
He nodded slowly, with the air of someone doing a calculation.
"Sit down if you want," you said, because standing there while he calculated something about you was slightly uncomfortable.
He sat down.Lou brought him a beer without him asking, they clearly knew each other well enough that ordering was unnecessary, and Sam looked at the dock with the calm of someone who never needs to fill silence.
"Is he doing well?" you asked.
Sam looked at you.
"James."
"I don't see who else you'd be talking about," he said.
He drank his beer.
"He's doing. It's complicated to know whether that means anything, with him."
"Why?"
"Because doing well for him is a pretty wide spectrum. He can be doing well and be completely beside himself at the same time."
"That's a way to describe someone."
"It's an exact way." He put down his beer. "Lou told me you two get along."
"Lou exaggerates."
"Lou observes. That's different." He watched you with quiet attention. "What did he tell you about Rebecca?"
"Nothing."
"That's what I thought." He looked at the water. "He doesn't talk about that with people he doesn't know well. And with people he knows well he doesn't talk about it either because he doesn't want to weigh them down."
"So who does he talk to about it?"
"Nobody." A pause. "Well, Gracie sometimes. In her way."
You put your book on the table.
"Doesn't it bother you, telling me all this?" you asked.
Sam thought about it honestly.
"No," he said. "Because you seem like someone who would do something useful with the information. And because he'll never say it himself."
"Do something useful like what exactly?"
"Like nothing specific. Like just, be there without pretending everything's fine when it isn't."
You looked at the dock. The charter was coming back in the distance, you recognized the hull now, Barnes Fishing Co. in white on the side.
"Does he know you're here?" you asked.
"I sent him a message this morning. He replied ok."
"That's enthusiastic."
"That's him being enthusiastic. Ok from him is roughly I was thinking about you and I'm glad you're coming."
You looked at Sam. He looked at you with those eyes that clearly saw a great deal.
"What," you said.
"Nothing. Just observing."
"Do you have a habit of observing things out loud?"
"Only when it's useful."
He arrived thirty minutes later, with Gracie on his heels who had spent the afternoon at her friend Célia's and had made it to the dock at the exact moment the charter came in, as if she had an internal clock calibrated to her father's outings.He saw Sam. Something opened in his face, really opened, in a way you hadn't yet seen from him, a direct and unguarded warmth that said this man was someone important.They shook hands and grabbed each other's shoulder at the same time, that brief, solid gesture of people who have known each other a long time and don't need to do more.
"You're late," said Sam.
"I have customers."
"You always have customers. That's an excuse."
"It's my job."
"Technically—"
"Sam."
"Ok." Sam looked at Gracie. "Hey beautiful."
"Uncle Sammy." She jumped on him with the enthusiasm of a child who reserved that kind of welcome for very few people. "Did you bring candy?"
"In the car."
"Which ones?"
"The red ones you like."
“Tagada strawberries?”
“Tagada strawberries.”
She ran off toward the rental car. He watched her go with that smile, the real one, not the polite smile, and something in his expression said this child had loved him for a long time and it was mutual.Then he looked at you.
"Did she talk to you?" he asked Sam.
"We chatted," said Sam.
"About what?"
"Hartwell. Fishing. The weather."
They looked at each other with the economy of two people communicating in a register you didn't have the full vocabulary for.
"I'm going to get changed," he said.
He went to his car.Sam drank his beer.
"He looked at you last," he said.
"So?"
"With him that's the reverse order. He usually looks at the exits first."
You didn't answer.Sam smiled into his beer.
That evening there were four of you at the End of the Dock, you, him, Sam, and Gracie who was gradually falling asleep on the bench beside her father with her half-eaten Fraises Tagada in her hand.Sam was talking, easily, naturally, he had that gift of making conversations light without emptying them of substance. He was telling a story about Washington, about an absurd situation at work, and you were listening and laughing and at some point you looked up and he was looking at you.Not Sam. The other one.He was watching the way you laughed.He looked away immediately, not abruptly, just gently, like someone putting something back in its place, and he looked at Sam and said something about the Washington story that was pretending to be a response.But you had seen.And Sam had seen that you had seen, because Sam saw everything, and he continued his story without smiling but with that something around his eyes.Gracie slid off the bench in her sleep and he caught her without looking, an automatic and gentle gesture, and he tucked her against him with one hand in her hair.You looked at your glass.Lou, from the counter, had been wiping a glass for five minutes that didn't need it.
The dock festival took place every last Saturday in July since Lou had taken over the bar, he had explained this to Sam the evening before with the discreet pride of someone who has created a tradition and doesn't want to make too much of it.Tables outside on the terrace, string lights between the posts, a group of three musicians set up in the corner, guitar, double bass, accordion, playing a mix of folk and old coastal jazz that nobody could have properly named but that went well with the evening air and the smell of the sea.You had arrived with Marge on the phone in your ear.
"You're outside," she had said. "I can hear the wind."
"The dock festival."
"Ah." A pleased silence. "Are you going with someone?"
"I'm going to the bar Marge, it's not a social event."
"Everything is a social event if you choose to see it that way."
"Good night Marge."
"Give Lou a kiss from me."
You had hung up.Gracie had found you in thirty seconds, she had that radar for people she had decided to adopt, and she had taken your hand without asking to bring you closer to the string lights, as if you hadn't been able to see them from where you were standing.
"Lou put them up," she had explained. "Every year. He climbs up the stepladder by himself and my dad holds the stepladder because Lou isn't steady on it."
"Lou isn't steady on a stepladder?"
"He says it's because of his knees. My dad says it's because he looks at his phone at the same time."
"Who's right?"
She had thought about it seriously.
"Both probably."
You had smiled.She had let go of your hand to go toward Sam who was arriving with two glasses and the expression of someone who found the situation generally satisfying.The evening had that particular quality of summer evenings on the coast, the air just cool enough to feel good, the light from the string lights making everything slightly golden, the music present enough to cover the silences without filling them completely.You had talked with people you didn't know, Hartwell residents who knew Marge, who knew who you were, who asked polite questions about Boston and talked about the summer with the familiarity of people for whom summer wasn't a vacation but just the warm season.He was there, on the periphery of all of it, not isolated, he knew everyone, but holding back all the same, with that way of occupying spaces without claiming them.Sam was beside you when you watched him talking with an old fisherman whose name you didn't know.
"He's good here," said Sam.
"I see that."
"No I mean, he's good here specifically. In places where people have known him for a long time." He took a sip. "Elsewhere he doesn't quite know what to do with himself."
"And here he does?"
"Here he has Gracie. He has Lou. He has the charter." A pause. "It's enough to stay upright. But staying upright isn't the same as living."
You didn't answer because you didn't know what to answer and Sam wasn't really expecting one, he was observing, as always.Gracie fell asleep around ten.Not in her bed, on the bar bench, curled up on her jacket folded into a pillow, with her Fraises Tagada in her hand and the music from the three musicians still going outside. He had watched her fall asleep with that particular attention of parents who know exactly the moment it tips over, and he had laid his jacket over her without making a sound.The musicians had changed register.Something slower, a waltz maybe, or something that resembled one, with the accordion in the foreground and the double bass underneath like a pulse.On the terrace, two or three couples had stood up.Lou had looked at the scene. He had looked at Gracie asleep. He had looked at the terrace. He had said, loudly enough for everyone to hear but in the tone of someone just making an observation:
"Shame to leave a slow dance without dancers."
Gracie had opened one eye, just one, from her bench.
"Dad has to dance," she had said in a sleepy but surprisingly firm voice.
"Gracie—"
"With her." She had pointed in your direction without lifting her head. "It's polite."
"It's not a question of politeness—"
"Yes it is." She had closed her eye again. "Grandma Kowalski says refusing to dance is rude."
Sam was looking at the ceiling with the expression of someone trying very hard not to smile.You had looked at the man across from you. He was looking at you with something between resignation and something else you couldn't have named.
"Does your grandmother really say that?" he had asked.
"Marge says a lot of things," you had answered.
"Is that a yes or a no?"
"It's a if you don't want to we don't have to."
A silence.
"I'd like to," he had said.
On the terrace, under the string lights, with the double bass and the accordion and the air that smelled of salt and grilled mussels that Lou was making in the kitchen, you danced.Not spectacularly, neither of you was a dancer, it showed, but it didn't matter because it wasn't a competition. It was just two people moving slowly in the same space, with one hand in the other's and the other somewhere on a shoulder or a waist, and the music lasting as long as it lasted.He wasn't looking at you directly, he was looking slightly above, or to the side, the way people do when they don't yet know where to put their eyes in a new situation.You were doing the same.
"Gracie is going to be pleased," you said, because saying something was simpler than the silence.
"She's been manipulating everyone for six years," he said. "She's very good at it."
"It works."
"Yes."
A silence. The music kept going.
"Do you normally know how to dance?" he asked.
"Not really. You?"
"No."
"We're managing anyway."
"We're managing."
The hand on your waist had moved one centimeter, not intentionally, just the natural movement of someone adjusting their balance, and you were imperceptibly closer than at the beginning.Neither of you stepped back.The music stopped.You separated with the same quiet neutrality you had brought to drawing closer, not abruptly, not with embarrassment, just naturally, like two people who had gone somewhere together and were coming back.
"Thank you," you said.
"You're welcome."
Inside, through the window, you could see Sam looking elsewhere with far too much deliberateness.On the way out that evening, Sam had caught up with you in the parking lot.
"He talked to me about you," he had said.
You had stopped.
"When?"
"This morning. While he was getting the boat ready." He had his hands in his pockets, he was looking at the dock. "He didn't say anything specific. He just mentioned your name twice without me asking."
"That's all?"
"With him that's a lot."
You had looked at the Barnes Fishing Co. moored at the end of the dock, its navigation lights in the dark.
"I go back to Boston in three weeks," you had said.
"I know." Sam had looked at you. "I'm not telling you what to do with that. I'm just saying what I observed."
He had gone back to the bar.You had walked to Marge's house in the silence of Hartwell at midnight, the crickets, the water, the wind in the pines, with the hand that had held his still slightly aware of itself.Three weeks.You didn't quite know what to do with that either.
The real storm arrived on a Tuesday evening.Not the small one from last Wednesday, that one had been persistent but domestic, the kind you waited out under a roof with a coffee. This one was different. You had felt it coming in the afternoon, in the way the sky had gradually changed color, from pale blue to grey-green, and in the wind that had picked up around five with an intention that Hartwell's wind didn't usually have.Lou had sent you a message at six.
Get home before eight. It's going to hit hard.
You had gotten back at seven-thirty.The power went out at eight ten.You had found Marge's candles in the bottom kitchen drawer, she had an impressive collection, the kind of woman who prepared for disasters with absolute serenity, and you had lit the three biggest ones on the counter.Then you had heard the noise.Not the wind, not the rain, something more localized, a cracking in the back wall, where the gutter had been hanging since you arrived. You had taken a candle and gone to look.Water was coming in.Not much, not yet, but the gutter had given way under the weight of the rain and the water was running down the outside wall and finding its way in through the corner of the hallway window.You had looked at it for ten seconds.You had taken your phone.Lou wasn't answering, he was probably at the bar with a dozen people waiting for it to pass. You had searched your contacts. You didn't have his number. You had sent a message to Lou:
water coming in north side, gutter, what do I do.
The reply had come two minutes later.
Call Barnes. I'm sending him your number.
Thirty seconds after that, your phone had rung.
"Where exactly?" he had asked without preamble.
"Back hallway. Corner of the window on the north side."
"Do you have towels?"
"Yes."
"Put them against the edge of the window for now. I'm coming."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm coming," he had repeated, and he had hung up.
You had put down the towels.He arrived twenty minutes later soaked from shoulder to foot, with a headlamp on his forehead and a toolbox in his hand, and Gracie asleep in his arms.You had opened the door.
"She was asleep," he had said before you could ask. "I couldn't leave her alone."
"Of course."
"Can I put her somewhere?"
You had led him to the living room sofa. He had laid Gracie down with an economy of movement that said he had done it hundreds of times in less practical circumstances, she hadn't stirred, sunk into that deep sleep of children that nothing disturbs.He had looked at the hallway.
"Show me."
He had worked in the hallway for forty minutes with his headlamp and his tools, while the rain kept hammering the windows and the wind made the shutters vibrate, and you had stayed nearby because holding the extra lamp was useful and not because you wanted to stay nearby.He didn't talk much while working. Occasional requests, pass me the tape, hold that, and the rest in silence, a working silence, focused and without discomfort.At one point his elbow had brushed your shoulder and neither of you had moved back, and you had kept holding the lamp as if nothing had happened because nothing had happened, objectively.
"It'll hold until tomorrow," he had said, putting his tools away. "The gutter will need to be properly fixed."
"I know. Lou told me about the gutter."
"Lou says a lot of things."
"He observes."
He had looked at you with something that resembled amusement, discreet and brief.
"What else did he tell you?"
"Things."
"Useful things?"
You had thought honestly.
"Yes," you had said.
He had nodded, not to approve, just to register.In the kitchen, you had made tea because it was something to do and because he was soaked and offering tea to someone soaked was the most elementary thing in the world.He had accepted without protesting, which was in itself notable.You had sat at Marge's table with your cups, and the storm outside, and the candle between you, and Gracie asleep on the sofa in the other room whose steady breathing you could hear in the silence.
"When do you go back to Boston?" he had asked.
"In two weeks."
He had drunk his tea.
"Marge will be alone."
"She manages. She always manages."
"I know." A pause. "I used to check in on her from time to time. Before you arrived. After too if you want."
You had looked at him.
"Did she ask you to?"
"No." He had looked at his cup. "It's Hartwell. People do that."
"You were raised in Brooklyn."
"I learned it here."
The candle cast a light that moved slightly with the drafts and made the shadows unsteady. The rain on the roof had something regular about it now, less rage, just persistence.
"Did Rebecca teach you that?" you had asked.
It had come out without you quite having decided it. You had felt the risk of the question in your mouth half a second too late to take it back.He hadn't changed expression. But he had taken a breath slightly longer than the ones before.
"Rebecca taught me a lot of things," he had said.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"No." He had looked up at you. "It's good to be able to talk about it."
A silence.
"You don't talk about it often," you had said quietly.
"No."
"Why?"
He had thought about it. Really thought, not to find a way to deflect, to find the exact answer.
"Because people don't know what to do with it. They make a face. Or they say things that are well-intentioned but useless."
He had looked at the candle flame.
"And then I end up putting them at ease about something that concerns me."
"That's exhausting."
"Yes."
"So you say nothing."
"So I say nothing."
You had drunk your tea. Outside the wind had dropped a notch, not finished, just less urgent.
"You miss her," you had said.
"Every day," he had said. "Differently than before. At first it was sharp. Now it's more, present. Like something that's part of the landscape."
"Is that better or worse?"
"It's different. Both at the same time."
You had nodded.
"Does Gracie look like her?" you had asked.
And something had really opened in his face, not pain, something more complex, softer and heavier at the same time.
"In the way she decides quickly," he had said. "And in the laugh. She has exactly her laugh."
He had said it with a tenderness that wasn't trying to hide itself, and you had thought that maybe it was the first time you had seen him without any defenses at all, just there, at Marge's table with his tea and the storm outside and his daughter asleep in the other room.
"That's good," you had said quietly. "That she has her laugh."
He had looked at you.
"Yes," he had said. "It is."
You had talked some more, not long, nothing grand, just what came naturally when you were tired of maintaining distances and the storm made distances less defensible. You had talked to him about Boston, about your work, about why you had come back to Hartwell beyond Marge. He had listened in that way he had of listening, completely, without preparing his answer at the same time.At some point the candle had burned lower and you had moved slightly closer without noticing, the way you do around sources of light.
"You should have left before the storm," you had said.
"Probably."
"The road is bad now."
"Yes."
A silence.
"You have a sofa," he had said. "If that's not a problem."
You had looked at the living room sofa where Gracie was sleeping.
"There's the back bedroom," you had said. "The bed is made."
"The sofa is fine."
"The back bedroom is better."
He had looked at you for a second.
"Alright," he had said.
You woke up with something heavy on your feet.It took you a second to realize it was Gracie,she’d migrated from the living room couch to your bed during the night, with the unstoppable logic of children who go where it’s warm, and she was sleeping across your ankles like a cat pleased with herself.You looked up at the ceiling.You looked beside you.He was there.Not in the bed—on the bedspread, fully dressed, with one arm folded under his head. He must have come to check on Gracie during the night and fallen asleep there without meaning to, or perhaps half-intentionally, in that liminal state between wakefulness and sleep where parents apparently lived permanently.His shoulder was touching yours.Not much just the light touch of two people who had occupied the same space during the night and whose bodies had done what bodies do, which is to seek warmth.You hadn’t moved.Gracie had woken up ten minutes later with the energy of a child who had no memory of having moved and who found the situation she was in perfectly natural.
She had looked at both of you.She had said:
“Good.”
Just that. Good. With the quiet satisfaction of a general inspecting a position and finding it satisfactory.Then she had jumped out of bed and headed for the kitchen.
He had woken up at the sound—his eyes open immediately, without transition, the way parents wake up and he had looked at the ceiling, then at Gracie disappearing down the hallway, then at you.
“She’s wandered off,” you’d said.
“She always does that.”
“At your place too?”
“Every night.”
“And do you wander off too?”
He’d looked at you. Something in his eyes said he knew exactly where he was and how he’d ended up there, and that he had no explanation to offer that wouldn’t be the real explanation.
“Apparently,” he had said.
From the kitchen came the sound of Gracie opening the fridge with the determination of someone who was hungry and was going to take care of it herself.
You had gotten up.The morning after the storm had that particular quality of mornings that follow something intense—the air washed clean, the sky an almost offensive blue, the dock still glistening with the night’s water. Hartwell seemed to have been rinsed and put back in place.Gracie was eating cereal at Marge’s table with the drawing she’d made three weeks earlier still on the fridge above her, and she was looking out the window at the garden with the satisfaction of someone who found the world, on the whole, well-ordered.You were making coffee.He was standing by the window, looking out at the dock—the charter boat was intact; you’d seen him check that first from the window, that automatic reflex.
“It held up,” you’d said.
“It’s still holding up.”
“You’re still worried, though.”
“Always.”
Gracie had looked up from her cereal.
“Dad checks the boat first thing in the morning,” she’d said. “Before he even looks at his phone.”
“I know,” you’d said.
“How do you know?”
“I watch.”
She’d looked at her father. She’d looked at you. She’d gone back to her cereal with an expression that said this information satisfied her.You’d set a cup of coffee in front of him without asking. He’d taken it without asking either that natural, unceremonious gesture of people who were starting to settle into a space.Your fingers had brushed against each other over the cup.Neither of you had commented.After tea, silence had settled like a warm blanket—not heavy, just there. You’d set your cup in the sink. So had he. Your movements fell into sync without either of you saying a word.
Gracie was breathing softly in the living room, still asleep on the couch, one arm dangling, cheek squashed against Marge’s floral cushion. Early-afternoon light filtered through the window, golden, almost too gentle for reality.He came up behind you—not to wrap his arms around you right away. Just to be there. His chest against your back, hands planted on either side of the sink, caging you without trapping you. You felt his breath in your hair, steady, just a little faster than usual.He turned your face toward him with one finger under your chin—gentle, but firm. He kissed you. Slowly. Almost painfully slowly. His lips brushed yours, lingered, came back, like someone tasting something they know is fragile.You slid a hand to the back of his neck. He let out a soft growl against your mouth—a low, almost involuntary sound.Then he pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were darker than usual, almost black in the kitchen light.
“Not here,” he murmured. “Not with her in the next room.”
You nodded.
“I know.”
But neither of you moved.
He rested his forehead against yours.
“Come tonight. My place. After she’s asleep.”
“What if she wakes up?”
“She sleeps like a rock after a big day. I’ve got the baby monitor.”
You smiled despite yourself.
“You’ve thought of everything.”
“No. I’m terrible at improvising.”
He kissed you once more—brief, almost chaste—then straightened. He went to get Gracie from the living room, lifting her with the ease that spoke of hundreds of nights carrying her while she slept. She mumbled something unintelligible, curled into his shoulder without opening her eyes.
He looked at you over her head.
“Nine thirty. My place. If you want.”
“I’ll come.”
He gave a single nod. Then he left, the little girl in his arms, the screen door closing softly behind them.
The rest of the afternoon dragged. You tidied Marge’s kitchen, washed the cups, folded the blanket where Gracie had slept. You stood at the window looking out at the garden drenched in light, the hydrangeas still bowed under yesterday’s rain but refusing to break. You thought about Boston. The noisy streets, the lights that drowned out the stars, the nights you came home alone to an apartment that was too quiet.And you thought about him. The way he filled space without ever crowding it. About Gracie deciding things with the certainty of children who haven’t yet learned doubt.At nine twenty-five you put on a light coat, locked Marge’s door, and walked to his place. Ten minutes along the coastal path. The night was clear, stars visible despite the few dock lamps. You heard the waves before you saw his house—small gray wooden building, faded blue shutters, warm light glowing in the living-room window.He opened the door before you knocked. He must have been watching.
“She asleep?” you asked quietly.
“Half an hour now. Baby monitor on.”
He closed the door behind you. The living room was small, cozy, cluttered with hastily tidied toys, a blanket thrown over the couch, an open book lying upside-down on the coffee table. Photos on the walls—Rebecca smiling with baby Gracie, a younger James on a boat, captured moments without pretense.He didn’t turn on the overhead light. Just the side lamp that threw soft shadows.He looked at you for a long moment without speaking, as though making sure you had really come, that you hadn’t changed your mind.Then he took one step. His hand slid to the back of your neck—not rough, just sure—and he kissed you.It was different from Marge’s kitchen. There it had been restrained, careful. Here, in his house, he let go a little more. His mouth was demanding without being harsh—lips pressing, tongue seeking yours, a low growl vibrating against your lips when you answered. You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers in his still-damp hair.
He lifted you without effort—your legs wound around his waist as though your body already knew the motion. He carried you to his bedroom without breaking the kiss, kicking the door shut behind you. The room was simple: king-size bed with gray sheets, a dresser cluttered with framed photos, an open window letting in the night and the distant sound of waves.He set you on the bed, stood to yank his t-shirt off in one sharp motion. His chest bore the marks of physical work—thin scars along the ribs, sun- and salt-faded tattoos, muscles taut but not bulky.He leaned over you, pulled your sweater over your head. Your bra followed—unhooked one-handed without looking, like someone who had done that gesture hundreds of times in another life. He cupped one breast in his calloused palm, thumb on the nipple, pinched just enough to make you gasp sharply. Then he lowered his head and took it into his mouth—hot tongue, strong suction, teeth grazing without really biting.You arched, hands in his hair. A moan slipped out—not loud, but enough for him to lift his head and look at you.
“Shh,” he whispered against your skin. “Not too loud.”
You nodded, biting your lip.He drew your jeans and panties down together, slowly, as though memorizing every inch of skin he uncovered. When you were bare, he paused for a second to look—really look. Breath a little ragged, eyes dark.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse.
He shed his jeans and boxers. His cock was hard, thick, the head already glistening. He settled between your thighs, rubbed slowly against your entrance without pushing in, just letting you feel the pressure.
“Look at me.”
You opened your eyes.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He pushed in. Slowly. Very slowly. You felt the stretch, the sweet-deep burn. He was big. You moaned long and low, nails digging into his shoulders.He stopped halfway, forehead against yours, breathing hard.
“You okay?”
“Keep going… please…”
He sank to the hilt in one controlled thrust. You cried out softly—not in pain, just too much, too many sensations at once. He stayed still for a moment, letting your body adjust, hands braced on either side of your head.
“Fuck… you’re so tight…” he breathed.
Then he began to move. At first slow, deep, almost torturous. Every withdrawal left you almost empty, every thrust filled you again. You felt everything: the vein dragging against your sensitive spot, the pressure against your clit each time he bottomed out, the way your walls clung to him.He gradually sped up. The strokes grew harder. The bed creaked beneath you. The headboard tapped the wall at a steady rhythm, but not too loud—he was careful.He caught both your wrists in one hand, pinned them above your head.
“Keep them there,” he said, voice rough.
You obeyed.He slid his other hand under your thigh, hooked it higher against his side. The new angle was devastating. Every thrust hit exactly where you needed.You moaned his name.
“Again,” he growled. “Say it again.”
“James…”
He lost rhythm for a second a harder, almost sloppy thrust. Then he found it again, deeper, stronger.
“You feel so fucking good like this…” he murmured against your ear, voice low and gravelly. “So perfect… take it all…”
The words made you clench around him. He swore under his breath, a low, frustrated sound.
“Do that again.”
You did. On purpose.
He sped up even more, hips snapping against yours. You felt the sweat on his back, on your stomach, between you. Your second orgasm hit without warning violent, legs shaking, body arching under him. You cried out not loud, but enough that he pressed a hand over your mouth, not to smother, just to muffle the sound.He followed almost right after—a low, guttural groan, hips driving deep one last time as he came inside you, hot, thick, pulsing hard.He collapsed onto you, dead weight for a few seconds, breath harsh against your neck. Then he rolled to the side, pulled you against him without a word.You stayed like that a long time. Skin to skin. Sweat mingling. Heartbeats slowly calming.
Afterward, you had been in the kitchen again.He was making tea.
"I go back to Boston in two weeks," you had said.
"I know."
"Don't you have anything to say about that?"
He had put down the kettle. He had turned toward you.
"What would you want me to say?"
"I don't know. Something."
A silence. He had looked at you with that direct attention he had, the kind that didn't try to deflect.
"Do you want to leave?" he had asked.
You had thought honestly.
"Less than before," you had said.
"Is that good or complicated?"
"Both."
He had made a brief, almost imperceptible movement of his head, like someone recognizing an answer they had given themselves in another conversation.
"Boston is five hours by road," he had said.
"I can count."
"I'm just saying it's not the moon."
You had looked at him. He was looking at you with his clear eyes and that quiet way of being there that asked for nothing and said everything at the same time.
"Are you trying to tell me something?" you had asked.
"I'm saying that five hours by road isn't the moon."
"That's all?"
"For now."
You had drunk your tea. He had too. Outside Marge's garden was still glistening from the night and the hydrangeas looked like they had survived the storm without damage, which suited them.
"Gracie is going to be pleased," you had said.
"Gracie is always pleased when things go the way she decided they would."
"She had decided this?"
"She made a drawing with three people in front of the house on the second day." He had looked at the fridge. "Gracie decides quickly."
"It's hereditary," you had said quietly.
He had looked at you.He hadn't answered.But he hadn't denied it either.Marge had come home on a Thursday morning with her cane, her rolling suitcase and an opinion on everything you had done to the house during her absence.
"The gutter," she had said from the path, looking at the north side.
"It's been temporarily repaired. He's coming back Friday to do it properly."
"He." She had said it with a neutrality too perfect to be innocent. "Barnes."
"He was here during the storm. He sealed the corner."
"The Tuesday storm."
"Yes."
"And he stayed."
You had taken her suitcase without answering.
"I'm not saying it's bad," Marge had said behind you as she came into the house. "I'm just saying I notice."
"You have a habit of noticing things out loud."
"Lou too. Same school."
You had put the suitcase in her room. She had gone around the living room with the meticulous attention of someone looking for what had changed. She had stopped in front of the fridge.She had looked at Gracie's drawing.She had said nothing, which was worse than anything she could have said.You had eaten lunch together at the small kitchen table, with the window open onto the garden and the hydrangeas which had indeed survived everything, and Marge had told you about her rehabilitation with the detail of a war correspondent, the physiotherapist who had hands that were too cold, the man at the end of the corridor who watched television too loudly, the Friday menu which was the establishment's only real success.You had listened with the simple pleasure of listening to someone you loved recount ordinary things.
"Is he doing well?" she had asked at some point, between the physiotherapist and the man at the end of the corridor.
"Who?"
She had looked at you.
"Marge."
"I'm asking a question."
"You said he without specifying who."
"You understood who I was talking about."
You had drunk your coffee.
"He's doing well," you had said.
"And Gracie?"
"Gracie is always doing well. Gracie is a force of nature."
Marge had smiled, not the smile that tried to hold itself back, the real one, the one she kept for things that truly pleased her.
"Rebecca was just like that at that age," she had said. "Exactly like that."
She had looked at her plate.
"I knew her since she was little. Her mother and I were friends." A pause. "When she got sick I prayed he would hold on. For Gracie. For him." She had looked up at you. "He held on."
"I know."
"He's a good person."
"I know Marge."
"Just saying."
"You never just say."
She had laughed, short and sincere, and she had gone back to her plate.He came on Friday as planned for the gutter.Marge was in the garden when he arrived with his ladder and his toolbox, and they had greeted each other with the familiarity of two people who had known each other for a long time and didn't need to warm up the conversation.
"The hip," he had said, looking at her cane.
"The knee. The hip is in two years if I keep not listening to the doctor."
"You never listen to the doctor."
"The doctor is thirty. He doesn't know how knees work yet."
He had smiled, really, the full smile, and Marge had looked at him with an expression you had only seen on her face for people she truly loved.You had pretended to weed the side passage.
"I can hear you," Marge had said from her garden chair.
"I'm weeding."
"You've been weeding the same patch for twenty minutes."
You had moved to a different patch.He repaired the gutter in two hours, properly this time, not a temporary fix, and came down the ladder with dust on his hands and the look of someone who had done what he came to do.Marge had brought him a lemonade without him asking.The three of you were in the garden, in the late afternoon light that made the blue hydrangeas even bluer, and the conversation had been easy and ordinary, the gutter, the summer, Gracie starting back at school in September, Marge's plans for autumn.At some point he had looked at his watch.
"I'm going to get Gracie," he had said.
"Bring her for dinner," Marge had said.
He had looked at Marge. He had looked at you.
"Are you sure?"
"I made clam chowder this morning. It's better than Lou's, but don't repeat that."
He had that smile again.
"We'll be here at seven," he had said.
Gracie arrived at seven with a new drawing in her bag, she apparently made one per visit, like a calling card, and she had given it to Marge with the ceremony of a child offering something important.Marge had looked at it through her glasses.It was the house again, with the hydrangeas, as always, but this time with four figures.
"Who's the fourth one?" Marge had asked.
"You," said Gracie. "Grandma Kowalski. Lou told me you were mama's mama's friend."
Marge had lowered the drawing.She had looked at Gracie with something in her eyes you hadn't often seen from her, an emotion she was letting through without holding it back.
"That's exactly right," she had said quietly.
Gracie had nodded with satisfaction and gone to look at the hydrangeas more closely because she had never seen any so large.You had looked at the man standing in your grandmother's garden, in the evening light, watching his daughter examine blue flowers with that expression, that particular expression he had for Gracie, light and heavy at the same time, all the love and everything else together.He had felt your gaze.He had turned around.You had looked at each other in Marge's garden, between the hydrangeas and the repaired gutter and the drawing with four figures, and you had thought that you were leaving in a week and that Boston was five hours by road and that it wasn't the moon.You had also thought that some things didn't need to be resolved tonight.
"Soup's ready," Marge had called from the kitchen.
Gracie had run to the door.You had followed her.
The night before you left, you hadn't slept.Not dramatic insomnia, just the kind of night where your brain refuses to be quiet, where you stare at the ceiling and take stock of something without knowing exactly what. Marge's house was silent. Outside the water was calm, no wind, the kind of coastal night that felt like a held breath.You had gotten up at six.You had made coffee.You had looked at Gracie's drawing on the fridge, the four figures, the house, the hydrangeas, and you had wondered whether you could take it with you or whether that was ridiculous.You had taken it.You had put it back.You had taken it again and slipped it into your bag before you could change your mind.Marge had watched you pack your suitcase with the look of someone who was saying nothing because she had learned when to be quiet.That was new. Marge was rarely quiet.
"Say what you have to say," you had said without turning around.
"I have nothing to say."
"You always have something to say."
"I'm getting old. I'm becoming wise."
You had smiled despite yourself.
"Are you planning to come back at Christmas?" she had asked after a silence.
"Probably."
"Probably is good."
"Better than no."
"Yes." A pause. "And in between."
"In between what?"
"It's an open question."
You had folded a shirt. You had put it in the suitcase. You had thought about a sentence said in the kitchen one morning after a storm, five hours by road isn't the moon, and you hadn't known what to do with it at the time and you still hadn't a week later.
"I don't know yet," you had said honestly.
Marge had nodded.
"That's honest," she had said. "That's good."
You had spent the afternoon finishing putting the house in order, the sheets, the cupboards, things in their place so Marge wouldn't have to deal with it with her knee. Practical, useful work that kept the hands busy and let the mind run on empty.Lou had sent you a message at four.
Come to the End of the Dock tonight. Last night.
You had replied :
okay.
The bar was quiet for a Friday, a few regulars, the music low, Lou behind his counter with his usual expression of someone who knew everything and chose what he said.He was there.Not with Gracie, she was at her friend Célia's for the night, you would learn later, which was maybe a coincidence and maybe not.He had seen you come in. He had given a brief nod, not cold, just him, that economy of gestures that didn't mean absence.You had sat beside him at the counter.Lou had set a soda in front of you and moved toward the kitchen with a sense of timing you were beginning to find suspicious.
"You leave tomorrow morning?" he had asked.
"Seven o'clock. To avoid traffic in Portland."
"That's early."
"Yes."
A silence. The kind of silence you had learned to inhabit together, which no longer needed to be filled to be comfortable.
"Gracie wanted to come say goodbye," he had said. "Célia offered her a sleepover and it was stronger than she was."
"That's good. Sleepovers are important at six."
"She left you something."
He had taken a folded piece of paper from his pocket. You had taken it.It was a drawing, the house again, the hydrangeas again, but this time with a single figure in front. Small, with hair your color. And below, in the careful letters of a child still learning to write:
COME BACK!!!!
You had looked at the drawing for a moment.
"She spelled it correctly," you had said.
"She asked Marge how to write it."
You had folded the paper carefully. You had put it in your pocket.
"I'm going to come back," you had said.
"I know."
"Gracie probably knows too."
"Gracie knew from the first drawing."
You had drunk your soda. He his coffee. The music was playing something slow and old, a radio somewhere, and outside the dock was orange in the evening light.You had gone out around eight, not planned, just the two of you at the same time, with that same need for air that people sometimes have when a conversation is approaching something.The dock was empty. The water was flat, that perfect mirror it sometimes had in the evening when there was no wind, and the sky was reflected in it with its colors from before nightfall, orange, pink, a blue darkening toward the open sea.
The Barnes Fishing Co. was moored at the end, its navigation lights on, red and green in the still water.You had walked to the end of the dock without planning to. You had stopped.You were looking at the water.
"Five hours by road," you had said.
"Yes."
"You said it wasn't the moon."
"It isn't the moon."
"And yet you're not saying anything more."
He had turned toward you. The evening light gave him that warm tone you had learned to associate with Hartwell in July, with the terrace of the End of the Dock, with late afternoons on the quay.
"I don't know how to do this," he had said.
Not as an excuse, as a fact, said with that direct honesty that was his way.
"Do what?"
"Say things. Ask for things." He had looked at the water. "I haven't done this in a long time."
"I know."
"Does that bother you?"
"That you haven't done this in a long time?"
"That I don't know how yet."
You had thought honestly. The dock under your feet, the water below, the sky still changing color above.
"No," you had said. "Because I don't really know how either."
He had looked at you.
"Neither of us knows."
"Neither of us knows."
A silence. Not heavy, almost light actually, the kind that arrives when you've said something true and don't need to add anything.He had looked at the charter. He had looked at you.
"I love you," he had said.
Said like that, not with a big breath before it, not with a preamble, just set there in the evening air with the same quiet economy he put into everything he said. As if it had been true for a while and he had just finally said it out loud.You had looked at his clear eyes in the evening light.You had thought about six weeks, about a gutter, about a storm, about tea at Marge's table, about a six-year-old girl who made drawings for people she liked and who decided quickly.You had thought that some decisions get made before you know you've made them.
"Me too," you had said.
He hadn't smiled immediately. He had looked at you first, really looked, in that way he had of registering important things, and then something had opened in his face, slowly, like a light gradually coming up.You had moved closer.He had put a hand on your cheek, large, warm, with the faint scar at the base of his thumb that you now knew by heart.
"You're still leaving tomorrow," he had said.
"I'm leaving tomorrow. And I'm coming back."
"When?"
"Soon." You had put your hand over his. "Gracie said come back. I'm not going to disappoint Gracie."
He had laughed, short, real, that laugh he kept for things that pleasantly surprised him.
"No," he had said. "We don't disappoint Gracie."
You had gotten back to Marge's at ten.Marge was reading on the sofa. She had looked up. She had seen your face. She had put down her book.
"Good," she had said.
"You don't even know what happened."
"I can see your face." She had picked up her book again. "There's clam chowder if you're hungry."
"I don't know if I'm hungry."
"Eat anyway. It's good soup."
You had eaten the soup standing at the counter, looking at the garden in the dark, and you had thought that Hartwell in July smelled of salt and boat diesel and something sweet that came from the bakery on the main street, and that you would remember it for a long time.The next morning at seven, you had loaded the car.Marge had kissed you on the forehead, weighted, brief, solid.On the passenger seat, you had placed two drawings.The one with four figures.And the one with just one, and COME BACK!!!! in a child's letters.
You had started the car.At the edge of Hartwell, on the road that ran along the dock, the Barnes Fishing Co. was leaving the harbor for its first trip of the day.You had honked once.The figure on the deck had raised a hand.You had taken the road toward Portland, toward the 95, toward Boston.
NOT FOREVER, JUST FOR TONIGHT
[Yn× Bucky Barnes | Multi-AU]
pairing: Yn × Bucky Barnes
tropes: Childhood best friends to lovers · Marriage of convenience
summary: From a very young age, you realised that people always end up leaving. He did too. Perhaps that’s what brought you closer together — two souls accustomed to keeping their distance by reflex, to smiling without really letting anyone in, to mastering the art of staying on the surface. But with Bucky Barnes, the surface never holds out for very long.
word count: +13K
warning: 18+ Only. Explicit sexual content (smut), emotional tension. Minors DNI. My blog is an adult-only space; if you are under 18, do not like or reblog this post. Safe sex practices
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Harrow Point had that distinctive smell, a mix of sea salt, scientific equipment and the sort of coffee you find in the far corners of the world. It wasn’t bad, just practical – for those seeking a caffeine fix, not an experience.
Yn had arrived the day before, guitar and two suitcases in hand, with that childhood habit: first observe, then speak, get a feel for a place before deciding how to settle in.The station was modest. A dozen researchers, a few technicians, and T’Challa, who ran the whole thing with calm precision, as if bringing order to chaos were second nature to him. He’d welcomed her with two sentences and a key: “Welcome, the concert’s on Friday night, your room’s number seven. ” Perfect. She didn’t need a tour of the place, just the essentials, and to be left in peace the rest of the time.
“The storm’s coming tomorrow morning,” T’Challa announced on Thursday evening, after dinner.
“Will it be bad?” asked Ezra from the other end of the table, his voice betraying habit rather than genuine concern.
As if the answer, whatever it might be, wouldn’t make any difference.
“Enough to keep us stuck here for two or three days,” replied T’Challa with the same calmness as if he were discussing the weekend weather. “The concert is scheduled for Friday, snow permitting. Otherwise, we’ll move it to Saturday.”
“And what if the venue can’t hold up?” asked Yn.
“It will hold up,” said T’Challa.
There was no arrogance in his voice, just the quiet confidence of someone who had known his building and these storms long enough to know what one could withstand against the other.Yn looked out through the large windows of the common room. The sea was grey and choppy, and the sky had that distinctive hue of an Alaskan winter, neither quite white nor quite grey, but something in between that seemed to weigh heavily. She had seen storms before, from hotel rooms, tour buses and studios. But never from a marine biology station six hours’ drive from the nearest town.
“And how many of us will there be, if the roads get blocked?”
T’Challa took one last bite before replying, his eyes fixed on the window where the sky was already darkening.
“Twenty-two. Twenty-four if the fire brigade arrives before things really go wrong. ”
“The fire brigade?”
The question was tinged with surprise.
“Standard procedure for a storm like the one coming. A team stays on site, just in case, for the whole duration.” He stood up, picking up his tray with a relaxed gesture, as if the conversation were already over. “They should arrive tomorrow morning.”
They arrived on Friday around half past seven, just before the snow really started to fall.Yn was in the kitchen, coffee in hand, the quick fix she’d adopted in the space of two days, as one does after years of routine, when she heard the car pull into the car park, voices outside, and then T’Challa opening the door. She didn’t move. She had long since learnt that curiosity could wait until she’d finished her cup.Then a voice in the hallway called out something, a harmless remark about some equipment, addressed to someone else, and Yn set her cup down on the worktop.
She recognised that voice.Not vaguely, not in any doubt. She knew it with the certainty of things one memorises without thinking, that recognition which comes before one even has time to reflect, and which is already an established fact by the time the mind finally catches up.James Barnes walked into the kitchen, his eyes fixed on the station layout T’Challa had given him. Then he looked up and saw her.
Ten years.
Ten years that seemed to fade away and yet didn’t fade away at all – time has a way of never really disappearing. It was there, in his face, in his shoulders, in the precise way he held that frame, just as he always held things. And yet, at the same time, he was the same seventeen-year-old boy, the one who knew how to make pancakes properly, who knew how to listen without filling the silences, and who had left without a sound when life had decided it so.
“Yn”.
Just her first name. No exclamation, no perfunctory “you’re here”. Just her name, spoken with the restraint he reserved for the things that mattered.
“Bucky”.
They looked at each other for a second too long for it to be innocent, but not long enough for it to be anything else. And that was when T’Challa walked into the kitchen, with the look of someone who’d just figured it all out.
“So you know each other, then?”
Bucky nodded briefly.
“We know each other.”
“Since childhood,” added Yn, almost mechanically.
Lying would have required a mental effort she felt completely incapable of at this hour, especially before she’d had her second coffee.T’Challa looked at them in turn, his calm, attentive gaze seeming to weigh every detail, every silence. After a moment, he announced:
“Room seven is free. It’s a double bed, and it’s the only one available for reinforcements. If that suits you…”
“That’s fine,” Bucky cut in, without even giving him time to finish his sentence.
“That’s fine,” Yn added, half a second later.
To object would have meant having to launch into explanations about ten years of emptiness, and for that, she would have needed at least three more cups of coffee than she’d already downed that morning.T’Challa nodded thoughtfully before walking away, his usual composure returning. Bucky, for his part, spread the map out on the counter and cast a suspicious glance at the coffee pot.
“So, this coffee… is it drinkable?”
“Let’s just say it does the job.”
“That’s all we need.”
“Exactly what I said last night.”
A flicker crossed his face, not quite a smile, but almost. He picked up a cup, poured himself some coffee, and they drank it in the station kitchen whilst outside the snow began to fall. Between them, on the counter, lay ten years of absence, like a bulky object one doesn’t know what to do with.Room seven had a double bed, a window overlooking the sea, two bedside tables and two lamps. A space small enough that the distances one usually keeps had less room to settle in.Bucky put his bag down on the left-hand side without asking. Not because he claimed that side, but because it was closest to the door, a reflex. Checking the space, locating the exit. A habit of the trade, or of temperament, or both so closely linked that it no longer mattered.
“Which side of the bed do you usually sleep on?”
“It really depends on the hotel, you know. Sometimes I prefer the side by the window, other times the one by the door... It’s a bit of a hunch.”
“And here, in this room?”
“The right-hand side,” she replied after a slight hesitation.
Firstly because it was the truth, but also because the very fact of negotiating which side of the bed to sleep on with James Barnes, at eight o’clock in the morning, in a remote marine biology station in Alaska… well, it was a conversation she’d absolutely not planned to have this Friday. Not at all.
“Okay, no problem,” he said, nodding. “I’ll take the left, then.”
He unpacked his things with that precision so characteristic of him, not a single unnecessary movement, everything in its place. Like someone who knows that even a temporary place deserves to be tidied, because clutter always ends up wearing you down. Yn watched him from the bed, her cup of coffee in hand. She thought to herself that some habits survive ten years, that certain ways of being don’t really change, even when everything around them has. And that it was both reassuring and a little unsettling, depending on the day.
“I know you sing, yes. But I was asking… how things are going, day to day.”
She held his gaze for a moment, as if weighing her words.
“It’s fine. Not an international star, nor completely in the shadows. Just… fine.”
“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I’ve got.”
There was a brief silence before she added, more softly:
“It’s the same, sometimes.”
Outside, the snow was falling steadily. The sea had vanished behind the white blanket piling up against the window. And Harrow Point station, like all isolated places when a storm approaches, was turning in on itself, on the people it sheltered, and on everything they had brought with them in their luggage.
It was a Friday afternoon, two hours before the concert, when the little hiccup happened.Nothing to cause a panic, no. Just a backup generator that decided, at exactly the wrong moment, to remind us of its frailties. Machines always have a knack for choosing the worst possible timing.T’Challa was with the technicians when the alarm went off. He had his own way of dealing with the unexpected: you might have thought he was detached, but it was simply a matter of priorities. Assess, decide, act. No time wasted on knee-jerk reactions.
“The secondary school can wait,” he said, a confident smile on his lips. “The concert will go ahead, come what may.”
“But what if the main power cuts out whilst…” began a technician, worry evident in his voice.
“The main power won’t cut out,” T’Challa interrupted firmly, before turning to Bucky. “Would you mind going to check, just in case?”
“Count on me,” replied Bucky, nodding.
That was it. There was no need to beat about the bush or doubt his judgement; T’Challa had been observing him since that morning, with the discretion that allowed him to size people up. And he’d come to a conclusion: Bucky was the sort of person you could speak to frankly. So that’s what he did.Yn was in the common room when Bucky came out of the technical room, about forty minutes later. With his hands covered in some sort of grease, he had the look of someone who’d just sorted out a problem and had already moved on to something else.
“The generator, then?”
“A seal gave way. It’d been running for months without a look, so it was bound to happen.”
He walked over to the sink, turned on the tap with a slow, deliberate motion, and washed his hands with the particular care of someone who’d just finished a job.
“Right. The concert can go ahead.”
“Did T’Challa know you could sort that out?”
“T’Challa… he has a way of knowing things about people without having to ask questions.”
“Do you find that reassuring, or rather creepy?”
“It depends,” he replied without taking his eyes off his hands, “on what you’ve got to hide.” His voice, as calm as ever, carried that quiet ambiguity — it’s up to you to decide how to interpret it.
Yn picked up on every nuance of her reply, and said nothing more. Some things require more preparation than she had that evening.The concert was being held in the resort’s main hall. Twenty-two people had settled into chairs, stools and the window sills. Behind the windows, snow was falling, too perfect to be merely a backdrop. Yn had played in packed venues and almost empty bars. She knew that intensity didn’t depend on numbers. Sometimes, twenty people who are really listening count for more than a thousand who are only half-listening.
That evening, everyone was listening.
She played for a good hour. A few classics, then a new piece, still a little tentative, which she dared to play all the same. Places like this have a certain magic: they welcome the unfinished, the things one wouldn’t dare attempt anywhere else.T’Challa was at the back of the room. Ezra Guerrero, for his part, seemed to be dissecting every note. Dani Mbeki had written to her from the continent, ‘So, how’s it going?’, but she hadn’t yet found the time to reply.And then there was Bucky, on the right, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He was listening as he always did: fully, without a hint of distraction. His gaze fixed on her, attentive, without demanding anything. Just there. Present.She wasn’t playing especially for him. But somehow, it was easier when he was listening.
Towards the end of the last song, her gaze finally found him, quite naturally. He was there. But that ‘there’ had changed; it weighed heavier, it had become familiar. Ten years, a repaired generator, shared coffees, and that ‘it depends if you’ve got something to hide’ that hung between them, like something biding its time.She put down her guitar.Applause erupted, warm and sincere as it can be in small venues. T’Challa said a few well-chosen words, about the music, about her. Then the evening drifted gently on: wine unearthed from the back of a storeroom, conversations taking on that particular tone of people stuck together, more direct, more frank, as if the blocked roads had also swept away the pretences.Bucky approached when the room had already emptied a little, when the groups had dispersed.
“That song… it’s not finished.”
“I know.”
“And then… where does a song like that go?”
“I don’t know yet.” She slid her guitar into its case, her movements slow, almost ritualistic, like someone who’d repeated the action a thousand times. “Unfinished songs… they have their own path. We just follow them, that’s all. We don’t push them.”
“You never push them?”
“Never. Otherwise, it sounds false. You can hear it straight away.”
“And what if someone asks you to deliver something, just like that… before it’s ready?”
“I deliver something else.” She snapped the case shut, a sharp sound in the silence. “Or I tell the truth: it’s not finished. And I stand by that.”
He remained silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the case.
“You’ve always been like that, haven’t you?”
“Like what?”
“Direct. ”
He let the word slip out simply, without trying to flatter, as if stating a fact. Like when you meet someone again after years and recognise, unchanged, a familiar trait.
“In the way you talk about things. Even when it’s complicated, you say it straight out. To their face.”
“And you, you beat about the bush.”
“Sometimes.”
“Often.
“Often, yes,” he conceded, a slight smile playing on his lips.
There was something simple and genuine about that admission, the candor of someone who knows themselves well, without feeling the need to justify themselves.Yn picked up her case, and they walked out together, simply because they were heading in the same direction. Going their separate ways would have required a decision neither of them had made.In the corridor, Jo Kalani passed them, two glasses of wine in hand, with that look of hers: gentle, attentive, missing nothing.
“Really great concert,” she said to Yn, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Thanks, that’s kind of you,” he replied, a little taken aback.
“You know, it’s a shame the last song was left unfinished… I thought it was the best one of them all.”
Bucky, who had been listening from the back of the room, let out a soft laugh.
“Unfinished songs are often like that, aren’t they? They always leave a little room for the imagination. Maybe that’s why they touch us so much.”
Jo looked at them one by one, her piercing gaze seeming to read between the lines of their conversation. After a brief silence, she simply murmured:
“Good night, both of you.”
She left with her two glasses, her watchful gaze and her kind silence. Yn thought to himself that Jo Kalani was exactly the sort of person who observes everything without saying a word, until she felt it was worth speaking. And tonight, a simple ‘goodnight’ had been enough for her.In room seven, the snow clinging to the window diffused that dense, white light so characteristic of Alaskan nights – a strange, reflected brightness that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It gave the room a texture different from the usual darkness.Yn leaned her guitar against the wall and sat on the edge of her bed, her shoes still on. She felt that post-concert weariness, not exhaustion, but a sense of returning to herself, that moment when the stage gradually fades away and one simply becomes a presence in a space.
Bucky, leaning in slightly towards me, let out a wry smile.
“You’ve always loved playing in small venues, haven’t you?”
I looked up, surprised.
“How do you know that?”
“From the way you played tonight.” He paused, searching for the right words. “You were… relaxed. At ease. Not at all like someone who’s used to those big, impersonal stages, where you lose the audience in the shadows.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I never said I liked big venues.”
“No,” he conceded, his smile widening slightly. “But you never said you didn’t like them either.”
I turned towards the window, watching the city’s reflections.
“It’s not the same thing.”
In the silence that followed, his voice grew softer, almost pensive.
“No,” he murmured. “It’s not the same thing.”
Yn simply kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the bed, still fully clothed. She didn’t have the strength to move a muscle. The low, white ceiling of Room Seven seemed to crush the space. It was as if the whole world were confined to those four walls, at that very moment.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
“How did we end up losing touch, you and I?”
He let the silence stretch out for a moment,not a heavy or awkward silence, just enough time to think, because the question deserved it.
“Because we were seventeen,” he finally said, softly. “At that age, you think people will stick around, but you don’t yet know how to keep them. You let them slip away without really understanding why.”
“And now?”
“Now… now, I’ve learnt. You learn, with time. Not to let go too quickly.”
Storms had their own way of slowing down time.
Outside, the snow fell relentlessly, without drama – no violent gusts, no rumbling, just a white veil that gently accumulated against the windows, gradually reducing the world inside the station. Harrow Point had been designed for isolation, with everything necessary to live without ever having to set foot outside. This created a bubble where the days followed their own rhythm, completely disconnected from the outside world.Yn got used to this rhythm in barely two days.Meals shared in the common room, the researchers talking about their projects with that quiet passion of those who love what they do – not to show off, but simply because it was what drove them. Ezra, who had a guitar, came knocking on their door on the second day to ask if they’d like to play together. She said yes, because musicians, in remote corners, always end up finding one another – one of those beautiful laws of the universe. Jo, in the library, immersed in her notebooks with a cup of tea, focused and serene, like someone who knows exactly how to occupy her time. And T’Challa, who managed everything with quiet precision, just present enough to ensure everything ran smoothly, and just invisible enough for us to feel free.
Bucky was doing his rounds, checking the systems, chatting with the technicians about things Yn didn’t really grasp, but the gist of which she understood: someone looking after the space where people lived, methodically, without making a fuss of it.She took it all in without even thinking about it.
That Wednesday evening, the kitchen was empty at 11 pm.Yn was there because she couldn’t sleep. In every place she’d stayed, the kitchen had become her refuge on sleepless nights. There was something about its practicality—the clean surfaces, the simple tasks like making tea or reheating a meal—that gave her mind a concrete task whilst it continued to work on something else.Her guitar was there, resting beside her.
She hadn’t really decided to play; it was more of a sudden urge that had prompted her to pick up her guitar as she left her room. That song, which she’d started on Friday after the gig, was stuck in her head. She needed to rediscover it, quietly, without putting any pressure on herself. The empty kitchen, at eleven o’clock, was the perfect place.She played softly, almost whispering, letting her fingers search for the melody. She knew full well that you don’t force a song that isn’t finished. She tried bits of verses, a bridge that didn’t quite hold together yet, a note she caught, then lost, then found again. And in this back-and-forth, there was a strange satisfaction, which had nothing to do with the end result, but everything to do with the simple act of trying.
Footsteps in the corridor.She didn’t stop. The others at the station knew she was a musician, and that she sometimes worked at odd hours. From the very first evening, she’d told herself that hiding away to play was a waste of energy.Bucky stopped in the kitchen doorway.He looked at her. Not surprised, nor with that awkward politeness of those who apologise for being there. Just with that calm attention he paid to things he found happening, without having sought them out.
“Go on, then,” he said, in a soft, curious voice.
“I don’t work for an audience, you know. It’s not a show.”
“Oh, but I’m not an audience. I was just passing by, that’s all.”
“You stopped, though. You’re watching.”
“Yeah, I stopped… because I was listening, without meaning to. It’s not the same, you see? It’s not as if I was trying to listen.”
She looked at him for a moment, then picked up her guitar again. It was true, after all, and sending him away would have taken an effort she didn’t really feel like making. In any case, his silhouette in the doorway didn’t bother her whilst she was singing.He went into the kitchen, made himself a cup of tea, no coffee at that hour, and she noticed this detail, just as she had noted all his little habits since he’d been there. He sat on the worktop, a cup in his hand, and listened. She played. Between them, there was no tension, just the kitchen, the snow outside and that song still searching for its form.
He was silent for a moment, then said,
“The bridge.”
“The bridge? What’s wrong with the bridge?”
“You come back to it three times. Each time, the melody changes, but the lyrics… they stay the same.”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe it’s the lyrics that sound off. Or maybe it’s the melody that’s off-key.”
“Probably both.”
He continued after a silence:
“What is this song, exactly?”
“I don’t know yet. Really.”
“But you’ve got an idea, haven’t you?”
“I have. . . a direction.”
She let her fingers wander over the strings, absent-mindedly, as if searching for an answer in the wood of the guitar.
“It’s the story of someone who doesn’t know how to keep people. Who lets them slip away, not out of malice, just. . . because they were never taught how to do it any other way.”
“Is that autobiographical?”
“Everything I write is, in a way. More or less.”
“And in this case, where do we stand on the ‘more or less’ scale?”
She stared at him for a moment, letting the question sink in.
“Quite a bit,” she replied simply.
He nodded silently, as he often did to show he’d heard. Whilst he was drinking his tea, Yn picked up the guitar again and tried to find the passage once more. This time, something had changed in the way he approached it, as if the very act of saying it out loud to someone who was really listening had transformed his perception of the problem.
“Are you thinking of anyone in particular?” he asked, his voice a little hesitant.
“Several people, actually.”
“Am I… one of those people?”
She let her fingers freeze above the piano strings, the sound fading gently into the room.
“You’ve gone,” she said softly. “But I’ve gone too. It’s not quite as if we’ve lost touch.”
“So what is it, then, in your opinion?”
“An interruption,” she whispered, lowering her eyes to her hands, which now rested on the keyboard. “Like a piece of music we stopped playing… and never picked up again.”
“Until now.”
She slowly raised her head, and a small, sad smile touched her lips.
“Until now, yes.”
The kitchen is enveloped in a deep, yet not unpleasant, silence. It is the kind of silence that settles in when two people have just said something honest to one another, and they let the words linger for a moment before resuming their conversation.
“I thought about writing to you, you know,” he admitted after a pause. “Several times, actually.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“Because… I didn’t know how to put it into words. And if I’d written something that sounded insincere, it would have hurt even more than saying nothing at all.”
Yn stared at him, her gaze suddenly more attentive, as if something unexpected had caught her by surprise and she was pausing to take it in.
“That’s funny,” she said softly. “That’s exactly how I think, too.”
“I had a feeling.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“No,” he admitted, slowly setting down his cup. “But it seemed… logical to me. That that would be your way of seeing things.”
She let out a brief, sincere chuckle. And in the kitchen, the atmosphere shifted imperceptibly. It was as if a tension had settled in, without ever truly leaving, to find a new, lower, calmer equilibrium.He smiled, a little teasingly.
“So, this song about someone who can’t hold on to others… how does it end?”
“I don’t know yet. Not really. ”
“But you have an idea, don’t you? A direction.”
“Maybe.Just let me… figure out the bridge first. The rest will come later.”
He stayed.
That evening, she didn’t find the bridge, but she found something else: two lines that remained etched in her mind, as clear as a direct gaze. And in those two lines, there was something like the beginning of an answer to her question: how does this song end?At one point, as she played the verse for the third time, eyes closed, feeling her way to make sure it was right, he got up from the counter. He approached, standing behind her, without getting too close. “You can sing louder,” he whispered. So she sang louder. And in the kitchen of the Harrow Point station, after midnight, there was that song, the snow outside, and something else, something neither of them could name.
Then the song stopped of its own accord, the way songs stop when they’ve given everything they had to give for the night. Yn opened her eyes. He was there, standing behind her. Not quite at the distance of a passerby who had stopped by chance.She set down the guitar.He reached out his hand.
“Dance,” he said.
It was neither a question nor a command. Just a suggestion, offered with the simplicity he reserved for the obvious, for things that seemed self-evident to him.
“There’s no music,” she objected.
“You’ve just been playing for an hour.”
“I stopped.”
“The music is still there,” he murmured.
In his voice, there was something that had less to do with the notes one hears than with what was floating in the kitchen air, that warm atmosphere where the echo of the piano still resonated.Yn took his hand.They were dancing in the kitchen of the Harrow Point station, without music and yet surrounded by all the music in the world. It was that simple kind of dance, the one that just happens without you thinking about it: no memorized steps, no deliberate choices, just two bodies moving in unison, finding their balance because each knew exactly where the other was, without having to think about it. Outside, the snow was falling, soft and steady. And it was at that very moment that T’Challa opened the kitchen door.
He saw them.
“Excuse me,” he said in a perfectly natural tone, before closing the door and walking away down the hallway, his quiet footsteps fading little by little.
Yn and Bucky froze in unison, like two people caught in the middle of a gesture whose meaning they hadn’t yet defined.
Silence fell.
“He saw,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“He won’t say anything.”
“No,” replied Bucky, with the confidence of someone who, ever since T’Challa’s arrival, had been able to read him: this man never commented on matters that didn’t concern him.
Yn set down his guitar. Bucky set down his teacup. The interlude came to a gentle close, as they often do, without everything having been fully resolved. They made their way back to Room Seven in the silence of the hallway after midnight. Something had changed in the way they shared this space. Nothing named, nothing defined. Just there, real, with that particular weight of things that exist long before we find the words to describe them.
The next morning, Bucky had already made the coffee before she’d even opened her eyes. It wasn’t the usual base coffee, but something different, made with equipment he’d clearly unearthed from a cupboard no one else had thought to open.When Yn arrived, her hair a mess, mismatched socks on her feet, still half in the fog of sleep, neither quite here nor quite there, an unusual smell hung in the kitchen.
“Ah, this is much better,” she said after her first sip, a small smile playing on her lips.
“There was proper coffee in the top cupboard, you know.”
“Nobody bothered to look,” she remarked with a shrug.
“Nobody had looked,” he corrected, emphasising the word as if it made all the difference. “People rarely look beyond what they see first.”
“Morning philosophy, now?” she joked.
“Just an observation,” he replied softly.
She sipped her coffee, watching the snow fall outside the window. It was falling less heavily than on previous days, as if the storm itself had run out of steam.
“Did you sleep?” he asked.
“Not straight away.”
“Because of the song.”
“The song… and something else.”
He asked nothing. He took a sip of coffee, his gaze lost in the sea, which was slowly reappearing from behind the veil of mist. Yn realised that his silence was an answer in itself. Sometimes, asking no questions is the greatest kindness.They had bumped into each other by chance that afternoon in the little library at Harrow Point. Two armchairs, a coffee table, a window to one side. For once, Jo Kalani wasn’t there.Yn was leafing through her notebook. Bucky, deep in thought, was reading something on his phone, probably a technical article, judging by his serious expression.
“Have you always dreamed of being a firefighter?” she asked him, almost surprised by her own question.
He slowly raised his head, as if searching for the right words somewhere between the present and the past.
“No, not really.”
“So what did you want to do, then?” she pressed, curious.
“When you were seventeen, do you mean?”
“At any age. When you were a child, a teenager… or even yesterday, if you like.”
He placed his phone on the arm of the sofa and sat in silence for a moment, the question running through his mind.
“You know, I’ve always wanted to create things. Not buildings or huge structures… but objects, with my own hands. Furniture, a shelf, a table ,solid things, made to stand the test of time.”
He looked down at his palms, as if he could still read the traces of that past there.
“Right after my A-levels, I took the plunge.Two years on a carpentry vocational course, learning about wood, joints, finishes…”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“You’d already been gone for six months when I started. You’d packed your bag and your guitar; I’d chosen a set square and a plane. We were following our own paths, without crossing paths much.”
“So how did we go from there… to being a firefighter?”
“Oh, I never really gave up carpentry. But my uncle was a volunteer firefighter, remember? One day, he told me about a vacancy at the fire station. I thought about it, gave it a go… and got hooked. He gave a slight shrug, almost shyly. “Actually, the two complement each other. One’s calming, the other’s adrenaline. I still potter about at the weekend, in my garage.”
“So you kept that passion then…”
“Yes. And you?” He held his gaze. “Was singing, for you, a given from the start? As if you’d never imagined doing anything else?”
“It just came naturally, you know… the singing. One day, I realised what it meant, without really noticing.”
She gently closed her notebook, her fingertips brushing against the worn cover.
“My father… he used to play the guitar. Not on stage, nothing professional. Just in the evenings, in the kitchen, when the light was soft.”
He’d play the songs he loved, the ones that reminded him of something. I’d listen, sitting on the stool by the fridge. That’s how I learnt, long before I could read music or place my fingers on the strings.Bucky looked at her for a moment, then asked, almost in a whisper:
”Does he still play, sometimes?”
She shook her head slightly, without bitterness, as one states a truth one has come to terms with.
“He died when I was twenty.”
She said it simply, without trying to weigh down the silence or break it too quickly. Just a fact, laid there, between them. That was how it was with her: things were what they were, without pretence.
“I’m sorry,” murmured Bucky.
“Me too.”
She opened her notebook again, its pages slightly warped by time.
“That’s why, actually… the midnight guitar sessions in the kitchen. That was his thing. A bit improvised, always sincere.”
He remained silent for a moment, letting his words hang in the quiet of the library. Yn then noticed how he dealt with difficult situations: without overreacting, without trivialising them, just that silence that said, ‘I’ve heard you’. It was exactly the reaction she would have wanted from others. And yet so few managed it so naturally.
“He would have liked that unfinished song,” Bucky finally said, almost as if confiding in him.
“How can you be sure of that?”
“Because the songs we don’t finish are always the most sincere. And someone who played the piano in the kitchen late at night… that sort of person loves the real things, you see?”
Yn stared at him, and there was something in her gaze he couldn’t quite grasp, like an emotion that refused to be contained.
“Do you do that often?” she asked, her voice a little lower.
“Do what?”
“Say exactly the right thing, at the right moment.”
He gave a slight, almost imperceptible smile before picking up his phone again.
“No. But sometimes… sometimes, I just get it right.”
Cleo Halpern walked down the corridor, visible through the wide-open door of the library. He slowed to a halt when he spotted them, as if he’d realised something, then carried on without stopping. The atmosphere in the room was clear: this was no time to disturb them.Bucky paused for a few seconds before continuing, as if weighing his words.
“There’s something you would have told me back then.”
Yn looked up at him. He was staring at his phone without really seeing it, a habit he had when something was weighing on his mind — when he needed to speak without being watched.
“Probably lots of things,” she replied, sounding a little distant.
“One in particular,” he insisted, softly.
She felt her own silence echoing. Then, almost in spite of herself:
“There was something I wanted to tell you, too.”
He placed his phone on the table, slowly.
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re the sort of person who says things to your face. And you haven’t said it.”
This time, he held her gaze.
“The only things you don’t say to my face… are the ones that scare you.”
Yn remained silent for a moment. Her gaze fell on her notebook, open on her lap, on that page still blank for the afternoon. It was true. And it was precisely the sort of truth she’d rather not hear, because she already carried it within her. The fact that Bucky still knew her, after all these years, said something about those people we’ve crossed paths with in the past, those who, despite the passage of time and the distance, keep a part of us intact.
“Emotional intimacy terrifies me,” she confessed, her words barely more than a whisper.
“I know.”
He let a silence settle, lasting just a sigh.
“It scares me too,” he finally admitted, with that disarming frankness he reserved for the important things. “That’s why, you see, we understood each other so well at seventeen. Two kids scared by the same thing, without realising that it was precisely that fear that created a bond between us. We kept each other warm in our own insecurity, without even knowing it.”
“And now? ”she asked, her voice tinged with a fragile curiosity.
“Now… now we know. It’s our common ground, in a way. Our deepest shared connection.”
“And what difference does it make, knowing that?”
He gave a soft, almost sad little laugh.
“Honestly? I haven’t the faintest idea. But just knowing it… that alone makes a world of difference. Before, we were swimming blind. Now, at least, we know what waters we’re in.”
He closed his notebook and set it down on the table. His gaze drifted towards the window, towards the sea, which was coming back into view, looking a little less grey than before. The water seemed different now that the storm was subsiding – deeper, more real, as if the turmoil on the surface had been hiding something that had always been there.He hesitated for a moment, the words seeming to form slowly on his lips.
“And that song… how does it end?”
She looked up at him, a faint smile playing on her lips.
“I think I know now.”
“Since when?” he asked, his voice tinged with gentle curiosity. “Since last night… or just now?”
“Just now,” she murmured, and in her eyes there was no trace of doubt.
They needed say no more. The truth of her words hung between them, silent and obvious, like something finally in its rightful place.
Three days later, she found herself back in the kitchen, on that second night.Nothing had been planned, or perhaps it was the sort of thing you long for without admitting it to yourself, which ends up happening as if by chance, even if it isn’t really one. At half past ten, Yn was there, his guitar on his lap. This time, she knew what she was looking for: the bridge, the ending, those two missing lines that would give the song its balance.Bucky turned up about twenty minutes later, his hair slightly tousled by the evening breeze.
“So, have you managed to track down that bridge yet?” he asked, settling down opposite me.
“Not yet, no.”
“You’re on the right track, though.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re hesitating less than before.” He tilted his head towards his cup and blew gently on the tea, which was clearly still scalding. “Before, you kept stopping all the time, as if you were searching for your words in the dark. Now it flows… or almost.”
Yn gently rested the guitar on her lap and looked at him, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips.
“Wait. Are you actually listening to how I play?”
“I listen to how people do things,” he replied calmly, without even looking up from his cup. “It’s sort of how I see the world.”
“Do you really remember how I play? Since when?”
“Since Friday’s concert.”
“That was five days ago already…”
“Yes.”
“And… can you tell the difference between how I played on Friday and how I’m playing tonight?”
“Yes.”
Yn picked up her guitar again and launched into the verse – the one she’d fine-tuned on the evening of the first cooking session – before moving on to the bridge. But this time, something had changed in the way she played. It was as if their conversation in the library had shifted something within her, altering the way she felt about what she wanted to express.She’d finally found the bridge.Not perfectly,the words weren’t final yet, the melody still had a few rough edges,but the thread was there, the direction was clear. And when she stopped, the song had taken on a form it had never had before.
Bucky gave a slight, wry smile.
“You got it, haven’t you?”
“Not quite yet,” she replied, shaking her head gently.
“But enough to see where she’s going with it.”
“Yes.” She gently placed the guitar back on her lap, a gesture that was almost tender. “Enough for that, at any rate.”
The kitchen was enveloped in a peculiar silence. Outside, the snow had almost stopped, with only a few stray flakes still dancing in the air, the last gasps of the storm. This silence was nothing like that of the first night. It felt heavier, as if it knew it was being watched.
“Bucky,” she whispered, her voice a little tense.
“Yes?”
“There’s something… something I’ve wanted to tell you since we were in the library. Since a little while ago.”
“I know,” he replied softly.
“You know what it’s about?”
“I have… a bit of an idea, yes.”
She took a deep breath, as if to pluck up her courage.
“So I’m going to tell you to your face,” she said.
That was his way, after all. And besides, he’d once said that the only things she didn’t say to his face were the ones that scared her. And in the dusty silence of the library, between the bookshelves, she had decided that this particular fear was worth facing.
“I think… I think what’s been happening between us since you arrived here isn’t just because we’ve known each other forever. It’s not just that.”
“No,” he admitted, “it’s not just that.”
“And it’s not… just because we’re both stuck in this godforsaken place either. It’s not just the loneliness, or the fact that there’s no one else around.”
“No,” he repeated, more quietly.
She looked at him then, straight into his eyes, searching for his gaze in the dim light.
“So what is it, Bucky? If it’s neither habit nor the circumstances… what is it?”
He set his teacup down on the counter and looked at her. No holding back, no half-measures, just his full and undivided attention, just as he always gave to the things that really mattered.
“It's us,” he murmured.“What we were before, what we are now… and everything that happened in between.” He said it simply, as he always did with the things that really mattered. “That’s it, right from the start.”
“Since the beginning of this week, or… since the beginning?”
“Since the beginning,” he repeated, without a moment’s hesitation, leaving no room for doubt.
Yn stared at him for a long moment. He held her gaze, without looking away, without trying to fill the silence with unnecessary words. He was simply there, fully present, as he knew how to be when something was worth it.
“Do you want to stay here tonight? In this kitchen?” she asked, her voice soft, almost a whisper.
“Is that really what you want?” he asked softly.
There was a raw sincerity in his voice, as if he needed to believe it more than anything. Yn then sensed that something had just changed between them. It wasn’t the question itself, but the way he’d asked it. That ‘you’ said it all: he wanted it to be her choice, truly.
”Yes,” she replied.
The words had barely left his lips when Bucky reacted as if a dam had burst inside him.He closed the distance between them in a single powerful stride, pressed his body against hers with almost brutal force, and crushed his mouth against hers. The kiss was anything but gentle. It was hungry, violent, desperate. His teeth bit into her lower lip, his tongue invaded her mouth, possessive, demanding. He growled against her, a deep sound that vibrated in her chest. His flesh hand clamped onto her hair, pulling her head back to devour her more fully, whilst his lefthand gripped the back of her neck, cold and relentless.
“Ten bloody years,” he murmured against her lips between two ferocious kisses. “Ten years dreaming of this. Of you. Of this mouth. Of this body.”
He didn’t give her time to reply. With a sharp movement, he ripped off her jumper and T-shirt; the fabric tore slightly at the shoulder. The cold air from the kitchen stung her bare skin, but the warmth of Bucky’s body immediately enveloped her. His mouth moved down to her chest, sucking hard on a breast, his tongue swirling around the nipple before his teeth bit down. The pain mixed with pleasure drew a sharp cry from her. His fingers pinched the other nipple, twisting it, pulling it mercilessly.Yn arched her back, her hands buried in his hair, pulling hard. Bucky growled with satisfaction and sucked harder, leaving red and purple marks on her pale skin, as if he wanted everyone to know tomorrow morning who she now belonged to.His fleshy hand slid down her stomach, thrusting brutally beneath the elastic of her leggings and knickers, and two thick fingers plunged straight into her soaking wet pussy. She gasped violently. He curled them immediately, caressing that precise spot inside with ruthless precision, whilst his thumb rubbed her swollen clitoris in hard, rapid circles.
“Bloody hell, you’re dripping,” he growled against her neck, biting her skin hard enough to leave a clear mark. “This little pussy’s been wet for me ever since I got here, hasn’t it? Say it.”
“Yes… Bucky… yes… ”
He added a third finger, stretching her wide, fucking her with deep, brutal thrusts. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers sliding in and out filled the silent kitchen. Her thighs began to tremble. He continued relentlessly, harder, faster, until she exploded.Yn came with a hoarse cry, the walls of her pussy clenching violently around his fingers, her body shaken by spasms. Bucky didn’t stop. He kept fingering her throughout the orgasm, prolonging the pleasure until she was sobbing, hypersensitive, feebly trying to push his hand away.
He finally withdrew his fingers, brought them to his mouth and licked them slowly, never taking his eyes off her, a dark smile on his lips.Then he yanked his trousers and boxers down in one swift motion. His cock sprang out, heavy, thick, veiny, the glans swollen and glistening with pre-cum. Yn stared at it, her throat dry.Bucky grabbed her by the thighs, lifted her as if she weighed nothing, and slammed her down onto the worktop. He spread her legs as wide as he could and thrust himself into her with a single powerful stroke.She screamed.The sensation was overwhelming. He was enormous; he was stretching her to the limit, filling her completely. Tears welled up in her eyes. Bucky groaned deeply, his forehead pressed against hers, his breathing ragged.
“Bloody hell… so tight… your pussy’s choking me.”
He gave her no respite. He withdrew almost entirely and plunged back in violently, setting a savage rhythm. Hard. Deep. Merciless. The sound of their flesh slapping echoed through the kitchen. Every thrust pierced her right to the hilt.His metal hand closed around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her see stars. His other hand gripped her hip, leaving red marks.
“Look at me,” he ordered in a hoarse voice. “Look at me while I destroy you.”
Their eyes locked. He fucked her harder, faster, his balls slapping against her arse. Yn came a second time, screaming his name, her body shaking, her pussy pulsing around his thick cock. Bucky carried on without slowing down, growling like an animal.
He suddenly turned her round, bent her over the worktop and penetrated her from behind again with a brutal thrust. The angle was even deeper. She screamed into his arm. Bucky grabbed her hair, pulled her head back whilst pounding her mercilessly.
“Say it. Say that this pussy is mine now.”
“It’s yours… Bucky… it’s yours… I’m yours…”
His fingers found her clitoris and rubbed it roughly. She came for the third time, her legs trembling, tears streaming down her cheeks. Bucky continued to fuck her through the orgasm, even harder.He turned her round again, lifted her up and pinned her against the wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist. He fucked her against the wall with powerful thrusts that made the pictures on the wall shake.
“I’ve thought about this every night for ten years,”he gasped against her ear. “Every time I jerked off, I imagined destroying you like this. ”
She came for the fourth time, her nails digging into his back until they drew blood. Bucky finally gave in. He thrust as deep as he could and came with an animalistic growl, spurting thick, hot jets deep inside her. She felt every pulse, every spurt filling her until it overflowed and ran down her thighs.
The silence that night was the most peaceful of the whole week.
Yn had lain down in the kitchen, not in the bedroom; they hadn’t moved. The light was subdued, the snow had almost stopped falling outside, and there was that peculiar atmosphere that lingers after something significant has happened. Bucky was beside her, breathing deeply and evenly, like someone who is truly asleep. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, wide awake, and it didn’t bother her.She thought about that emotional intimacy that makes one vulnerable. That evening, she was, truly, in a way she hadn’t felt for a long time, and it didn’t frighten her as much as it used to. Not that she wasn’t afraid at all. Just a different kind of fear, a lighter one. Or perhaps the same, but accompanied by something else that weighed more heavily.
Bucky’s phone vibrated on the worktop.T’Challa, the screen read in the dim light.Bucky didn’t move. Either he was fast asleep, or he’d decided to let it ring. Both were possible; both were typical of him, depending on the day.Yn picked up her guitar, which was still there, and played very softly, almost inaudibly, the bridge she’d come up with that evening. And in that whispered version, played in the kitchen at Harrow Point station, as the storm subsided outside and Bucky slept by her side, the song finally took on the form it should always have had.
The next day, the snow had stopped falling. It hadn’t melted—it was still too cold but it lay there, stuck to the windows. The Alaskan sky had that particular clarity that follows a storm, sharper, colder, as if the air had been filtered for days and emerged transformed.Yn woke up in room seven. They’d finally got back around one in the morning, walking through the silent corridors of the sleeping station, and Bucky wasn’t there. His bag was still sitting on the left-hand side of the bed. His phone wasn’t on the bedside table. He’d gone to do his rounds, or answer a call from T’Challa, or both, with that habit of his of sorting things out before anyone else had even opened their eyes.She lay there for a moment, staring blankly at the low white ceiling, lulled by the silence of the station after the storm. Something had changed; she could feel it. She hadn’t yet found the words to describe it, and perhaps not naming it for now was the best way to keep it close to her, for the time being.Her phone showed three messages.
Dani
According to the latest reports, the storm has finally passed. You can go out whenever you like.
Yn.
I know you can see these messages.
She couldn’t help but smile, but remained silent for a moment. Answering Dani would have required a kind of truth she hadn’t yet found. And Dani had that particular talent: asking questions to which she already knew the answer, simply waiting for it to be confirmed. This made their exchanges both simple and inevitable.When Yn arrived for her coffee, Matteo was already in the common room. A therapist and researcher in residence for the past two months, he possessed that particular attentiveness of professionals who listen: both intense and discreet, the kind one acquires after years of distinguishing between listening to understand and listening to respond. Pragmatic and direct, he detested pretence, which sometimes made him a little brusque before his first cup.Jo turned up ten minutes later, the two notebooks clutched tightly to her chest, and plonked herself down in the chair opposite Yn without so much as a questioning glance. She had a way of settling in, as if the seat were naturally meant for her.
“So, is the song finished?” she asked, her eyes already fixed on her notes.
“How did you guess it wasn’t?”
“You’ve been working on it since the concert. At night, I could hear snippets from my room, notes playing on a loop.” She opened a notebook with a precise movement. “This morning, you’ve got that look… the look of someone who’s just put the final piece of the puzzle in place.”
“The song’s finished,” admitted Yn, feeling a little relieved to say it out loud.
“And something else too,” added Jo, without looking up.
“Jo.”
“I’m just saying what I see. That’s all.” She scribbled a few words, the pen gliding gently across the paper. “He’s a good one, you know.”
“I know.”
“Have you always known that?”
“No.” Yn took a sip of coffee, letting the warmth spread through his fingers. “But I knew he was… someone. Someone different.”
“It’s the same thing, really.”
“Not exactly.”
“Close enough,” concluded Jo.
And she began writing again, in that quiet silence of someone who has said what matters and needs say no more.Thor bumped into her in the corridor around midday, and it looked as though he had something on his mind – not the sort to beat about the bush.
“I saw you the other night,” he blurted out, straight to the point.
She looked up, a little surprised.
“Which night?”
“In the kitchen. You were dancing.”
“Thor…”
“I’m not trying to pry, you know. It’s just that… you look well. And when someone looks well, you say so, don’t you?”
She stared at him, a half-smile on her lips.
“Is that a compliment, or are you leading up to something else?”
“A bit of both,” he admitted without looking away. “He’ll be leaving as soon as the snow has melted enough for the roads to be passable. Tomorrow, maybe the day after.”
“I know,” she murmured, her gaze lost in the distance.
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“No idea. For now, I’m just going round in circles.”
“Did you at least keep his number?”
“We drifted apart without really losing touch… Well, actually, we did lose touch, but not the number. The number, I’ve always had it somewhere. It’s everything else… the rest that was missing.”
“Well then, the rest is there now, isn’t it?” Thor said in that way of his, reducing things to the bare essentials, as if it were all obvious. “You’ve already got the number.”
She stared at him for a moment, a half-smile on her lips.
“Is that your great wisdom?”
“It’s common sense,” he corrected, pragmatically.
And he was already striding down the corridor, a little stiff, as always after offering useful advice without being quite sure it was well put.
Bucky sent him a message at two o’clock.
Bucky
T’Challa says the roads should be clear by tomorrow afternoon.
She read it four times. Not that it was difficult to understand; it was crystal clear, a simple, practical message, like the ones a colleague sends after an inspection.But there was that ‘tomorrow afternoon’ slipped in there, just for her. And that ‘T’Challa says’, as if to put some distance between them, even though it was he who’d chosen to write to her. And then that thought: he’d had her number for ten years without ever using it… until today.A fifth read-through.She typed “I know”, sent it, then put her phone down. Off to the library. She needed a bit of space to take it in: tomorrow afternoon was in twenty hours. Twenty hours is both a long time and a short time. She’d already wasted enough time on the wrong people. She didn’t want to waste those twenty hours.Her phone vibrated.
Bucky
I know you know.
She stared at the screen for a moment.
Bucky
Tonight, in the kitchen?
Yn smiled ,genuinely, unreservedly, like a smile that slips out before you even realise it and replied:
You
Yes.
She put her phone down, opened her notebook and jotted down the last two lines. The song was finally finished, exactly as she had imagined it.
The observation room was, in a way, the heart of Harrow Point station.Bucky found her there the next day, just as she’d expected.He came in, a cup in his hand ,the good coffee, the one from the top cupboard; he’d finally figured out where she’d been hiding it, and sat down beside her.The sea, that morning, had changed. Calmer, colder, with that crystal-clear light so characteristic of the waters of Alaska after a storm.
He announced, as if reading a weather report:
“The roads will be passable starting at noon.”
“I know.”
“I’m leaving at two o’clock.”
“I know that, too.”
He raised his cup to his lips, taking a sip of coffee that was too hot. She did the same, her gaze lost in his over the rim of her own cup.
“There’s something I want to say before I leave,” he continued, his voice a little tense.
“Then say it.”
“It’s… I’m searching for the words.”
“Bucky. ”
“I know.” He set his cup down with a soft click on the saucer. “Last night… you said you didn’t know if you’d learned how to keep people.”
She gave a faint, slightly sad smile.
“I didn’t say it exactly like that.”
“No. You told me you were still afraid.” He stared at the horizon, his eyes lost in the endless movement of the waves. “I’m still afraid too, you know.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t want that to be an excuse.”
She turned slowly toward him, her eyes questioning.
“An excuse for what?”
“For not trying.”
He did the same, turning until their eyes met. He had that way of looking at people, frank and direct, that he reserved for the things that really mattered.
“I spent ten years not sending a message, because I never knew what to write. And now here I am, at a marine biology station at the tip of Alaska… I finally know what I want to say. But I’m still searching for the words.”
“Say what you really feel,” she whispered. “Not what you think you should.”
He stared at her for a moment.
“I don’t want it to be just for tonight,” he blurted out.
A short sentence, but one heavy with all it carried: those three words,just for tonight,encapsulated the past week, the distance that had separated them, everything left unsaid, the forgotten coffee in the cupboard, that dance without music, the bridge they’d discovered together, and this simple truth: sometimes we hold on to people just because it’s true.
She remained silent for a moment.Her gaze drifted out over the Alaskan sea, clear and icy in the wake of the storm. She thought about “not forever, just for tonight,” and what it really meant to say the opposite. She thought about her fear of intimacy, that vulnerability that frightened her so, even though she was already vulnerable. The fear was there, very real. But something else was there too, at the same time. Both were true, and they coexisted.
“Give me a second,” she said.
“Take as long as you need.”
She picked up her cup and walked over to the central window in the observation room, the one that looked directly out onto the sea, with no obstructions. She stood there, her gaze lost in the water, for perhaps thirty seconds, perhaps three minutes. Just long enough to remember her father playing the guitar in the kitchen, that unfinished song that, somehow, felt complete. “From the beginning,” he had said, with such calm certainty.Some things, she told herself, deserve to be said face-to-face. Even when they’re scary. Especially when they’re scary. That was her rule. And it was time to apply it.She turned around.Bucky was watching her from his stool, in a silence heavier than any she’d experienced all week. No impatience, just presence. The way someone waits who knows that some answers take the time they need, and who doesn’t try to rush them.
“I don’t know how we do it,” she admitted, her voice slightly hoarse. “Come in here, Nashville… our lives aren’t in the same place.”
“Me neither, I don’t know.”
“And that… doesn’t that bother you?”
“Yes, it’s a practical problem,” he replied after a brief silence. “But not a problem of wanting.”
“And for you… is it there?”
“Since Friday’s concert,” he said softly. “And even before that, probably.”
Yn slowly set her cup down on the windowsill and crossed her arms. Not as a barrier, no—it was her posture when something serious crossed her mind, when she let her thoughts settle.
“You memorized the way I play… in five days.”
“Yes.”
“You found the coffee in the top cupboard, without anyone having to show you.
“Yes.”
“You let T’Challa’s call go to voicemail, because you decided it wasn’t the right time.
“Yes.”
She looked at him, a slight tremor at the corner of her lips.
“All of that… was for me.”
Yn stared at him for a long moment this man with the hands of a firefighter and the habits of a carpenter, who kept people around and found coffee in cupboards no one ever opened;and she realized she’d spent ten years saying nothing, simply because she didn’t know what to say. Now she knew. And there was no longer any reason to stay silent.
“I don’t want this to be just for tonight,” she whispered.
He was silent for a moment.
Then he replied:
“Okay.”
And that “okay” came from someone who had just received what he’d been waiting for without even knowing it. In that word lay everything Bucky never said in sentences, but which he expressed nonetheless, through his gestures, his silences, and the forgotten coffee in the top cupboard.
T'Challa pushed open the door to the observation room just then. Was it a perfect coincidence, or a sign that he knew exactly what was going on in his station? He stared at both of them, keeping his expression deliberately neutral.
“The roads at noon,” he announced, as if it were obvious.
“We know,” Bucky replied, without looking up.
“Good.”
T’Challa watched them for another moment, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips, a look of calm satisfaction in his eyes.
“The café, the one in the top cupboard, is better.”
“I know,” said Bucky, looking at him this time.
“I knew that too,” replied T’Challa, before gently closing the door and walking away down the hallway, his soft footsteps imbued with that quiet confidence that came so naturally to him.
Yn stood for a moment in front of the closed door, lost in thought.
“He knew about the coffee from the start,” she murmured, more to herself than to Bucky.
“Probably since forever,” he replied, grabbing his cup. “He was just waiting for someone to be curious enough to look.”
“That’s a metaphor, isn’t it?”
“It’s coffee,” he asserted, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
And Yn thought to herself that it was a bit of both. That T’Challa was precisely the kind of person who talks about one thing to say something else, something more important. And that, deep down, that was also why she liked him so much.
It was 11:45 a.m. when he did it.Nothing out of the ordinary—it was always like that with Bucky: discreet, precise, without warning. He was preparing something in the kitchen, and Yn was finishing the last two lines of her song at the living room table. At one point, he simply set something down in front of her, without a word.
Tea.
Not just any tea: the box he’d dug out two days earlier from the back of a cupboard, a brand she’d mentioned in passing once, saying she’d been looking for it for weeks. And apparently, he’d remembered, with that characteristic precision of his for remembering everything.She looked up at him.
“So, when did you find this little treasure?”
“The day before yesterday, while I was rummaging around a bit.” He headed toward the kitchen, his hands in his pockets. “I wasn’t sure whether to give it to you right away; I was wondering if it was really the right time.”
“And now you think it’s the right time?”
“Well… you’re leaving in two hours.” His voice was calm, almost detached, without trying to make a big deal out of it. “I just figured it might come in handy on the road, that’s all.”
Yn glanced at the tea box sitting on the table, then at his open notebook, where only two lines remained to be written. A thought crossed his mind: certain gestures spoke volumes more than any words one could have strung together. And Bucky had always known that.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“It’s tea.”
“I know what it is,” she replied softly.
He was watching her from the kitchen, and there was something in his gaze—a kind of transparency, a lack of restraint—that moved her. Yn let it be there, without trying to analyze it, without wanting to put words to it right away. Sometimes, letting someone in meant just that: welcoming what was playing out on their face, without needing to manage it, name it, or file it away too quickly.
Dani called around noon.
“So?” she said as soon as Yn picked up, without preamble.
“Hello, Dani.”
“Hello. So?”
“So what?”
“Yn…”
“Everything’s fine,” said Yn, a little too quickly.
“You sound like someone for whom everything is fine… but in a new way. As if you’d discovered a patch of blue sky after weeks of gray.”
“Is that a category?” Yn joked, slightly on the defensive.
“It’s an observation,” Dani replied, with a precision that seemed cold on the surface but always betrayed her true interest in the things that mattered. “Bucky Barnes.”
The name fell like a small stone into calm water.
“How do you know his name?”
“Jo sent me a message.”
“Jo…”
“Yes, Jo. She said you’ve seemed different since Monday. And that it’s because of him.”
“He has that look, you know, the one where he sees exactly what he needs to.He’s coming back today, right?”
“Yeah.”
“But you guys aren’t usually in the same city.”
“No.”
“And that freaks you out a little, huh?”
“A little, yeah.”
“But you’re going to give it a try anyway.”
“Yes,” Yn replied. It was the first time she’d said it out loud to anyone other than Bucky. And saying it to Dani, right here in broad daylight in the common room at Harrow Point Station, felt different. More real. More grounded.
“Okay,” said Dani, in a tone that suggested she’d asked all her questions and didn’t need any more. “Call me when you get back.”
“I’ll call you.”
“And Yn?”
“Yes?”
“You look good.”
“I know,” said Yn.
And it was true.Thor found her in the hallway at 1:30 p.m., her suitcases by her side.
“You said yes,” he observed.
“You don’t know what I said.”
“You look like someone who said yes.” He had that direct, never mean, honesty. “That’s good.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Good things often are.” He grabbed a suitcase without waiting for permission. “I’ll carry this to the entrance for you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he said simply. And he took the suitcase, just as he always did useful things, not because he was asked, but because they needed to be done.
Bucky was already waiting for him in the entryway, his bag at his feet.T'Challa was there, along with two other firefighters: Jo, with his notebooks under his arm, and Matteo, holding a cup of coffee. In this small group hung that very special atmosphere of departures to remote areas—more intense than a simple goodbye, because these places forge bonds unknown elsewhere, and one must learn to leave them differently.T’Challa was talking shop with Bucky, discussing details about the structure and the generator, to which Yn paid only half a listen. Jo called out to him, “The song’s over,” with that gentle, confident smile that was so characteristic of him. Matteo simply said, “Safe travels,” pragmatic, like someone for whom polite phrases serve their purpose without needing to be overemphasized.Then most of them left, quietly, knowing when it was time to step aside. Only Yn and Bucky remained in the entryway, their belongings beside them, and two-hour drives in opposite directions awaiting them.
“Nashville,” he murmured, as if testing the word on his lips.
“Yes,” she replied, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
“I have some time off in March,” he announced, his eyes sparkling with an idea taking shape.
“March…” she said, thinking aloud. “That’s in six weeks—can you believe it?”
“I know,” he said softly, his gaze never leaving her. “It feels like an eternity, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all,” she replied, shaking her head slightly. “It’s just… a practical detail. Just so I know how long I have to wait.”
“It’s both,” he replied.
And in his voice was that smile he reserved for things that truly moved him—a full smile this time, one that was unmistakable.Yn grabbed her guitar and her suitcase. She knew she was about to do something she hadn’t planned, but she was going to do it anyway. That was just her way: facing things head-on, even the ones that were a little scary.
“Tonight, I’ll play you the finished song,” she announced. “Before we leave.”
“In the kitchen?”
“Yes, in the kitchen.”
He nodded slowly, as he always did when something really mattered.
The kitchen was empty; it was almost two in the afternoon. The Alaskan light, after the storm, streamed in through the window, sharp and cold, as if it were outlining every detail more precisely than usual,the surfaces, the objects, the contours.Yn set down her suitcase, picked up her guitar, and settled onto the counter at her usual spot, the one where she could hear the song best. Bucky sat across from her, arms crossed, attentive, as he always was when something was about to happen.She played the song.Not for a venue. Not for an audience. For him, right there, in the Harrow Point kitchen, on a Wednesday in January, just before two o’clock, with the sea visible through the window and the roads clear for barely two hours.The song had taken shape,a solid verse, a bridge conceived in the middle of the night in that very same kitchen, and the final two lines written that very morning, a cup of tea set before her. Four minutes and a few seconds. It said what it had to say, without overdoing it, as good songs do—leaving enough room for everyone to put a little of themselves into it.Bucky listened to her the way he listened to everything that mattered—fully, without distraction, his gaze fixed on her, asking for nothing and taking nothing in return.When she stopped, he didn’t say anything for a moment.And then he said:
“It’s for your father.”
“It’s for a lot of people.”
“And for me.”
“And for you,” she replied, because it was the truth, and because refusing to admit it would have been one of those polite lies she hated so much.
He then stood up, approached her, and cupped her face in his hands,gently, with those hands that knew so well how to hold onto what deserved to be held and whispered:
“I'll send you messages. Not just practical things.”
“I know.”
“And in March.”
“And in March,” she repeated, her voice barely more than a whisper.
He kissed her,not for long, not like in the movies, just long enough for it to feel real. So that moment would stay there, in that kitchen where the scent of good coffee still lingered, where the tea box sat on the countertop, where the song had just ended, where the sea lapped gently against the window.
They left at two o’clock.
Not together. Each on their own, heading toward different roads and cities. But something had been said there, in the kitchen at Harrow Point, at twenty to two. And the things we say in good kitchens, at the right moment, have a way of sticking, even when paths diverge.Yn drove for two hours with the melody in her head, the box of tea on the passenger seat, and her phone placed in plain sight. At 4:30 p.m., a message arrived.
Bucky:
Did you find the right way?
You:
Yeah, did you?
Bucky:
That song was really good.
You:
I know, it’s got something special.
Bucky:
Are you planning to record it someday?
You:
When it’s really ready, yeah.
Bucky:
But… isn’t it already ready, actually?
You:
For you, yeah. For the rest of the world… not quite yet.
A few minutes pass, just the sound of the road.
Bucky:
Okay, I get it.
And in that agreement, everything was there: the six weeks separating us from March, the distance, the fear that still lingered within both of us, and something else, something heavier, that didn’t yet have a name but would find one, little by little, with time, the messages exchanged, and the meals to come.Yn set her phone on the passenger seat, next to the tea box, and set off for Nashville. She drove, learning this new way of inhabiting time, not just for tonight, not forever either, just for what was there, real, with the exact weight it was meant to bear.
LET’S STAY HERE
A LITTLE LONGER
[Yn × Bucky Barnes | State Fair AU]
pairing: Yn × Bucky Barnes | Lawyer × Cabinetmaker
summary: Nashville, Tennessee. Yn is a lawyer, the sort who follows her heart rather than her head, and the idea of being someone’s priority makes her panic a little. Bucky, on the other hand, is a cabinetmaker, rather quiet, the type to observe before acting. They crossed paths at the Tennessee State Fair, during an impromptu cooking workshop — nothing crazy, just two strangers side by side, peeling vegetables. Becoming flatmates felt like the obvious choice: practical, no-fuss.
word count: +5K
warning: 18+ Only. Explicit sexual content (smut), slow burn, emotional tension. Minors DNI. My blog is an adult-only space; if you are under 18, do not like or reblog this post. Safe sex practices (condom use) are mentioned and encouraged. Stay safe in real life.
A/N: I just wanted to say a huge thank you to my 102 followers! Reaching the 100 milestone means so much to me and I'm incredibly grateful for all your support and for reading my stories. Thank you for being here!
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oneshots | series | all writing
The air at the Tennessee fair smelled of burnt sugar and frying oil, with that distinctive scent of large crowds in the open air: the heat of bodies, crushed grass, and that slight electric tension that always hangs in the air in September, when summer is reluctant to give way.
Yn would never have gone there of her own accord, but Bodhi had insisted. “It’ll do you good,” he’d said. And as usual, he was probably right. That was both what annoyed her most about him and what she appreciated most.
He approached her quietly, a smirk on his face.
“You’ve been standing there for a good five minutes, staring at that cookery stall, you know?” he remarked, leaning in close to her shoulder.
She didn’t look away.
“I’m just thinking, that’s all. ”
“Oh, really?” He chuckled softly. “Are you thinking about signing up… or are you already thinking of the best excuse to make a quick getaway?”
A small smile escaped her.
“A bit of both, to be honest. ”
He shrugged, looking relaxed.
“The workshop’s free, you know. We’re not asking you to sign a lifetime contract.”
She let out a sigh, almost amused, and finally picked up the pen.
“Right, fine. Why not, after all?”
The large table was covered with chopping boards, knives and vegetables neatly lined up. Everything was arranged so that even beginners would feel at ease. Yn took her seat, watched the demonstration, and at one point, someone came and sat down beside her. Without asking, but without intruding on her space either. Just a calm presence, which asserted itself naturally.
“You’re holding your knife the wrong way round,” he said without even looking up.
“I’ve always held it this way.”
“Exactly. That’s precisely why it’s the wrong way round.”
She turned her head towards him. He was leaning over his chopping board, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead, his hands moving back and forth with the quiet ease of someone who handles objects without thinking. Not a smile, not a hint of mockery. He’d simply stated the facts, because that was how it was.
“So how do I do it, then?”
“Thumb and index finger on the blade, not the handle. That way, you have better control.”
She adjusted her grip, immediately feeling the difference. Firmer, more precise. She said nothing, but a slight nod betrayed her silent approval.Across the crowded kitchen, her phone vibrated. A message from Bodhi.
Bodhi
Who’s that?
You
Oh, just someone who has very… let’s say, strong opinions about kitchen knives. You know, the sort who’ll talk for hours about the sharpness of a Japanese blade.
Bodhi
Ah, interesting!
You
Interesting?
Not really, it’s mostly very technical and a bit nerdy. But hey, to each their own.
Bodhi
Hmm, I see...
She slipped her phone into her pocket and went back to chopping her vegetables. He, too, was focused on his chopping board, their elbows almost touching on the table. Neither of them moved back. Out of politeness, no doubt. Or for some other reason. She preferred to stick with the explanation of politeness, and carried on chopping.
His name was Bucky.
He mentioned it at the end of the workshop, as matter-of-fact as ever, just the first name, without adding anything else, and Yn gave him hers. They put their chopping boards away side by side, with the ease of people who’d just spent forty minutes doing something together and no longer needed to justify their presence.
“It was nice,” she said, a faint smile playing on her lips.
“It turned out all right,” he replied, his expression neutral.
“Is that a compliment or a critique?”
“A critique.” He glanced at the table, as if to check something. “Not bad for a first attempt.”
“I’ve cooked before, you know,” she insisted, slightly on the defensive.
“With a knife grip that needs work,” he added without malice.
“It was still edible,” she retorted, almost laughing.
“Edible isn’t the same as good,” he said.
Faye Guerrero was walking past, a cone of candyfloss in her hand, when she spotted them. She stopped short, her eyes sparkling as if she’d just unearthed a little treasure and was already wondering what to do with it.
“Do you two know each other?” he asked, turning to Yn with a slightly raised eyebrow.
“We’ve only just met,” she replied, a little hesitantly, as if she wasn’t entirely sure of the answer herself.
“We bumped into each other at the workshop,” Bucky clarified in a neutral tone, without trying to say any more.
Faye, her arms crossed, let out a short, dry laugh.
“And here you are, still chatting away,” she said, in that tone that stated both a fact and her conclusion, as if she’d just solved a little puzzle all by herself.
Yn looked at Bucky. Bucky looked at Yn. Neither of them replied to Faye; the answer was already hanging in the air, palpable, and there was nothing more to be said. Faye smiled, a wry smile, before walking off with her candyfloss, looking as satisfied as someone who has said what they had to say without waiting for others’ approval. It was as if she were carrying a little secret with her.A silence followed, comfortable, almost conspiratorial. Then Bucky broke the calm.
“There’s an apartment to share in my block,” he said, as if he’d only just thought of it.
“Are you looking for a flatmate?” asked Yn, a little surprised.
“Are you looking for somewhere to live?” he retorted, dodging the question.
“For the past three weeks,” she replied without hesitation.
It was true. And it was also the answer to a question she hadn’t really asked herself yet, but which had been lurking there in the shadows ever since that clumsy knife grab and those few centimetres of shared space, like the beginning of something one doesn’t yet dare to name.
The Wednesday evening cookery classes were held at Nora Adeyemi’s flat, on the ground floor of our block. Her kitchen always felt warm and welcoming, filled with delicious smells – the sort of place where you really put your heart into things. There were never more than six of us, with a glass of wine sitting on the worktop, and it felt more like an evening with friends than a proper class.That Wednesday, Faye sent a message at around seven o’clock in the evening.
Faye
I won’t be coming in tonight. Got an urgent client.
You
You’ve got urgent clients, do you?
Faye
People have existential crises at all hours, Yn.
Yn showed Bucky the message in the hallway. He scanned it before saying, as if the absence of a third person ultimately mattered little: “We’re going anyway.” She simply replied, “Yes,” because it was true for her too.
That evening, they set about preparing a sauce that took time. A slow reduction, requiring a bit of vigilance. They stood there, together, in front of the hobs, a glass of wine in hand, in that quiet way of being side by side that had become theirs over the last two months. Nora explained a detail about the texture, and Bucky listened with that particular attentiveness he reserved for practical matters. At one point, a slightly abrupt movement by Yn with the spoon caused a splash of sauce. So he placed his hand on hers, not to take control, but simply to reassure her, saying with that calmness that came so naturally to him:
“Like that.”
Her hand lingered there for two seconds too long.Yn looked at the sauce.
“Like that, yes,” she murmured.
He put down the plate, picked up his glass of wine again, and began to gaze at her once more. In Nora’s kitchen, where the aroma of delicious food and wine hung in the air, something indefinable had crept into the atmosphere. Yn sensed it, but said nothing. Bucky sensed it too, and remained silent. It was their way, both of them, of acknowledging what deserved silence.
The next morning, Yn found some tea on the kitchen worktop. Not coffee — tea. Her brand, the green tin she’d mentioned in passing three weeks earlier. She’d said she’d been looking for it for months, that no one in the neighbourhood had it, and that she’d ended up ordering it online, with that slight resignation of those who give up the real quest for digital convenience. The tin was sitting next to the kettle, as if it had always been there. No note, no explanation. Just the green box, and the fact that Bucky had already left for work.She stood for a moment in front of the counter, her cup in her hands.Bodhi called her at half past nine, with the timing of someone who instinctively senses when people need a phone call.She took a sip of coffee, not tea, her usual coffee, because tea would have signified something she wasn’t ready to say yet, and looked out the window at Nashville on a Tuesday morning, with its quiet streets and trees that were beginning to turn a soft shade of red.
“I know,” she finally said.
“I know you know,” Bodhi replied. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
She hung up without a word. The green box was still sitting on the counter. She slipped it into the cupboard, back in its usual spot,you quickly pick up on your roommates’ habits, even without meaning to, then put on her coat, grabbed her things, and left.On the subway, her mind returned to that single word: “careful.” That was precisely what she found hardest to accept… and what he offered her so naturally.
The breakdown happened that Thursday evening in January, without warning, as usual. The heat cut out with a faint squeak around ten o’clock, and the apartment began to cool down slowly but surely. Tennessee winters have their own unstoppable logic: certainly less harsh than those in Minnesota, but to call them “mild” is an understatement. And there stood Yn, in the hallway in her socks, phone in hand, dialing the number of the property manager who wasn’t answering.
“He still isn’t answering,” she whispered, holding the phone tightly to her ear as if that would make a difference.
“I know,” he replied simply, his gaze lost in the window.
That was when Bucky came out of his room, dragging an old wool blanket over his shoulders, looking like someone who’d already seen and understood it all. He sighed, a small cloud of breath escaping his lips into the cold air of the apartment.
“The boiler broke down,” he announced in a calm voice, as if he were reporting the weather. “The repairman’s coming tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning…” she repeated, the words echoing a little hollowly in the icy silence.
“Yeah.”
A shiver ran down her spine. She walked over to the window and pressed her palm against the glass, cold as stone.
“It’s eight degrees outside.”
Bucky glanced at his phone, a weary smile on his lips.
“Seven now. It’s getting cold fast.”
Yn glanced down her hallway, then into her bedroom where the radiator stubbornly refused to do its job. She weighed up the pros and cons: turning up at Bodhi’s, a forty-minute drive away, staying stuck under a mountain of jumpers and hoping for the best… or then there was that third option. It had been floating in the air for a while, but she hadn’t dared to voice it yet.
“You’ve got quite a blanket there, haven’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“And a double bed, too.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m just pointing it out, that’s all.”
“That sounds like an invitation,” he replied with a slight smirk.
She grabbed her blanket and followed her into her bedroom.Lying side by side in the freezing January darkness, the flat grew colder and colder around them. The silence was heavy, laden with everything that remained unsaid. Yn stared at the ceiling. So did Bucky. And in that darkness, between their two blankets and the seven degrees outside, she finally whispered:
“I think I’ve been pretending for a while now.”
He didn’t ask,
“Pretending what?”
He knew. And she knew that he knew.
“Me too,” he murmured.
The words barely left his lips before the tension snapped.Bucky’s hand slid under the blankets, found your waist, and yanked you against him with a hunger that had been building for months. Your mouths collided — no softness, no hesitation. It was raw, desperate, teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance. He tasted like the cheap red wine from earlier and something darker, something that made heat flood between your legs instantly.He rolled on top of you, heavy, solid, pinning you to the mattress. The old bed creaked loudly under his weight. The freezing January air bit at any exposed skin, but Bucky was a furnace. His cock, already achingly hard, pressed thick and insistent against your stomach through his sweatpants, so hot you could feel it throbbing.
“Fuck, Yn,” he growled against your mouth, grinding his hips down so you could feel every thick inch. “You don’t know how many nights I laid in that room stroking my cock thinking about you. Imagining how tight you’d feel. How you’d sound when I finally fucked you.”
His hand shoved your oversized t-shirt up roughly, cool fingers dragging over your ribs and closing around your breast. The icy metal against your burning skin made you gasp sharply. He pinched your nipple, rolling it, tugging until it ached, then lowered his head and sucked it hard into his mouth. His tongue flicked mercilessly while his flesh hand pushed your shirt completely off and threw it into the darkness.You moaned loudly, back arching off the bed. Bucky switched to your other breast, sucking harder, teeth grazing the sensitive peak, leaving red marks that would bruise tomorrow. His mouth was relentless, wet and hot, while his metal fingers kept playing with the one he’d abandoned, pinching and twisting in perfect rhythm.Your hands fisted in his long hair, pulling hard. He groaned in approval, the vibration shooting straight to your core.He kissed down your stomach, slow and filthy, open-mouthed, leaving a trail of saliva that cooled instantly in the freezing room. When he reached your sleep shorts he ripped them down your legs along with your panties in one brutal tug, leaving you completely naked and exposed.The cold air hit your soaked pussy like ice. You shivered, thighs trying to close on instinct, but Bucky caught your knees and spread them wide, settling his broad shoulders between them like he belonged there.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, staring at your glistening folds. “You’re dripping down your thighs. All this for me?”
He dragged two thick fingers through your slit, spreading your wetness, then pushed both inside you without warning. The sudden stretch made you cry out. He curled them immediately, stroking that spongy spot inside you while his tongue flicked over your swollen clit.
“Oh my god— Bucky— fuck—”
He sucked your clit into his mouth like a man starving, tongue working fast and hard while his fingers pumped deep and steady. The wet, obscene sounds of him devouring your pussy echoed in the silent, freezing apartment. Your thighs started shaking violently around his head. He growled against you, the vibration pushing you right to the edge.
“Come on my tongue,” he ordered, voice rough. “Right now.”
You shattered with a broken scream, back bowing off the bed, pussy gushing around his fingers. He didn’t stop. He kept licking and sucking, drawing every last pulse out of you until you were whimpering, oversensitive, trying to push his head away.Only then did he pull back, lips shiny with your cum, eyes dark with lust. He shoved his sweatpants down and kicked them off. His cock sprang free — thick, long, heavy, veins bulging, the head flushed dark purple and leaking steadily. It was bigger than anything you’d taken before. The sight made your pussy clench hard.
Bucky stroked himself slowly, watching your face.
“You want this cock, doll?”
“Yes,” you gasped, voice wrecked. “Please, Bucky.”
He leaned over you, one hand beside your head, the other guiding his cock to your entrance. He rubbed the fat head up and down your slit, teasing your clit, coating himself in your slick until you were squirming and begging.
Then he pushed in.
The first thick inch made you moan. The second made you gasp. By the time he was halfway buried you were panting, nails digging into his shoulders. He was stretching you so wide it burned, but it felt so fucking good.
“Relax for me,” he murmured, voice strained with effort. “Let me in. That’s it… good fucking girl.”
He sank the rest of the way in one long, slow thrust until his hips were pressed flush against yours and his heavy balls rested against your ass. You felt impossibly full, stuffed to the limit. Bucky dropped his forehead to yours, breathing ragged.
“Fuck… you’re squeezing me like a vice. So tight. So perfect. This pussy was made for my cock.”
He started moving — long, deep, dragging strokes that pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt. The wet slap of skin on skin and the creak of the bed filled the room. Every thrust ground his pelvis against your clit.
“Look at me while I fuck you,” he commanded.
Your eyes locked. His gaze was feral.
“That’s my girl. Taking every thick inch like a good little slut.”
He sped up, fucking you harder, the headboard now slamming rhythmically against the wall. His metal hand gripped your thigh, spreading you wider, while his flesh hand pinched your nipple. The contrast of temperatures drove you insane.Without warning he pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach, yanked your hips up high, and slammed back inside in one brutal thrust. The new angle made him hit so deep you screamed into the pillow.Bucky fisted your hair, pulling your head back as he pounded into you.
“Too deep? Tell me.”
“More,” you sobbed. “Harder..please don’t stop—”
He gave you exactly what you begged for.His hips snapped forward viciously, balls slapping loudly against your clit, metal fingers digging bruises into your hip. His other hand reached around to rub fast, tight circles on your clit. You came again with a broken wail, pussy spasming violently around his cock, gushing down his balls.Bucky groaned but kept fucking you through it, pace almost punishing.
“Not done with you yet, baby.”
He pulled out, turned you onto your back again, hooked your legs over his shoulders and folded you in half. The position let him sink even deeper. He drove into you with long, powerful strokes, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your chest despite the freezing room.He fucked you like that for what felt like forever — hard, deep, relentless. Talking the whole time in that low, filthy voice:
“Been wanting to fill this pussy since the first time you bent over in the kitchen…”
“Gonna ruin you for anyone else…”
“Look how well you take me. Such a greedy little cunt.”
You came a third time, shaking and crying his name. Bucky’s rhythm finally faltered. He buried himself to the hilt and came with a deep, guttural moan, flooding you with thick, hot ropes of cum. You felt every pulse, every spurt, so much that it leaked out around his cock even while he was still inside you.He stayed buried deep, both of you trembling, breathing hard.But he wasn’t finished.After a few minutes he started moving again, slow and lazy, fucking his own cum deeper into you. His fingers found your clit and rubbed gentle circles.
“One more,” he whispered. “Give me one more, doll.”
You came again on his cock, softer this time, clinging to him, tears of overwhelming pleasure slipping down your cheeks.He pulled out carefully, laid down beside you, and immediately pulled you on top of him. You straddled his hips, his still-hard cock sliding between your soaked folds.
“Ride me,” he said, voice rough. “Use me.”
You sank down onto him slowly, moaning at the feeling of being filled again. Bucky’s hands gripped your ass, guiding you, helping you find the rhythm. You rode him deep and slow at first, then faster, bouncing on his cock while he watched you with dark, hungry eyes.His hand came up to play with your breasts, pinching and tugging your nipples. His flesh thumb rubbed your clit in perfect circles. You came again like that, grinding down on him, moaning his name like a prayer.Bucky flipped you again, this time spooning behind you. He lifted your leg and slid back inside in one smooth thrust. He fucked you like that — slow, deep, intimate — one arm wrapped around your waist, metal fingers gently circling your clit while he kissed your neck and shoulder.
“I’m addicted to you already,” he confessed between thrusts. “Your pussy, your moans, the way you squeeze me when you come… I’m fucked.”
You came one final time, slow and rolling, and Bucky followed right after, pumping another load deep inside you with a long groan.By the time the first grey light of dawn crept through the curtains, you were both exhausted, bodies slick with sweat, thighs sticky with cum, sheets ruined. Bucky pulled you tightly against his chest, metal arm wrapped possessively around your waist, flesh hand stroking your hair.The cold room no longer mattered.
The days that followed had a somewhat strange gentleness about them, the sort that comes after an event you don’t yet know how to describe. Yn went to work, came home, and made dinner. The heating in the flat had come back on Friday morning, with that ironic punctuality of repairs that always arrive too late, when things have already changed. Bucky, for his part, spent his days in the workshop. In the evenings, they would bump into each other in the kitchen with a slightly different kind of politeness – not cold, just cautious, like two people carrying something fragile without quite knowing where to put it down.It was Clint who called her on Saturday morning. An office colleague who’d been in her life for two years, with that slightly awkward frankness of people who ask the right questions… but not quite in the right way.
“You look a bit odd,” he said, squinting.
“No, I’m fine.”
“You replied to my email from Thursday in… what, forty seconds? You’re never that quick usually. Even for a ‘received’ reply, it takes you three hours.”
“I was in front of my screen, that’s all. A coincidence.”
“On Thursday mornings, you’re always in a meeting or pretending to be. You’re never ‘in front of your screen’ at that time.”
A silence fell, a little too heavy to be harmless.
“Is it because of your flatmate?”
“...It’s the Mercer case. It’s ruining my life.”
“Yeah, right,” sighed Clint, with that little smile of someone who doesn’t even need to ask the question anymore. It’s the flatmate.
She hung up and put her phone down, feeling a little lost. A coffee was just what she needed. As the machine hummed away, her gaze fell on the cupboard, on that box of tea tucked away a little too neatly. Bodhi’s words came back to her, gentle and clear: ‘Take care of yourself.’ Then, in a whisper, another memory: ‘Me too,’ murmured in the January cold, with that reserve Bucky reserved for what really mattered.For his part, that morning, Bucky was in the cafeteria when his phone vibrated. A message from Orion.
Orion
You seem to be your own worst enemy sometimes.
Bucky
I’m working right now.
Orion
And outside of work? What do you do with your time?
Bucky
I’m fine, I’ve got it sorted.
Orion
Bucky…
Bucky
I’ve got it sorted, Orion, seriously. Give it a rest.
Orion
That’s always what you say when things aren’t going well.
Do you realise that?
Bucky put his phone down on the workbench and picked up the piece of wood he’d been sanding. His hands went through the motions, but his mind was far away. In the quiet of the workshop, on a Saturday morning in Nashville, that sentence came back to him: I think I’ve been pretending for a long time. She’d said it with the frankness she reserved for delicate subjects. It was exactly what he needed to hear, and yet the last thing he’d expected.That evening, Yn was cooking when she heard the front door, then his footsteps in the hallway. She realised then that she had been waiting for that sound all day, without really admitting it to herself. And that simple realisation was the most sincere thing she had told herself in a week.
It was a Monday evening, in the kitchen, with nothing planned. The best conversations often happen like that, out of the blue, in those simple moments when you relax because there’s really no reason not to.Yn was making dinner. Bucky was sitting at the counter, coffee in his hands. The radio played soft music in the background, filling the silence without really driving it away. The flat was bathed in that early January evening light, which made everything feel a little more intimate, without us really meaning it to.He dropped the line like that, without warning, between mouthfuls.
“You’ve been avoiding me since Thursday.”
She kept stirring her coffee, her eyes fixed on the cup.
“I’m working.”
“You’re always working, yes. But this time it’s different. You’re avoiding me.”
She set her spoon down gently, the soft clink echoing in the silence that had settled over them. Then she looked up at him, with that frankness that was so characteristic of her when things became too heavy to bear. It was never out of malice, with her. Just because lying, even out of politeness, weighed heavier on her than the truth.
“I don’t know what we’re doing,” she said, her words clear and measured.
“I know what happened on Thursday. But… I don’t know what it means for us, for the future.”
He met her gaze, without flinching.
“And you, what would you like it to mean?”
A faint, sad smile touched her lips.
“I’m not asking you to decide for me, you know.”
“I’m just asking you what you want. Really.”
She looked at him. There he was, with his coffee, and that wholehearted attention he paid to the things that really mattered, with no defensiveness in his gaze, no holding back. Just Bucky, waiting for a genuine answer, because those were the only ones that interested him.She looked at him. There he was, with his coffee, and that wholehearted attention he paid to the things that really mattered, with no defensiveness in his gaze, no holding back. Just Bucky, waiting for a genuine answer, because those were the only ones that interested him.
That evening, Bucky spoke a little more than usual. Not by much, mind you—he’d never been the type to open up but enough for me to notice. There were these pauses between his sentences – not hesitations, just the time he took to choose the exact word. Approximations weren’t his thing. And Yn listened to him, without irony, without trying to fill the silences. With that patience she reserved for things that were truly worth hearing.
“Intimacy scares me,” he admitted. “Not the physical kind, you see.”
He lowered his eyes, staring at his hands resting on the counter as if searching for answers.
“The other kind. The one where you open the doors to your inner self, where you let someone in and let them see everything. And then… then you can’t pretend anymore. What they’ve seen, they’ve seen for real.”
“I know,” whispered Yn. “All too well.”
“I know you do.”
“It’s my fear too.”
“I know.”
He finally looked up, and his eyes met hers. A gentle, heavy silence settled between them.
“That’s why it’s so complicated,” he continued, his voice lower. “And that’s why, too, I’m staying.”
She put down her spoon, this time for good, and leaned back against the counter. The words then slipped out, words she had never dared to say out loud, not to Bodhi, not to Clint, not to anyone.
“Deep down, I have this fear… of being someone’s priority. That someone will really count on me, and that I’ll end up letting them down. That I won’t measure up.”
“You wouldn’t let anyone down.”
“You’ve only known me for barely four months.”
“That’s true.”
He said it gently, without trying to sugar-coat it.
“But during those four months, I’ve been watching you. And I’ve never seen you let anyone down.”
“Bucky…”
“I won’t tell you it’ll be easy. But I promise you one thing: I’ll be there. Even when things aren’t straightforward. Even when it’s hard.”
Yn stared at him for a long moment. This man with the hands of a cabinetmaker, so taciturn, had simply set his tea box down there without a word. And suddenly, she realised: it was the most sincere thing anyone had ever said to her. That was exactly what she needed, that very honesty.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I’ll stay too.”
The next morning, Bodhi bumped into them at the local café. Nothing out of the ordinary, on the surface — no gestures, no displays. Just two people sitting at the same table, with their cups, and a way of being side by side that had changed, almost imperceptibly. From the moment he walked in, he watched them with the eye of someone who knows how to observe, then went to order his coffee without disturbing them. Some things don’t need to be said to exist.
What he saw wasn’t really joy.It was solidity.
The sort that doesn’t fall from the sky, but settles in gently — and Bodhi knew enough about life to realise that solidity is worth its weight in gold.Sitting there that Tuesday morning, with her tea and Bucky opposite her, Yn told herself that nothing would ever be perfect — she’d known that all her life. But for the first time in a long while, that thought didn’t scare her quite so much. Not because the fear had vanished. But because he’d said: *I’ll be there when things get complicated*, and those words carried enough weight to stand tall before her.To stand tall in the face of something isn’t to no longer be afraid.And deep down, it was better that way.
Synopsis : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, with no specific plan in mind, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, not to change her life just to fill the silence.
Word count : +13.4k
Warning : Complex family life, early responsibilities, emotional exhaustion. Sleep deprivation / anxiety (panic-like reactions), emotional restraint. Unstable family dynamics (sister tension, parent-related grief/absence). Slow burn. Themes of legal emancipation.
Author’s note : Thank you so much for reading 🥺🤍
The text refers to Alpine, but in this context, it is the name of Bucky's company, not his cat. Regarding Alpine (the cat), I don't know yet if I'm going to introduce her into the story.
P.S : English isn’t my first language, so please be kind if you spot little grammar mistakes, I’m doing my best ❤️ Also, just a reminder: please don’t repost, translate, copy or modify my work anywhere.
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Y/N heard the doorbell ring from the kitchen, where she was finishing clearing away the lunch plates, and before she’d even had a chance to put down the tea towel, Mila had already crossed the flat in her socks across the wooden floor, making that characteristic scraping sound, and was opening the door with the energy of someone who’d been waiting for at least an hour.
“You’re here.”
“I’m here.”
“It’s 1:50 pm.”
“I know.”
Mila looked at him with that serious expression she sometimes wore, the one that looked like a professional assessment.
“You’re punctual. That’s good for a student.”
Y/N appeared in the hallway, still clutching her tea towel. Bucky stood in the doorway, wearing jeans and a dark jumper, with that relaxed ease he displayed at the weekend, fewer layers, less distance. He looked up at her over Mila’s head and something passed between them, that brief, warm glance that needed no words. Y/N felt the corner of her mouth lift slightly before she’d even had time to decide what to do with it.
“Come in,” she said.
He went in. Mila immediately took him by the arm with that natural authority she had for guiding people where she wanted them to go.
“The lesson’s in the living room. I’ve got the materials ready. ”
“Materials,” repeated Bucky.
“Paper, pencils, and examples.”
Mila led him towards the living room, leaving him no choice.Y/N followed him, the tea towel still in her hand, and Lea emerged from her room with the perfect timing of someone who’d been waiting for precisely this moment. She watched the scene unfold,Mila settling Bucky onto the sofa with the focus of a teacher preparing her classroom,then turned to Y/N with an expression that said nothing and yet said everything.
“She spent the morning getting ready,” whispered Léa.
“I know.”
“She printed out some references.”
Y/N watched as Mila arranged the pages on the coffee table with surgical precision.
“Horses?”
“Real ones. Cut out of a magazine.” Léa paused. “She’d been keeping them for three weeks.”
Bucky had settled onto the sofa with the ease of someone who wasn’t trying to control the situation. He let Mila organise the space around him, accepted the pages she handed him, and looked at the programme she’d placed on the table as if he were taking a meeting seriously. Y/N sat on the armrest of the armchair from where she could see the whole scene. Lea settled into the armchair with her coffee.
“First step,” said Mila.
She picked up her own sheet of paper and pencil with the confidence of someone who was used to doing this.
“The legs.”
Bucky took the pencil she was handing him.
“Most people make the mistake of starting with the head.”
Mila showed him one of her sheets: a step-by-step drawing of a horse, with numbered arrows and notes in red.
“But the legs are the foundation. If the legs aren’t right, nothing else is either. ”
Bucky looked at the sheet with the same attention he paid to production meetings.
“How many legs?”
Mila looked at him.
“Four.”
“I drew three last time. ”
“I know.” She tapped her sheet. “That’s why we’re here.”
Y/N looked at Lea. Lea was staring at her coffee.Bucky began to draw. Mila watched him with the kind of total concentration she reserved for important things: no impatience, no rushing, just the serious focus of someone evaluating a work in progress. When Bucky looked up to show her how far he’d gotten, Mila leaned forward, examined the lines, and said:
“The left front leg is too short. ”
Bucky looked at his left front paw.
“It looks fine to me.”
“It’s two centimeters too short.”
“How do you know that?”
Mila pulled a ruler out of her things.Y/N put her hand to her mouth.Lea said very calmly from her chair:
“She has a ruler. ”
“I see that.”
Bucky looked at the ruler, then at Mila, then at his left front paw. He picked up his pencil and lengthened the paw without protest. Mila measured again.
“That’s better.”
Bucky nodded and continued. The lesson unfolded at the particular pace Mila had set: she explained, Bucky followed her instructions, she corrected him using her ruler and magazine clippings, and he tried again without showing the slightest impatience. Y/N watched and thought about something without really expressing it, just this vague awareness that he was there, on a Saturday afternoon, with a ruler and sheets of printed paper, while Mila measured his horse legs, and he took it all with the quiet seriousness he put into everything he did.At one point, he looked up at Y/N, not because something required his attention, but simply to cast that brief glance he sometimes gave, that silent check, and Y/N met his gaze, and something warm flowed between them in that ordinary room with its mismatched chairs, her two sisters, and the afternoon sun flooding the room through the window.
“Right hind leg,” said Mila.
Bucky looked down at his sheet of paper.Y/N smiled and looked away. Lea got up to get some coffee and came back with two cups: one for her, one for Y/N. She sat down and handed over the cup without a word; Y/N took it, and they continued watching. Bucky now had all four of his horse’s legs in place, all measured, all approved by Mila, who was mentally checking something off her list.
“You’re making progress,” said Mila.
Bucky took his coffee. Y/N had set a cup next to him during the lesson, and he took it without really stopping.
“Thanks. ”
“That’s not a compliment. It’s an observation.” Mila went back to her program. “Compliments come at the end, if the final result is satisfactory.”
Lea said very quietly to Y/N,
“She’s read something about positive reinforcement.”
“I hear you,” said Mila without looking up.
Lea finished her coffee.Y/N watched Bucky as he looked at Mila with that characteristic expression: neither irony nor obvious amusement, just that serene focus that was so uniquely his. He approached Mila’s class the same way he approached anything worth his time: with seriousness, putting his whole heart into it, and holding nothing back. And something about that attitude, about the way he gave his full attention to the things and people who deserved it, touched Y/N in a way she couldn’t put into words.She picked up her coffee and looked out the window.Just another Saturday in Brooklyn: passersby, a parked car, the trees lining the street whose buds slowly herald the arrival of spring. Her street, her neighborhood, her life in all its ordinariness. And in his living room, Bucky was learning to draw horses using a ruler, under the guidance of a ten-year-old teacher who wouldn’t tolerate legs of unequal length.There was nothing exceptional about it.That is precisely why it mattered.
Step three — the mane — sparked the first creative disagreement of the session.Mila had a very clear vision of what the mane should look like. Bucky had drawn something that consistently deviated from this, not for lack of effort but because he had a different view on the nature of manes in general.
“It’s too straight,” said Mila.
Bucky looked at his mane.
“It’s a mane.”
“A mane is wavy.” She showed him her own drawing. “See?”
“Yours is wavy because you’ve drawn it in motion.”
Mila stopped. She looked at her drawing, then at Bucky’s, then back at her own. The silence lasted two seconds – the sort of silence that settles in when you’re processing information that contradicts what you thought you knew.
“That’s true. ”
“Horses move. If the horse is still, the mane can be smooth.”
Mila picked up her notebook, which she’d placed next to the programme to take notes, and wrote something down with the concentration of someone processing a major change.
“I’ll include it in version four.”
Y/N looked up at the ceiling.
Lea said in a very calm tone:
“There’s already a version four.”
“It’s in the works,” replied Mila without looking up.
Bucky looked at Y/N over Mila’s head with that slightly amused expression—not a mocking one, but simply the quiet amusement of someone who saw the situation for what it really was. Y/N shrugged, as she had no better response to give regarding her sister’s attitude towards her lesson plans.Mila looked up.
“So my mane is correct, but only for a horse in motion. ”
“Yes.”
She looked at Bucky’s drawing.
“And yours is correct for a stationary horse.”
“Logically.”
Mila nodded, satisfied to have resolved the disagreement through logic rather than authority.
“So both are valid depending on the context.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s an important distinction.” She jotted down something else. “I’ll create two variants in the programme: static mane and dynamic mane.”
Lea leaned slightly towards Y/N.
“She’s suggested some terminology. ”
“I see.”
Bucky watched Mila taking notes with that quiet attentiveness. He wasn’t looking at Y/N at that moment; he was looking at Mila, and in that gaze there was something simple and genuine, that way he had of really seeing people, and not just their appearance.
The lesson continued.
Mila moved on to the fourth stage: free drawing. She placed a blank sheet of paper in front of Bucky.
“Now draw a horse all by yourself. Without looking at the examples. Without any help.”
“The whole thing?”
“The whole thing.”
“With the mane?”
“With the mane. Static or dynamic, whichever you prefer. ”
Bucky picked up the pencil and set to work. Mila got up to fetch something from her bedroom,the photo she’d cut out of the magazine and kept for weeks and Y/N and Bucky were left alone in the living room for two minutes.Bucky carried on drawing without looking up straight away.Then he said, without stopping:
“It’s got a ruler. ”
“I know.”
Y/N thought for a moment.
“I think she took it from Lea’s pencil case.”
Bucky nodded. He sketched for a few more seconds, then looked up at her. Y/N looked at him,his dark jumper, his hair a little less straight than usual, the outline of an unfinished horse on his lap and something in her chest did what she’d stopped trying to define.He put down his pencil.He leaned towards her and kissed her, briefly, naturally, the sort of kiss you give because she was there and he fancied it, without wanting to signify anything or prove anything. Y/N rested a hand on his jaw for a second.
Mila came back.
She stopped in the doorway to the living room. Looked at Y/N. Looked at Bucky. Looked at Y/N’s hand as it fell back onto her lap.
“You’ve already used up my two minutes just by kissing me.”
Bucky replied very calmly:
“Yes.”
Mila nodded.
“All right.” She sat down and placed the photo on the table. “Look at that flowing mane in this photo. ”
Lea appeared in the kitchen doorway, coffee in hand, looking like someone who’d overheard the conversation from where she was standing and was deliberately choosing to say nothing, which, with Lea, was a comment in itself.Bucky picked up his pencil again.Y/N looked at Mila, who was pointing at the photo with her ruler, then at Bucky, who was watching her with such serious attention, then at the window.
Bucky nodded.
“Then yes.”
Mila nodded too with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had gotten the answer to a real question and saw no reason it should have been complicated.
“Good. That way you can check my math homework after dinner.”
Léa laughed, short and real, half-hidden in her napkin. Y/N closed her eyes for two seconds. Bucky said, with that absolute calm that never really wavered:
“Okay.”
Mila smiled at him, that wide, full smile, and went back to her pasta as if it was settled, as if everything had gone exactly as she had planned from the beginning, which was probably true.The math homework was checked after dinner.Bucky sat at the table with Mila and her notebooks with the same attention he had given the drawing lesson: present, precise, without condescension. He found two mistakes. Mila looked at them, understood, corrected them, and looked at Bucky with a slightly different expression than the one she had at the beginning of the afternoon, not an explicit reclassification, just that silent adjustment people made when someone turned out to be more than they had first calculated.
“You’re good at math,” she said.
“Decent.”
“Decent or good?”
Bucky thought about it.
“Decent enough for fifth-grade math.”
Mila nodded.
“That’s honest.”
Y/N was in the kitchen doing the dishes, that automatic evening gesture, and she could hear the conversation from there, those fragments reaching her with the particular quality of conversations you listen to without being part of them. She heard Bucky’s voice, low and calm, explaining something about fractions. She heard Mila asking a question, then another, then a third because Mila had never asked just one question when three could fit in the same space.Léa came to join her in the kitchen without being asked, picked up the dish towel, and started drying. They worked side by side in silence for a moment.
“He’s checking math homework,” Léa said finally.
Y/N rinsed a glass.
“I see.”
“On a Saturday night.”
“I know.”
Léa dried the glass.
“He’s really good.”
Y/N didn’t answer because it was true and there was nothing to add to that, and because Léa already knew and Y/N knew it too and some truths didn’t need to be developed to be complete.Mila fell asleep on the couch around nine o’clock, in the middle of a sentence about horses galloping and session two programs, her eyes closing despite herself, her body giving up before her head accepted surrender. Y/N carried her to her room with those automatic gestures she had had for years: blanket, light off, door left ajar, and when she came back to the living room Bucky was there, Mila’s homework sheets neatly stacked on the coffee table, the ruler placed on top.He had tidied up.
She stopped for a second in the hallway doorway and looked at that: the stacked sheets, the ruler, the pencils grouped together, and thought about the candle lit before she went down to get her, the sweater on the chair, the mushrooms because he had remembered a detail said once in passing.Léa said good night shortly after, that brief good night she had, her hand on Y/N’s shoulder for a second as she passed, and her door closing softly down the hallway.Y/N came back to the living room.Bucky was on the couch, legs stretched out, arms crossed, and he watched her come in with that quiet attention. She sat down next to him, not at the other end, next to him, that side that had become hers without them needing to decide it. He put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned against him and they stayed like that in the silence of the sleeping apartment.His hand moved slowly up and down her arm.
“Mila told you you could come back for session two,” Y/N said.
“Yes.”
“That’s her biggest compliment.”
“I know.” He paused. “Did she ever say that to you after a lesson?”
Y/N thought.
“No. With me she just says start over without saying how many times.”
Bucky laughed, short and real. Y/N felt the sound in his chest against her cheek.
“How was the homework?” she asked.
“She understands fast.” He looked at the window. “She asks questions to check that she understood, not to show that she listened.”
Y/N nodded. That was exactly Mila, that way she had of not performing understanding but really verifying it.
“Léa too,” he said.
“You observe them.”
“I look.” He paused. “It’s different.”
Y/N looked up at him.
“How?”
He thought about it.
“Looking is seeing what’s there. Observing is searching for something.”
She thought about that.
“And you look.”
“Yes.”
His hand stopped on her shoulder and she felt his lips in her hair, that prolonged and soft contact of someone taking something without really taking it. Y/N closed her eyes for a moment.She was thinking about the week ahead, about the office on Monday morning, about Lindsey and her lists, about meetings and emails. She was thinking about the way the office and Saturday now coexisted in her life with Bucky, those two different spaces where he was the same man but with different layers, and how she had access to both because he had given her access to both.She was thinking about what he had said once, I want you to be here, said simply, without performance, like an obvious truth.
She turned toward him.He was looking at her from that place, that direct and warm attention that wanted nothing other than what she wanted to give.She kissed him.Not quickly, not to fill a silence, because she wanted to, right there, in that living room with Mila’s homework sheets on the coffee table and her two sisters asleep on either side. Bucky answered with that way he had of never rushing things that deserved time, his hand in her hair, the other on her back drawing her a little closer, that kiss that took its time because it had time.When they pulled apart she rested her forehead against his.
“Are you going home late?” she asked softly.
He looked at her.
“No,” he said.
Y/N nodded. She leaned against him again and outside Brooklyn continued with its ordinary Saturday evening: street sounds, a car, someone coming home, and in the quiet apartment with its mismatched chairs and its two sleeping sisters, something existed that didn’t yet have an official name but didn’t need one tonight.Tonight it was enough.
Monday morning arrived with that particular density that Mondays have after a good weekend. Not unpleasant, just more present than usual, as if the contrast between the two days made the return to reality sharper.Y/N arrived at the office at ten to eight.The open space was still half empty, a few people at their desks, the usual background noise that hadn’t yet reached its daytime volume. She walked to her desk, set down her bag, and turned on her screen. The plant on the windowsill needed water. She noted it mentally. The notebook was where she had left it on Friday. The pens were in their holder.Her space, now truly hers.Lindsey arrived at five past eight with her coffee and her iPad and that mechanical Monday-morning precision.
“Sleep well?”
“Yes.”
Lindsey looked at her for half a second longer than usual, that quick, precise look she had, then opened her iPad.
“He has a meeting at nine thirty with the investors. Prepare the brief by then.”
“Okay.”
“And the production report from Friday isn’t complete.”
“I’ll finish it this morning.”
Lindsey nodded and left without further comment. Y/N opened her computer and started.The morning moved in that familiar rhythm: emails, the brief, the report, the small things that made up the ordinary fabric of her workday. Bucky had arrived around eight thirty. She had heard him without seeing him, that movement in the open space that always preceded his presence, and since then he had been in his office with that closed concentration he had on Monday mornings, when the week suddenly loaded itself with everything.Around ten o’clock, between the brief and the report, her phone vibrated.
Bucky:
Did you eat this morning.
It wasn’t a question.
Y/N:
Yes.
Bucky:
What?
Y/N:
Eggs.
Bucky:
Good.
Y/N put her phone down and smiled slightly before going back to her report. Sofia walked past her office at that moment with a stack of folders and stopped when she saw her expression.
“You’re smiling to yourself.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re working while smiling.” Sofia leaned against the doorway. “That’s different.”
Y/N picked up her pen.
“The weekend was good.”
Sofia nodded with that way she had of accepting information without asking for more than what was given.
“The drawing lesson?”
Y/N looked up.
“Bucky told you.”
“He mentioned a PDF program.” Sofia smiled, that crooked smile she had. “Version three.”
“Four now.”
Sofia laughed.
“Your sister is terrifying.”
“She has a ruler.”
“A ruler.”
“To measure the legs.”
Sofia looked at her for another second, then nodded with the expression of someone who had heard something important without it being said directly.
“He came.”
“Yes.”
“And he stayed.”
Y/N didn’t answer but she didn’t need to. Her silence was answer enough and Sofia knew it. She nodded, picked up her folders, and went back into the open space with that smile still on her face.Y/N went back to her report.At a quarter to eleven she went into Bucky’s office with the brief for the investor meeting, two clean pages with the key points marked and the likely questions anticipated at the bottom. She knocked, entered, and crossed to his desk.He was on the phone.That wasn’t unusual. Bucky was almost always on the phone or about to be. Y/N placed the brief on his desk with that now-natural gesture, the right side of the desk where she always put documents so she wouldn’t block his view of the screen.She was about to leave.She heard his voice, low, that tone he had when he was speaking to someone he trusted, and a phrase landed in the air of the room before she had time to prepare for it.
“— she’s actually here, my girlfriend —”
Y/N stopped.Two seconds. Maybe three.Their eyes met exactly at that moment: him seeing her stop, her hearing him say the word, and in that brief, suspended space he didn’t look away, didn’t correct himself, didn’t make the gesture of someone who regretted what had just come out.He continued his sentence.
“— I’ll call you back after.”
He hung up.The office was silent.Y/N was still holding the edge of the brief she had just placed, fingers on the paper, and she didn’t quite know where to look so she looked at the brief. Her two clean pages with the key points marked. A job done properly.Bucky set his phone on the desk.She waited.
“You heard,” he said.
Y/N looked up.
“Yes.”
He looked at her with that direct attention, no apology, no calculation, just him evaluating what had happened and what it meant. He stood up. Not hurriedly, that measured movement he had for everything, and walked around his desk.He stopped a few steps from her.Y/N waited, hands now in her pockets, in that position she sometimes had when she didn’t know what to do with her hands.
“You are my girlfriend,” he said.
It wasn’t a question either. It was a confirmation, direct, without detour, with that quiet certainty that was his.Y/N looked at him.She thought about everything that had come before: the late messages, the walks in Brooklyn, Dumbo and the candle lit before she went down, his friends who had looked at her with that quiet approval, Mila with her ruler and her PDF programs, Léa who had said he’s really good in the way she only did when she truly meant something.She thought about “me too” said in the darkness in Dumbo, about that word she had said without dramatizing it because it was true and there was no need to make it bigger than it was.The silence lasted as long as it lasted, not long, not uncomfortable.
“Okay,” she said finally.
Bucky nodded. Then he took a step toward her and kissed her, in his office, at ten fifty on a Monday morning, with the investor meeting brief on his desk and the open space behind the glass partition. A short, real kiss, not to mark something big, just because it was there and it was true.Y/N put a hand on his chest.When they pulled apart she looked at the brief on his desk.
“You have a meeting in forty minutes.”
Bucky looked at the brief.
“I know.”
“Point three is going to be a problem.”
He picked up the brief and started reading.
“Why?”
“Marchetti is going to ask for the eighteen-month projections and you only have twelve in the document.”
Bucky read point three. He nodded.
“I’ll complete it before the meeting.”
Y/N stepped back toward the door.
“I’ll send you the missing numbers.”
She left.In the hallway she walked toward her desk at her usual pace, and something in her chest felt different, not dramatically, just that slight shift of a thing that had settled into place.She sat down, opened her screen, and looked for the eighteen-month projections in the shared files.Her phone vibrated.
Bucky:
The projections.
Y/N:
I’ll send them in two minutes.
Bucky:
Thank you, my girlfriend.
Y/N looked at the message.
Y/N:
Don’t do that at the office.
Bucky:
Do what?
Y/N:
You know exactly what.
Bucky:
The projections please.
Y/N put her phone down and opened the file. She sent the projections, closed the tab, and went back to her Friday production report.She wasn’t smiling.Well, not openly.
The afternoon moved forward in its ordinary rhythm.Y/N finished three things she had started that morning, began two new ones, and answered emails that needed short and precise replies. The office worked the way it always worked: that constant movement of people and ideas and decisions that didn’t wait, that flow that never really stopped but had its highs and lows like everything else.Around three o’clock, Bucky came out of his office with that way he had of crossing the open space. No rush, no wandering, just that purposeful movement heading somewhere. He walked past Y/N’s desk without stopping but their eyes met for a second, that brief and now-familiar contact that existed between them in this space.Two minutes later her phone vibrated.
Bucky:
The supplier Terelli pushed back by three weeks.
Y/N:
Sofia told me at lunch.
Bucky:
You knew before I did.
Y/N:
I have good sources.
Bucky:
I’m going to need the delay history for the last six months.
Y/N:
I’ll send it in twenty minutes.
She opened the file, compiled it, and sent it in eighteen minutes. Bucky didn’t reply. He was probably already deep in the problem, looking for a solution with that concentration that left no room for acknowledgments.Y/N went back to her emails.At six thirty, Lindsey walked past her desk with two cups of coffee. She placed one on Y/N’s desk without saying anything and continued toward her own office. Y/N looked at the cup: coffee, exactly how she took it, no sugar, with just enough milk to soften the bitterness.She hadn’t asked.Lindsey walked past her desk again five minutes later going the other way.
“Lindsey.”
Lindsey stopped.
“Thank you for the coffee.”
Lindsey looked at her with that total neutrality.
“It cools down fast on this floor.”
It wasn’t an answer to what Y/N had said. It was her way of saying you don’t have to thank me without using those exact words. Y/N nodded and picked up her cup.Lindsey continued on.Y/N took a sip and went back to work.At five o’clock the open space started to empty out: people packing up their things, end-of-day conversations, that particular lightness of the evening when the weight of Monday gradually lifted. Y/N was finishing a document when Bucky reappeared in the hallway, his office door closed behind him, jacket over his arm, with the look of a day that had put up a good fight but was now over.He stopped in front of her desk.
“When are you finishing?”
Y/N checked the time.
“Ten minutes.”
He nodded and waited, not in his office, not in the hallway, just there, leaning against the wall next to her desk with that natural way he had of occupying space. Y/N finished her document, sent it, and closed her tabs in order.She picked up her bag.They left together, not hand in hand, no showy gesture in the hallway, just two people leaving at the same time in the same direction. In the elevator Lindsey joined them at the last second, iPad under her arm, coffee in hand.She pressed the ground-floor button.The silence in the elevator was ordinary.On the ground floor the doors opened and Lindsey stepped out first, crossed the lobby without turning around, and said as she passed, in a completely neutral voice:
“Have a good evening.”
Then she went through the glass doors and disappeared into the street.Bucky watched her go. So did Y/N.
“She knows.I know what she knows” Y/N said.
Bucky nodded as if that was the expected answer.
“She won’t say anything.”
“I know.”
They stepped out into the fresh air of the street, that Monday evening in Brooklyn, lights starting to come on, people heading home with that particular hurry of the beginning of the week. Bucky took her hand naturally, that gesture he now made without really deciding to, and they walked toward the subway in that comfortable silence.
“The supplier Terelli,” Y/N said.
“I’m handling it.”
“Did you find an alternative?”
He thought.
“Two possible ones. I need to see the numbers tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll prepare a comparison tonight.”
Bucky glanced at her.
“You don’t have to do that tonight.”
“I know.” Y/N looked ahead. “But if I do it tonight you’ll have it tomorrow morning before your meeting and you can decide faster.”
He was quiet for a second.
“Send it before nine.”
“Seven thirty.”
Bucky looked at her for another second.
“Seven thirty.”
Y/N nodded.They reached the subway entrance. She stopped, that natural point of separation, each going their own way. Bucky stopped too.He leaned in and kissed her, short, on the street, with people passing around them in their ordinary indifference. Y/N put a hand on his chest for a second.
“Seven thirty,” she said.
He smiled, the real one.
“Yes.”
She went down the subway steps.In The subway stopped at her station.She got off.Léa was in the kitchen when Y/N walked in, standing at the counter with a bowl and a spoon and the crêpe ingredients already laid out. Mila had indeed prepared the ingredients, which included an egg cracked directly onto the counter because she had thought that would be more efficient.Y/N looked at the egg on the counter.
“She said she’d almost not touch the pan,” Léa said without looking up from the bowl.
“The egg isn’t the pan.”
“That’s her logic exactly.”
Y/N set her bag down and picked up a dish towel. She cleaned the egg off the counter while Léa started the batter, and Mila appeared from the hallway with the expression of someone who had done something questionable but was ready to defend her choices.
“I cracked the egg to save time.”
Y/N looked at her.
“You cracked it on the counter.”
“I had to put it somewhere.”
“The bowl existed.”
Mila looked at the bowl.
“I forgot the bowl.”
Léa said, without looking up:
“That’s why we don’t touch the ingredients without supervision.”
“Supervision is a big word.”
“It’s the exact word.”
Mila sat on her usual chair with the resignation of a person who accepted she was slightly in the wrong but would never fully admit it. Y/N finished cleaning the counter and went to wash her hands.She stopped in front of the sink.Léa was beside her, mixing the batter, and without looking up she said, very calmly:
“My girlfriend.”
Y/N froze.Léa kept mixing.
“You heard how?”
“Mila.”
Y/N turned toward the living room where Mila was sitting, looking perfectly innocent, eyes on her tablet.
“Mila.”
Mila looked up.
“What?”
“You heard something today.”
Mila thought with that exaggerated expression of someone searching her memory.
“I was watching a video.”
“You were watching a video and you heard what exactly?”
Mila put her tablet down.
“I heard Léa telling Mrs. Ortega that you and Bucky are official now.”
Y/N turned back to Léa. Léa was pouring batter into the pan with absolute concentration.
“You said that to Mrs. Ortega.”
“She asked me the question.”
“What question?”
Léa flipped the crêpe with that precise gesture.
“She asked if you were officially together because he was here on Saturday and he looked well settled. Those are her words.”
Y/N stayed silent for a second.
“And what did you answer?”
Léa placed the crêpe on the plate.
“I said yes, probably.”
“Probably.”
“I didn’t know for sure at that moment.” She poured batter for the second crêpe. “Now I know.”
Mila said from the living room, without looking up:
“It’s good. I like it when he’s here.”
Y/N looked at her little sister, that absolute frankness, without calculation, that way she had of saying true things because she saw no reason not to say them.
“Me too,” Y/N said softly.
Mila nodded and went back to her tablet as if it was settled.Léa set a plate of crêpes on the table and said, as she sat down, with that tone she had for important things said in passing:
“He’s good.”
She sent the document on the Terelli supplier at seven twenty-eight.Bucky replied at seven thirty-one.
Bucky:
It’s perfect.
Y/N:
I know.
Bucky:
Humility.
Y/N:
Efficiency.
Bucky:
Good night, sweatheart.
Y/N:
Good night.
She put her phone down.Mila, from her room where she was supposed to be doing homework:
“Y/N.”
“Yes.”
“Can Bucky come for dinner on Friday?”
Y/N looked down the hallway.
“I’ll ask him.”
“I already prepared the menu,” Mila said.
After dinner, Mila was sent to do her weekend homework with the promise that if she finished before nine o’clock she could come back to the living room. She left with that calculated resignation of someone who had decided the promise was worth the cost. Thirty minutes of math in exchange for a longer evening.Léa cleared the table with efficiency, refused Y/N’s help with a gesture, and said she was going to finish her revisions in her room.That left Y/N and Bucky in the living room.Y/N sat on the couch and Bucky sat next to her. That side, that place. His hand found hers on the cushion and they stayed like that for a moment, in that particular silence of an apartment that wasn’t really quiet. They could hear Mila muttering over her homework through the door, Léa moving around in her room, the ordinary sounds of a lived-in home.
“Nineteen in chemistry,” Bucky said.
Y/N smiled.
“She’s working.”
“She’s serious.”
“She’s always been serious.”
Y/N looked at the coffee table. The remaining strawberries in the bowl, the spoons.
“Sometimes too serious.”
Bucky looked at her.
“Like someone else.”
Y/N looked up at him.
“Is that an observation?”
“Yes.”
She thought about it.
“Léa grew up fast because I grew up fast.”
She said it simply, without bitterness in her voice. Just a fact, placed there with that neutrality she had for things that had been true for too long to really hurt anymore.
“She learned to be reliable because she saw that reliable was what kept things together.”
Bucky listened without interrupting. That quality he had, receiving what was given to him without rushing to put something on top of it.
“And Mila?” he asked after.
Y/N thought about Mila. Her PDF programs, her ruler for measuring legs, the triangular napkins.
“Mila decided very early that her way of keeping things together was to fill them.” She paused. “To make sure there was always something. A lesson, a dinner theme, a project. As if emptiness was dangerous.”
Bucky nodded slowly.
“Because emptiness has been.”
Y/N didn’t answer because that was exactly it. This ten-year-old child who organized the world into numbered steps because the unorganized world had been, for years, something unpredictable and heavy.Her hand squeezed his lightly.He didn’t say anything. He was there. That quiet presence that didn’t demand resolution, that didn’t try to fix what wasn’t broken but simply different.
“They’re okay,” Y/N said finally. “Both of them are okay.”
“I know.”
“I’m saying it not for you.” Y/N looked at the window. “I’m saying it for me. To remind myself that it’s true.”
Bucky turned his head toward her.
“Do you need to remind yourself often?”
She thought about it honestly.
“Less than before.”
He nodded. His hand moved slowly up and down her arm. That steady, quiet gesture that went nowhere, that simply existed.
Y/N rested her head on his shoulder.
“Did you think about anything this week?” she asked.
“What?”
“Anything. Something that stayed with you.”
Bucky thought. Really thought, not to find a good answer but the true one.
“Rebecca called me on Wednesday.”
Y/N waited.
“She wanted to know if you would come to my parents’ house.”
Y/N lifted her head.
“She asked you directly.”
“It’s Rebecca.”
“And what did you tell her?”
Bucky looked at her.
“That I would talk to you.”
Y/N nodded. She was thinking about the Barnes family. Winnifred who hugged people without hesitation, George who asked a precise question and really listened to the answer, Rebecca whom she hadn’t met in person yet but whose voice on the phone had become familiar since that call in the street a few weeks ago.
“When?” she asked.
Bucky thought.
“Next month. If you want.”
Y/N thought about her exams in two weeks. They would be over by then. She thought about Mila and Léa. Léa could handle a weekend, she had proven it. She thought about what Bucky hadn’t said but she still heard in the invitation. I want you to be part of this too, of this part of my life.
“Okay,” she said.
Bucky looked at her.
“Okay.”
She leaned against him again. He pressed his lips to her hair for a moment.
“Alpine will be there,” he said.“She’ll go to you.”
“You already know that.”
“I’ve known Alpine for five years.” He paused. “She goes to good people.”
Y/N didn’t answer but something in her chest did that familiar thing. That quiet warming that happened when he said simple and true things without trying to make them bigger than they were.From Mila’s room they heard a sigh. Not distress, just that sigh of someone finishing something constraining. Then footsteps. Then Mila appeared in the living room doorway with her math sheet in her hand.
“I’m done.”
Y/N checked the time.
“In twenty-two minutes.”
Mila placed the sheet on the coffee table.
“I can stay until nine.”
“Yes.”
Mila settled into the armchair with the satisfaction of someone who had respected an agreement and was now claiming its benefit. She looked at Y/N and Bucky on the couch with complete neutrality, then picked up her tablet.
“Bucky.”
He looked up.
“Yes.”
“Do you know any card games?”
He thought.
“A few.”
Mila put her tablet down.
“Can we play?”
Y/N opened her mouth to say something about the time and school nights and the fact that Friday evening was one thing but staying too late was another.
Bucky said:
“What game?”
Mila smiled. That wide, full smile.
“I know one I invented.”
Y/N closed her eyes for two seconds.
Bucky nodded.
“Explain the rules.”
Mila’s game lasted forty minutes.The rules were complex and changed slightly from round to round in a way that Mila explained with a perfectly coherent internal logic that was incomprehensible to anyone without the context. Y/N had been playing for months and still struggled with phase three. Bucky learned the rules by hearing them once and asked only two clarifying questions, which earned him a slightly impressed look from Mila that she hadn’t quite managed to hide.
“You’ve played before,” she said.
“No.”
“You understand too fast for someone who hasn’t played.”
“I understand fast in general.”
Mila thought about that, accepted it with relative resignation, and dealt the cards for the second round. Y/N looked at Bucky. He held his cards with that same quiet seriousness, his attention on the game as if the game deserved that attention, as if Mila deserved that attention.The second round was won by Y/N, which sparked an animated debate about a rule in phase three that Y/N interpreted differently from Mila. The debate lasted five minutes and was settled by Bucky who quoted the exact wording of the rule as Mila had explained it at the beginning, which gave the point to Y/N but forced Mila to admit that her own rule created an ambiguity she would need to fix in the next version of the game.
“There’s a next version?” Léa said from her armchair.
“There’s always a next version,” Mila said.
Léa nodded as if that was the most logical answer in the world.At nine o’clock Mila was sent to bed with that calculated resignation of a person who had gotten her evening and was now accepting the end of the transaction. She picked up her cards, put the game away, said good night to Léa, said good night to Y/N, and stopped in front of Bucky.
“Are you coming back next Friday?”
Bucky looked at her.
“If you want.”
Mila nodded.
“I’ll prepare the conversation theme.”
“What you learned this week.”
Mila looked up at him.
“You remembered.”
“I remember things.”
She nodded with that quiet satisfaction.
“Good.” She headed to her room. “Good night.”
“Good night, Mila.”
She closed her door.Léa got up shortly after. That brief good night, her hand on Y/N’s shoulder as she passed, and her door closed softly down the hallway.The apartment became quiet.Y/N and Bucky stayed on the couch in that end-of-evening silence. A full silence rather than an empty one, with the ordinary sounds of the house around them and Brooklyn outside continuing.
“Mila asked you to come back next Friday,” Y/N said.
“Yes.”
“She doesn’t do that with everyone.”
Bucky looked at her.
“I know.”
Y/N nodded. Her head found his shoulder again and her hand found his and they stayed like that for a moment, in this apartment with its mismatched chairs and its two sleeping sisters.His hand moved slowly up her back.
“Are you staying?” she asked.
Bucky pressed his lips to her hair.
“Yes.”
Later that evening, after the house had truly fallen asleep ,that complete silence that came when Mila had stopped turning in her bed and Léa had turned off her lamp ,Y/N and Bucky were still in the living room.Not on the couch now. Y/N had gone to get a blanket around ten o’clock because the temperature had dropped, and they had resettled with that shared blanket and that natural way of taking up space together that had developed without needing to be organized.Her head was against his shoulder. Her hand in his under the blanket.Outside, Brooklyn was in that phase of night that was never really silent but had its own sounds. Fewer cars, more rarity, that reduced background noise that gave the apartment a different quality.
“What are you thinking about?” Bucky asked.
Y/N thought.
“About next month.”
“My parents.”
“Yes.” She looked at the window. “I wonder what your mother will think.”
Bucky paused.
“She’s going to like you immediately.”
Y/N looked up at him.
“You can’t know that.”
“I’ve known my mother for twenty-nine years.” He looked at her with that quiet certainty. “She’s going to like you immediately.”
Y/N nodded. She was thinking about Winnifred Barnes. That woman she hadn’t met yet but whose image she had built from fragments of conversations. A semi-retired nurse who really saw people because that was her job and her nature.
“And your father?”
Bucky thought.
“He’s going to ask you a question.”
“One.”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
He paused. Really, not for effect but because he was searching for the exact answer.
“What you really think of me.”
Y/N looked at him.
“He’s going to ask that directly.”
“In his own way.” Bucky looked ahead. “He doesn’t say much. But what he says counts. And that question ,he’s going to ask it differently, with different words but that’s what he wants to know.”
Y/N thought about what she would answer. She didn’t have to think long.
“I would say that you are attentive without being intrusive. That you take things seriously without weighing them down.” She paused. “That you stay.”
Bucky was quiet for a moment.
“That you stay,” he repeated softly.
“Yes.” Y/N looked at the blanket. “People who stay are rare.”
His hand squeezed hers under the blanket. They stayed silent for a moment. Y/N was thinking about her father. About Thomas, about the ring on his finger, about that absence that had restructured everything else. She didn’t say it out loud. Not because it was secret ,Bucky knew, he had remembered the little she had told him but because tonight wasn’t the moment. Tonight was an ordinary Friday with crêpes and an invented card game and Mila who had prepared the conversation theme for next week.Tonight it was enough to be here.
“Rebecca,” Y/N said after a moment.
Bucky turned his head.
“What exactly did you tell her about me?”
He thought.
“That you worked for me. That it was more complicated than that. That you had two sisters you took care of. That you sewed.” He paused. “That you called me by my first name without hesitation, which most people don’t do.”
Y/N looked at him.
“That last point.”
“Yes.”
“Is it important to her?”
“To me.” He said it simply. “People who say Mr. Barnes or who search for their words before talking to me — it creates a distance.” His hand moved slightly under the blanket. “You said Bucky from the beginning.”
Y/N thought about the first time she had walked into his office with a document. That nervousness she had felt, but also that way she had looked at the situation as she looked at all situations: directly, without trying to make it smaller or bigger than it was.
“I didn’t know that was a thing,” she said.
“That’s why it was good.”
She nodded. She was thinking about Rebecca. About that woman who had helped Bucky during his rehabilitation, who called him at random hours, who had asked if Y/N would come to his parents’ house with that directness that resembled her brother. She was looking forward to meeting her in a way she hadn’t anticipated.
“Will she be protective?” Y/N asked.
Bucky thought honestly.
“Toward me and toward you.”
“In what order?”
“At the same time.” He looked at her. “She’ll check that you’re okay. And she’ll check that I’m okay with you. Both simultaneously.”
Y/N nodded.
“That’s a way of being.”
“It’s hers.”
She was thinking about Léa who did exactly that. Who protected Y/N and protected the girls and protected all of them in the same way, simultaneously, with that quiet efficiency of someone who had learned to hold multiple threads at once.
“Léa and she are going to get along well,” Y/N said.
Bucky looked at her.
“I said the same thing.”
“You said it would be terrifying for everyone around.”
He smiled.
“It’s both.”
Y/N laughed softly. That silent evening laugh. She leaned a little more against him and his hand moved up her back, and they stayed in that inhabited silence with the blanket and the sounds of the house and Brooklyn outside.She was thinking about the week that had just passed. About “you are my girlfriend” said one Monday morning in an office, about “okay” answered simply, about Lindsey who had brought coffee without asking, about Sofia who had said “don’t mess it up” as support, about Mila who had overheard by chance and had shouted with joy in her room, about Léa who had said “he’s really good” with those exact words that were worth everything.She was thinking about next month and the Barnes family and Alpine the cat who went to good people.She was thinking about all of that and she didn’t have a list in her head.Bucky kissed her on the hair. That soft and prolonged contact.
“You’re still thinking,” he said.
“I know.”
“About what?”
She thought about what she wanted to say.
“About everything that happened this week.” She paused. “My girlfriend.”
Bucky was silent for a second.
“You’re still thinking about it.”
“Yes.”
“Does it bother you?”
She looked up at him.
“No.” She said it simply, without trying to explain further. “It’s just that it happened in my office at work and it was still the most real thing of the day.”
Bucky looked at her with that direct attention.
“The most real thing.”
“Yes.”
He leaned his head toward her and kissed her. Not quickly, not to fill something, just that evening kiss that had nowhere urgent to go. His hand found her jaw and Y/N placed hers on his chest and they stayed there for a moment, in that living room with the blanket and the silence and the two sleeping sisters.When they pulled apart he rested his forehead against hers.
“You are my girlfriend,” he said.
Not to repeat. To say.Y/N smiled against his lips.
“I know.”
He smiled too. The real one, the one that slightly changed the shape of his face.They stayed like that for another moment. Forehead against forehead, the blanket around them, the night around the apartment. Then Y/N straightened up a little and looked at the window. The lights of Brooklyn, the buildings across the street, the sky that was never really black.
“You’re staying tonight,” she said.
It wasn’t a question.Bucky nodded.
“Yes.”
She stood up and held out her hand. He took it.They turned off the living room lamp.In the darkness, the sounds of the apartment took their usual place. The refrigerator, a car in the street, the breathing of the sleeping house. Y/N knew those sounds by heart. She had listened to them thousands of times, alone, in nights that hadn’t always been easy.Tonight they sounded different.She led him down the hallway.
Saturday morning arrived with that particular sun of spring mornings that wasn’t really warm yet but promised it would be.Y/N woke up before Bucky.She stayed lying there for a moment in the early-day silence. Her room, her walls, her things, and him beside her in the bed that had been hers for years. He was sleeping, really sleeping, not that light wakefulness he sometimes had, but real, heavy sleep of someone who had let go of something. His breathing was steady. His arm was against hers under the blanket.She looked at the ceiling.She thought about Dumbo and the first night there, about waking up in an unknown space and taking a few seconds to remember where she was. This morning it was the opposite. Bucky in her space, in her room with its familiar cracks and sketches pinned to the corkboard and the dress she had made herself draped over the chair.
It didn’t need to be bigger than it was.It was real and it was good.She got up quietly, those silent movements she had always had, not to wake anyone, not to disturb, and went to the kitchen.It was seven twenty.She heated water for coffee, took out the mugs, opened the refrigerator. There were still eggs, enough for this morning. She took out the pan with that minimal sound she had made for years in this kitchen and began.She could hear the house. Mila was still sleeping, Léa probably too. That Saturday-morning silence that was different from weekday silence, softer, less tense toward what came next.Footsteps in the hallway.Bucky appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair messy, wearing yesterday’s sweater, eyes still a little heavy with sleep. He watched her making eggs in her kitchen on a Saturday morning with an expression that wasn’t surprise but something softer.
“You’re making eggs,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You could have slept longer.”
Y/N looked over her shoulder.
“You could have too.”
He stepped into the kitchen and went to the coffee maker. He knew where the coffee was. He had looked last week when he made coffee here, that gesture of someone noting practical details without making a thing of it. He prepared the coffee maker with that quiet efficiency.They moved around the kitchen together, her at the pan, him at the coffee maker, with a choreography that hadn’t been learned but simply existed. Two people in a space giving each other room without needing to negotiate it.Y/N thought about what he had said in Dumbo, eggs in the morning is one of the three things I know how to do properly, and how this morning it was her making the eggs in her own kitchen while he made the coffee.
“How do you want them?” she asked.
Bucky turned.
“Scrambled.”
“Like in Dumbo.”
He looked at her.
“Yes.”
She made the eggs. He took two mugs and poured the coffee, exactly how she took it, he had remembered that too, and set them on the table. They sat down with the naturalness of something that had its place.Outside the street was beginning to wake up, the first sounds of Saturday, less hurried than the week, with that particular quality of weekend mornings that gave things the right to take their time.Y/N took her coffee.
“Did you sleep well?”
Bucky thought honestly.
“Yes.”
“How many hours?”
He looked at the time.
“Six and a half.”
Y/N nodded. Six and a half, more than his usual three hours from a few months ago, more than the five in Dumbo. She didn’t comment but she heard the number and kept it.Bucky took his eggs.
“Your room is small.”
Y/N looked at him.
“I know.”
“I don’t mean it’s bad.” He paused. “I mean you have a lot in a small space.”
Y/N looked at her plate. It was true. Her room had that density of spaces that held several lives at once. The desk, the notebooks, the sewing machine in the corner, the stacked books, the board with her sketches. Everything she was in a space that had never really been sized to hold it all.
“I learned how to make things fit,” she said.
Bucky nodded. No extra comment, just that way he had of accepting what was given without turning it over in every direction.
Footsteps in the hallway.Not Mila, too light, too purposeful. Léa appeared in a sweatshirt, hair tied back, with that Saturday-morning expression that was slightly different from the weekday one, less tense toward school, more in something that looked like real relaxation even if Léa didn’t always know how to wear it.She stopped in the kitchen doorway.Looked at Y/N.Looked at Bucky.Looked at the two mugs, the two plates, the half-empty coffee maker.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning,” Bucky said.
Léa got a mug, poured herself coffee, and leaned against the counter with that way she had of occupying a space without really sitting in it. She took a sip and looked at the window.The silence was ordinary, not uncomfortable, just the morning silence between people who didn’t yet need to talk.
After a minute Léa said, without looking at anyone in particular,
“Mila is going to wake up in twenty minutes and she’s going to want crêpes.”
Y/N took her coffee.
“I know.”
“Is there any batter left from Friday night?”
“No.”
Léa nodded.
“We need to make a new batch.”
Y/N stood up, that automatic reflex, the next thing on the list, and Bucky said:
“I’ll make the batter.”
Y/N stopped.Léa turned her head toward him.Bucky was already standing, heading to the refrigerator with that natural way of someone who knew what he needed.
“Flour, eggs, milk.”
“The sugar is in the top cupboard,” Léa said.
Bucky looked at the cupboard. Opened it. Found the sugar. Y/N and Léa looked at each other, that quick look between sisters who registered the same thing without needing to say it.A man making crêpe batter on a Saturday morning in their kitchen because Mila was going to wake up in twenty minutes and he had anticipated it.Y/N sat back down.Léa drank her coffee.Bucky measured the flour with the precision he put into everything, cracked the eggs without spilling any on the counter, unlike Mila, and started mixing. The kitchen took on that smell of batter that was one of the most ordinary and reassuring smells in the world.
“You know how to make crêpes,” Y/N said.
Bucky looked over his shoulder.
“My mother used to make them on Saturdays.”
Y/N nodded. She was thinking about Winnifred Barnes in her kitchen on Saturday mornings, that image she was building from fragments, and about Bucky as a child who had watched, remembered, kept it.Léa set her mug down.
“Mila is going to be thrilled.”
“I know,” Bucky said.
Léa looked at him for a second, that calm, evaluating look she had for everything, then nodded slightly and went back to her coffee.Exactly twenty-two minutes later Mila appeared in the kitchen in mismatched socks with the hair of someone who had slept very deeply and very well, and she stopped short when she saw Bucky at the stove with a crêpe in progress.
She looked at the scene.She looked at Y/N.She looked at Léa.She looked at Bucky.
“You’re making crêpes,” she said.
“Yes.”
Mila went to sit in her usual place with that quiet dignity of someone who accepted good things when they arrived.
“My mother never makes them in the morning.”
Y/N opened her mouth.
Bucky said, without turning around,
“She does other things.”
Mila thought about that.
“That’s true.” She looked at the crêpes on the plate. “She makes the eggs.”
“Eggs and coffee.”
Mila nodded seriously.
“That’s a good division.”
Léa said from her corner,
“Everyone does something.”
Mila looked at her.
“What do you do?”
Léa took her coffee.
“I supervise.”
Mila considered that.
“That’s important too.”
Léa nodded.
“I know.”
Bucky set the plate of crêpes on the table and sat down. Y/N stood up to get the Nutella, Mila would have asked for it in thirty seconds, and placed it on the table before she had time to ask. Mila looked at the Nutella, looked at Y/N, and said:
“You knew I was going to ask.”
“I know you.”
Mila took the Nutella with satisfaction. Bucky took a crêpe. Léa finally sat down, coming away from her lean against the counter to join the table, and they all ate together in that ordinary Saturday morning with its sounds and its sun and its crêpes and the open Nutella on the table.Y/N looked at the scene, her kitchen, her sisters, Bucky eating a crêpe with that natural ease, and thought about something she couldn’t quite put into words. Just that quiet awareness that something that had been absent for a long time was here now. Not in a dramatic way, not in a way that demanded to be named.Mila took a second crêpe and said, between two bites:
“Bucky.”
He looked up.
“Does your mother make crêpes in the morning too?”
He thought.
“Yes. On Saturdays.”
Mila nodded.
“So you learned from her.”
“Yes.”
Mila took the Nutella.
“It’s good to learn from people you love.”
Bucky looked at her for a second.
“Yes.”
Mila nodded, satisfied with her own philosophy, and went back to her crêpes as if the conversation was closed.Y/N drank her coffee and said nothing.Some things didn’t need to be added.
The morning unfolded at the usual Saturday pace. Mila finished her pancakes and announced that she was going to work on version 4.2 of the course syllabus, which, in her opinion, would require at least an hour of uninterrupted concentration and shouldn’t be interrupted unless there was a genuine emergency. She went back to her room with the jar of Nutella: Y/N made a mental note to get it back before noon, and her door closed with that calculated gentleness of someone who wanted to show they were serious. Lea cleared the plates efficiently, refusing Bucky’s help with a gesture without looking at him. A gesture that, coming from Lea, didn’t mean “go away” but “I’ll take care of it,” then washed the dishes in silence. Y/N stayed at the table with her coffee. Bucky did too. The kitchen was quiet. Lea finished the dishes, dried her hands, and said without turning around:
“I have to study.” She picked up her coffee. “I’ll be in my room.”
She left.Bucky looked at Y/N.Y/N looked at her coffee.
“She’s giving us some space,” said Bucky.
“She does that. ”
“On purpose.”
Y/N looked up.
“Yes.” She paused. “She thinks it’s discreet.”
“It’s discreet for Lea.”
Y/N laughed softly that short, genuine laugh. She stood up to get the coffee pot, came back, and sat down again. She filled their two cups with that ordinary, natural gesture and thought about how many times she’d done that alone in this kitchen, and how different it was to do it with someone sitting across from her.Bucky thought for a moment.
“Nothing until two o’clock.”
Y/N nodded. She was thinking about her own to-do list: studying for exams in eleven days, things she needed to get done before Monday, the report she’d started on Friday and wanted to finish this weekend. Real, concrete things that hadn’t gone away just because he was there.
“I have work this morning,” she said.
Bucky nodded.
“I know.”
“Exams in eleven days.”
“I know that too.”
She looked at him.
“You remember everything. ”
“I remember the important dates.”
Y/N set down her cup. There was something in that phrase “important dates” that went beyond its literal meaning. She didn’t say anything more, but she had heard it.
“You can stay here while I study,” she said. “If you want.”
Bucky looked at her for a moment.
“You want me to stay.”
It wasn’t a question, but a confirmation,his way of making sure that what she was offering was indeed what she truly wanted to offer, and not what she thought she should say.
“Yes,” she replied clearly.
He nodded.
“Then I stay.”
Y/N stood up and went to get her notebooks and notes from her room, that neat pile she had built over the weeks, the annotated handouts, the summary cards with different colors for each subject. She came back to the table and spread her things out with the precision of someone who had a system.Bucky watched her do it.
“You are very organized with your revision.”
“I am organized with everything.”
“I know.” He picked up his phone. “I will work on my side.”
They settled like that, she with her notebooks, he with his phone and the laptop he had taken out of his jacket, in that ordinary kitchen with the sun coming through the window. Not exactly facing each other, but side by side, each in their own things, with the presence of the other as a stable background.Y/N opened her first notebook.Services marketing, the first five weeks of the course she had to revise for the exam on Wednesday. She had her notes, dense and organized, and she started to reread with that special concentration that allowed her to go two or three hours without stopping when she needed it.
Bucky worked beside her. She heard his fingers on the keyboard sometimes, or the soft sound of an email being sent, or the silence of someone reading something. He did not talk to her. She did not talk to him. They existed in the same space with their own things and it was not uncomfortable at all.It was exact.At one point, around ten o’clock, he stood up without saying a word and went to the kitchen. Y/N heard the sound of the coffee maker, then he came back with two cups and placed one in front of her without interrupting her reading.She looked up briefly.
“Thank you.”
He nodded and sat back down.She went back to her reading.This thing, this ability to be together without needing to manage the other person’s presence, was something she had not had often in her life. The people she had known usually demanded attention or ignored her completely. The middle, this quiet coexistence where each person existed fully in their own space while still being aware of the other, had taken her time to recognize that it was possible.With him it was natural.Léa came out of her room around ten thirty to go to the library. She needed a book she did not have, something specific about memory and learning for a psychology assignment she had started planning three weeks in advance because that was Léa. She said goodbye from the entrance, took her bag, and left.The door closed.The house became different, not silent, Mila was still there behind her door, but with a wider quality of space.Bucky looked up from his laptop.Y/N continued her reading.He watched her for a minute, in that way he had of observing without it being intrusive, then he said:
“Services marketing.”
Y/N looked up.
“You are reading over my shoulder.”
“You were holding the card toward me.”
Y/N looked at her card. It was true, she had her elbows on the table and the card slightly tilted in his direction.
“It is my course.”
“The five characteristics of services.”
Y/N looked at him.
“You know this.”
“Alpine is a fashion company. Services are part of the model.” He picked up his coffee. “Intangibility, inseparability, variability, perishability, and—”
“Ownership.” Y/N put her card down. “You know it by heart.”
“I have been applying them for years without naming them like that.”
Y/N looked at him.
“You could help me revise.”
Bucky put his laptop down.
“Yes.”
It was not a question from him either, just a confirmation of something that went without saying. Y/N pushed her notebooks slightly toward him and he looked at them with that precise attention he had for documents, the way his eyes moved across the page, not skimming, really reading.They worked like that for an hour.Bucky asked questions, not condescending ones, real questions that tested understanding rather than memorization. Y/N answered, developed, corrected herself when she saw an approximation in her own answers. He pointed out when something lacked precision with that directness he had everywhere: that is the definition, not the application, try again, and she tried again without defending herself because he was right.At one point she was explaining a concept and he stopped her halfway.
“You are mixing two things.”
Y/N stopped.
“Which ones?”
He pointed to two lines in her notes.
“There and there. They are two different strategies with different contexts.”
Y/N reread. He was right. She had merged them in her head since the beginning of the course because the professor had presented them in the same lesson and she had not taken the time to separate them.
“I had been mixing them for three weeks.”
“I see that.”
She took her pen and separated them clearly on her card. Bucky watched, not to check if she was doing it correctly, just present.
“How do you know that?” she asked.
“Daniel Cho makes similar mistakes in his marketing presentations. I explained the difference to him six months ago.”
Y/N looked at him.
“Daniel makes mistakes in his presentations.”
Bucky gave a small shrug.
“Small ones. He is improving.”
Y/N thought about Daniel, calm, professional, the way he looked at situations with a certain distance. She would not have imagined that Bucky gave him corrections on his presentations. She made a mental note to look at him differently next week.Mila appeared at eleven o’clock, not running for once, just that normal entrance of a child who had finished something and was looking for what came next. She looked at the notebooks on the table, looked at Bucky, looked at Y/N.
“You are revising together.”
“Yes.”
Mila nodded.
“That is good.” She went to the refrigerator, took a glass of milk, and leaned against the counter. “I finished version four point two.”
“Already.”
“The changes were minor.” She drank her milk. “I mostly added an introductory note on the difference between static and dynamic mane.”
Bucky looked up.
“You integrated it.”
Mila looked at him.
“You were right. It was important.”
Bucky nodded seriously.
“I will send you comments if you want.”
Mila looked at him for a second, evaluating if he was serious or just being polite. She decided it was serious.
“Okay.”
She went back to the living room with her glass of milk, and Y/N and Bucky were alone in the kitchen again with their notebooks and their cooled coffees.
Y/N looked at him.
“You are really going to send her comments.”
“Yes.”
“On the horse drawing course program.”
Bucky picked up his laptop.
“She put in the effort. It deserves a serious response.”
Y/N looked at him one more second, then went back to her notebooks.She was thinking about something, about the way Bucky treated Mila like someone whose projects deserved to be taken seriously, not in a condescending way or in the opposite fake way, but really. With the same attention he gave to important things.Mila was ten years old and he was going to send her comments on her course program.Y/N went back to her services marketing cards.She had two hours of revision ahead and eleven days before her exam and a man beside her who knew how to distinguish two marketing strategies that her professor had not separated properly.She put her pencil in her hand and began.
Léa came back at one o’clock with her book and some sandwiches.She put the bag on the table without explanation, three sandwiches wrapped in brown paper, the kind you bought at the corner bakery when you had planned to come home for lunch and had thought of the others before leaving. Y/N looked at the sandwiches, then at Léa who was putting her coat away in the entrance.
“You brought us sandwiches.”
Léa came back into the kitchen.
“There is one for Mila too.”
Y/N opened her mouth.
Léa looked at her.
“She was going to ask.”
Y/N closed her mouth.
Bucky looked at the sandwiches with the expression of someone registering something. Léa sat down, took out her own sandwich, and opened it without any extra comment. Y/N handed out the others and called Mila from the hallway.Mila arrived in a rush, saw the sandwiches, said thank you Léa with the same casualness as if it was the most normal thing in the world, because for her it was the most normal thing in the world. Léa thought of practical things before anyone asked, and she sat down at her place.They ate.This lunch was different from the dinner the night before, less organized, less themed, just four people with their sandwiches and their books open beside them for some and their course programs for others. Mila told something about a video she had watched during her break. Léa said something about her psychology book. Bucky listened to both.Y/N ate her sandwich and watched the scene.
She thought about last night, about “you are my girlfriend” said in an office on a Monday morning, about the week that had passed, about Friday evening with the crêpes and the card game, about Saturday morning with the eggs and the coffee. Those days that had lined up in a way that looked like something.Mila put down her half-eaten sandwich and said to Bucky:
“Do you have a sister?”
Bucky looked at her.
“Yes.”
“What is her name?”
“Rebecca.”
Mila thought about it.
“That is a pretty name.”
“I will tell her.”
Mila nodded.
“What is she like?”
Bucky thought.
“Direct. She says what she thinks.”
Mila considered that.
“Like Léa.”
Léa looked up from her book.
“I am not direct.”
Mila looked at her.
“You always say exactly what you think.”
“That is not the same as direct.”
“What is the difference?”
Léa thought.
“Direct is without detour. I choose the moment.”
Mila nodded slowly.
“Then you are direct with timing.”
Léa drank her water.
“That is one way to say it.”
Bucky said:
“Rebecca is direct without timing.”
Mila looked at him.
“She says things right away.”
“Immediately.”
Mila seemed fascinated by this distinction.
“Does that create problems?”
Bucky thought honestly.
“Sometimes. She is still right most of the time.”
Mila nodded with that child’s wisdom that accepted human paradoxes without trying to solve them.
“It is complicated to be right too fast.”
Léa looked up.
“That is the truest sentence you have said this week.”
Mila seemed slightly surprised by the compliment, then went back to her sandwich with the dignity of someone who accepted it without making a big deal.Y/N watched this exchange, Bucky talking about Rebecca in that natural way, Léa and Mila integrating this information into their map of the world, and she thought about next month, about the Barnes family, about Alpine the cat. These things that were approaching gradually, that would become real at their own pace.After lunch, Mila went back to her room with her programs and Léa went back to her revision. Y/N and Bucky cleared the table together, that gesture that had become natural, and Y/N did the dishes while he put things away.At a quarter to two, Bucky took his jacket.Y/N looked at him.
“You have your meeting.”
“Yes.” He buttoned his jacket. “I will be back around six o’clock if you want.”
Y/N looked at him. He had said it like something obvious, if you want, placed there simply, without making more of it than it was.
“Six o’clock is dinner time.”
Bucky looked at her.
“I know.”
Y/N nodded.
“Then yes.”
He came closer and kissed her, that natural kiss of someone who was leaving and would come back. Y/N put a hand on his jacket for a second.When he pulled away she stayed close to him for a moment.
“You come back at six o’clock.”
“Yes.”
“Mila is going to prepare the conversation topic for dinner.”
Bucky smiled, the real one.
“I know.”
Y/N watched him walk down the hallway, pick up his keys from the entrance table, open the door. He turned around once.
“Seven thirty if you need me before.”
Y/N understood, he was talking about work, a document, something possible.
“Okay.”
The door closed.Y/N stayed in the quiet kitchen for a moment. She could hear Mila in her room, the sound of a pencil, something hummed softly, and Léa turning a page. Those familiar sounds of her apartment, sounds she had known forever.She picked up her marketing notebook.She still had two hours of revision ahead, eleven days before her exam, and a man who was coming back at six o’clock.She sat at the table and began.She revised until four thirty.Not because she had run out of energy but because she had covered what she wanted to cover that day, the five characteristics of services properly separated, the strategies differentiated, two chapters of the course reread and annotated. She put her notebooks away with the feeling that she had made real progress.Léa came out of her room at four forty-five.She sat across from Y/N with her book and her Saturday afternoon expression, a little more relaxed than in the morning, less focused on what came next.They stayed like that for a moment without saying anything.Then Léa said, without looking up from her book:
“He is coming back tonight.”
“Yes.”
“For dinner.”
“Yes.”
Léa turned a page.
“Mila has prepared something.”
Y/N looked at her.
“Already?”
“She started while you were revising.” Léa paused. “She made a list of what we need to buy to make an apple pie.”
Y/N looked toward the hallway.
“She wants to make an apple pie.”
“She watched a video.”
“Léa.”
“I know.” Léa drank her water. “She thinks it is an appropriate dessert for someone who comes regularly.”
Y/N closed her eyes for two seconds.
“She has a logic.”
“She always has a logic.” Léa put her book down. “The question is whether you want her to make this pie or whether you want to explain to her that an apple pie is a minimum two-hour project.”
Y/N thought.
“It is a quarter to five.”
“Exactly.”
A silence.
“We buy the apples and we see.”
Léa nodded. She stood up and went toward the hallway.
“Mila.”
Mila’s door opened immediately, she had probably been waiting.
“Yes.”
“We are going to buy the apples.”
Mila came out of her room with her list already in her hand.Y/N took her coat.The three of them went to the neighborhood grocery store, Y/N, Léa, Mila with her list, in that Saturday afternoon in Brooklyn with its fresh air and its people and its open shops. Mila consulted her list with the seriousness of an important expedition. Léa walked beside Y/N with that quiet way of being there.In the grocery store, Mila chose the apples one by one with a concentration that would have been exaggerated if it had not been perfectly Mila.
“This one is too small.”
“Mila, the size of apples—”
“The size matters for the texture.” She took another apple. “This one.”
Y/N took the apple. It was an apple.Léa took the other ingredients, pie crust, sugar, cinnamon, with the efficiency of someone who knew the pie was going to happen no matter what and they might as well do it properly.When they got back, Mila started peeling the apples with total concentration. Léa made the crust. Y/N set the table, the plates, the glasses, the cutlery, without the triangular napkins because it was an ordinary dinner and even Mila had accepted that triangles were for special occasions.Bucky arrived at six oh two.Mila opened the door before he even rang.He looked at the scene, Léa in the kitchen with the crust, the smell of apples and cinnamon that had started to fill the apartment, and he looked up at Y/N who was coming down the hallway.
“There is a pie.”
Y/N nodded.
“Mila decided.”
Bucky looked at Mila. Mila looked at him with the dignity of someone who had made a professional decision and would defend it.
“It is an appropriate dessert for someone who comes regularly,” she said.
Bucky thought.
“I could not have said it better.”
Mila nodded, satisfied, and went back to her apples.Bucky came in, gave his coat to Y/N, that natural gesture of someone who knew where to put things, and followed her to the kitchen. He greeted Léa with a word, she answered with a word, and they all moved in that space with a choreography that had not been learned but that existed.Y/N thought about something Mila had said that morning, it is good to learn from people you love, and about the way that simple sentence contained something she did not need to develop any further.The dinner was simple, pasta, bread, the salad Bucky had made when he arrived because he had seen the ingredients on the counter and it made sense. The pie came out of the oven at eight o’clock with that perfect smell of cinnamon and caramelized apples, and Mila placed it on the table with the ceremony of someone presenting something important.It was slightly burned on one side.Mila looked at it.
“The left side is overcooked.”
Léa said:
“The left side is the side against the edge of the oven. Next time you put it in the center.”
Mila nodded and noted that in her notebook.Bucky took a slice, the left side, the overcooked side, and ate it without comment. Mila watched him.
“It is overcooked on that side.”
“It is caramelized.”
Mila thought about that.
“That is a distinction.”
“Yes.”
She looked at her own slice.
“Then it is not ruined.”
“No.”
Mila nodded with that quiet satisfaction. She took her slice and ate.Y/N looked at the table, the plates, the candles that Léa had finally agreed to light because it was Saturday night and Mila had said it was not a fire risk if they watched them, and the people around it.
Her sisters.
Bucky.
She thought about everything that had started one evening with a dating app and a message that asked do you really sew? and about everything that had been built since, not fast, not dramatically, but solidly, layer by layer, with the patience of two people who had both learned that fragile things deserved to be placed gently.She took her slice of pie.The left side, slightly caramelized.It was good.
Synopsis : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, with no specific plan in mind, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, not to change her life just to fill the silence.
Word count : +14K
Warning : Complex family life, early responsibilities, emotional exhaustion. Sleep deprivation / anxiety (panic-like reactions), emotional restraint. Unstable family dynamics (sister tension, parent-related grief/absence). Slow burn. Themes of legal emancipation.
Author’s note : Thank you so much for reading 🥺🤍
The text refers to Alpine, but in this context, it is the name of Bucky's company, not his cat. Regarding Alpine (the cat), I don't know yet if I'm going to introduce her into the story.
P.S : English isn’t my first language, so please be kind if you spot little grammar mistakes, I’m doing my best ❤️ Also, just a reminder: please don’t repost, translate, copy or modify my work anywhere.
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Saturday arrived with that particular kind of calm that important days sometimes had, not silent, not empty, just different in its texture.
Y/N felt it from the morning, before she had even fully opened her eyes, that diffuse awareness that the day had something in it that set it apart from the others.She got up early. Not from anxiety, or not only from that. It was more that way she had of wanting time in front of her on days when something mattered, of not wanting to arrive at the hour feeling like she had run to get there. She made Mila's breakfast, made sure Léa had everything she needed for her evening, and called Mrs. Ortega to confirm the time.
"Six o'clock," said Mrs. Ortega. "And tell her I bought hot chocolate."
"I'll tell her."
"And you," a pause, short but weighted, "are you ready?"
Y/N looked out the kitchen window. The street outside was ordinary and unremarkable, Brooklyn on a Saturday afternoon.
"I think so."
"Good," said Mrs. Ortega.
And she hung up.The afternoon passed in that space between the everyday and anticipation. Y/N did a load of laundry, studied for two hours for her exams, helped Mila find a notebook that had gone missing somewhere between her bedroom and the kitchen. Normal things, in their normal order.At five o'clock she shut herself in the bathroom.She showered, took care of her skin, dried her hair slowly. She chose her clothes with care, a simple dress she had made herself, in a soft fabric that fell well, and a cardigan over it because the evenings were still cool. She looked at herself in the mirror once. She looked like herself, but the version of herself that had slept properly and didn't have a list running in her head.
That was enough.When she came downstairs, Mila was in the living room with her coat already on.
"You look beautiful," said Mila.
"Thank you."
"Really beautiful." Mila studied her seriously. "Did you make the dress?"
"Yes."
Mila nodded with satisfaction.
"That's good. So he'll know you're talented."
Y/N looked at her.
"That's not why."
"I know." Mila shrugged. "But it's still good."
Léa appeared in the hallway with her jacket. She looked Y/N up and down with that calm, precise gaze of hers. "The dress is good."
"Thank you."
"Do you have your phone?"
"Yes."
"Your charger?"
Y/N opened her bag, checked.
"Yes."
Léa nodded. She hugged Y/N briefly, that quick, slightly awkward gesture she had when she wanted to show something without dwelling on it.
"Have a good evening."
"You too."
Mila threw herself into her arms with all the energy of a ten-year-old.
"I love you."
Y/N held her for a moment.
"I love you too."
"Bring me something back."
"Mila."
"Even a cookie. I'm not fussy."
They left. Y/N walked Mila to Mrs. Ortega's. The neighbor opened the door before they had knocked, took Mila by the shoulders and brought her inside with that warm efficiency she had, then looked at Y/N for a moment.
"Go," she said simply.
Y/N went home and waited.At seven o'clock exactly, there was a knock at the door.Three firm, even knocks. She recognized it immediately. She picked up her bag, crossed the entryway, rested her hand on the handle for a second, then opened the door.Bucky was there.He was wearing a dark sweater and a simple jacket, his hair slightly less structured than usual, and he was holding a small bouquet in his hand, nothing showy, just pink tulips, the same kind as last time. He held them out to her before he even said hello.Y/N took them. She looked at him.
"You're doing the tulips again."
"You said they were your favorites."
"I know." She brought them lightly to her face, the fresh, spring-like scent. "That's why I'm saying you're doing it again."
Bucky smiled, the real one. She set the flowers on the small table in the entryway to put in water when she got home, and when she turned back to him he was watching her with that quiet attention that was his.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
But before she could answer he took a step toward her, and his hand found her cheek, his warm palm against her skin, and he kissed her. Gently at first, that familiar contact that now had a history in it, then a little longer, with that way he had of not rushing even gestures that could have been quick.Y/N placed her hand on his chest, felt the warmth through the fabric of his sweater.When he pulled back, she opened her eyes slowly.
"Now I'm ready," she said.
Bucky laughed, short and real. He took her coat from the hook and held it for her, and she slipped her arms into it with the natural ease of someone who let herself be looked after without fighting it.In the stairwell he walked beside her, and when they reached the street he took her hand, simply, without asking, because it had become something that no longer needed to be asked. Y/N squeezed his hand in return and they walked to the car in that silence that didn't need to be filled.The car was parked along the curb. Bucky opened the door for her, and when she got in and he came around and settled into the driver's seat, he placed his hand on her thigh before he even started the engine, that natural, calm contact that simply said I'm here.
"You wore the dress you made," he said.
Y/N looked at him.
"You recognized it."
"I looked at your sketches on the board in the office." He started the car. "There was something that looked like it."
Y/N didn't say anything for a moment. He had looked at her sketches closely enough to recognize a piece she was wearing. She looked out the window at Brooklyn passing by, and let that thought exist without making more of it than it was.
"It's the first dress I've been glad to have finished," she said.
Bucky glanced at her briefly.
"Why that one?"
"Because I made it for no particular reason. Just for me." She looked at her hands on her knees. "Usually I sew useful things. Alterations, repairs. I didn't need this one. I just wanted it."
Bucky nodded slowly.
"That's better."
Y/N looked at him.
"What is?"
"Making something just because you want to." He looked at the road. "It's better than making useful things all the time."
Y/N looked out the window again. She thought about her notebooks, the pages filled with sketches that went nowhere, that weren't projects and might never amount to anything. She often thought of it as wasted time. Tonight that thought was quieter than usual.Bucky drove with that same easy calm, his hand moving sometimes from the wheel to her thigh with that natural gesture that wasn't reaching for anything beyond the contact itself. The streets shifted in character as they neared Dumbo, wider, darker, the converted warehouses, the bridge appearing between buildings.He parked on the cobblestone street.Y/N looked at the brick building from the car.Bucky cut the engine and turned toward her. He didn't say anything for a moment, he let her look, the way he always did, as though the space of looking was something that belonged to her and that he had no claim on.Then he brought her hand to his lips, a simple gesture, brief, his lips against her fingers, and said:
"Let's go."
Y/N nodded.They went inside.The elevator climbed slowly with its steady mechanical sound, and in the enclosed space Y/N felt Bucky's warmth beside her, not pressed against her, just there, that constant presence that had stopped being something she analyzed a few weeks ago and had simply become something that existed.He had put an arm around her shoulders in the elevator, naturally, without making a gesture of it, just that movement that happened because they were there and that was where his arm went. Y/N had leaned slightly against him without thinking.
The doors opened on the fourth floor.Bucky got out his keys, opened the door, and stepped aside to let her in.Y/N went in.Her first impression was the space, the high ceilings, the large windows, the warm light coming from several sources. But this time there was something else too, the smell. Something warm and slow that had been cooking since morning, garlic and herbs and something roasted, and that smell made the apartment inhabited in a way that the décor alone could not have.The table was set. Two place settings, glasses, the same candle lit.Y/N stopped in front of the table.
"You lit the candle before coming downstairs."
"Yes."
She turned to look at him. He was hanging his coat in the entryway, relaxed, as though all of this were normal, the candle, the laid table, the smell of cooking. As though having someone over was something he did regularly, which wasn't true, and they both knew it.She crossed the living room toward him and stopped a few inches away. She placed a hand on his chest.
"Thank you," she said simply.
Bucky looked at her. His hand came to rest on hers, on his chest.
"For what?"
"For the preparation. For the candle. For the tulips." She looked up at him. "For being the kind of person who lights a candle before going downstairs to get someone."
Bucky didn't answer with words. He leaned in and kissed her, gently, one hand at her neck, the other still on hers against his chest. A kiss that wasn't hurried, that took the time to exist, and Y/N felt her shoulders release a tension she hadn't noticed she was carrying.When he pulled back he stayed close, his forehead against hers, eyes still closed for a moment.
"Dinner's going to get cold," he said.
Y/N laughed softly.
"Then we eat."
She took off her cardigan and draped it over the back of a chair. Bucky went to the kitchen and she followed, leaning against the counter to watch him take the dish out of the oven, those same precise and efficient movements she had already seen, that economy of motion that was his.
"Can I do something?"
"Open the wine if you want."
Y/N looked at the bottle on the counter, the corkscrew beside it. She wasn't an expert but she wasn't going to pretend she didn't know how. She opened the bottle, poured two glasses, more for him, less for her.Bucky watched her.
"You don't drink much."
"I manage better when I don't."
He nodded, no comment, no reassurance that she didn't need to manage. He took the information for what it was.They sat down at the table.Dinner was exactly what it had promised, roast chicken, lemon, garlic, thyme, with vegetables and bread and something simple and good that made no attempt to be a restaurant meal. Y/N ate properly, with that hunger she sometimes had when her body decided it was safe somewhere.Bucky glanced at her eating sometimes, not insistently, just that brief look of someone checking that things were all right. She had learned to stop stiffening under that look.
"It's really good," she said.
"There are three things I can do properly." He picked up his glass. "This is one of them."
"The other two?"
He thought about it.
"Coffee. And eggs in the morning."
Y/N looked at him over her glass.
"Eggs in the morning."
"Yes."
She nodded slowly, and something in that phrase, eggs in the morning, said the way he said it, with that simplicity, told her something about the evening, about what was implied in being here, in this apartment, tonight.The conversation settled gradually, ordinary things and less ordinary things, in that order that followed no logic except the logic of what came naturally. She told him about her studying, he told her about a production problem he had resolved during the week. She told him about Mila, who had spent the morning showing her how to draw horses correctly, and he laughed, that short, real laugh of his.
"She's teaching you?"
"Yes." Y/N smiled. "She has a method. Step one: the legs. Step two: the body. Step three: the mane."
"In that order."
"In that order. She says people make the mistake of starting with the head."
Bucky nodded with the seriousness of someone taking drawing advice from a ten-year-old very seriously.
"She's probably right."
Y/N looked at him.
"You're going to apply that."
"To the next cat I draw."
Y/N gave a small shake of her head with that smile she didn't always have control over.
"Mila keeps that drawing very carefully, you know."
"I know. She sent me a photo of the drawer where she keeps it."
Y/N stopped.
"She sent you a photo of the drawer."
"To show me it was safe."
Y/N set down her fork and looked at Bucky, this man who ran an international fashion company and who received photos of drawers from a ten-year-old to prove his cat drawing was safe. He was looking at her with that mildly amused expression that said he knew exactly what she was thinking.
"You're fond of her," said Y/N.
Bucky didn't deny it.
"She's hard not to be fond of."
Y/N nodded. It was true, Mila was hard not to be fond of, with that direct energy and that way she had of existing in the world without a filter. But hearing Bucky say it, simply, without trying to make it bigger than it was, did something to her chest.After dinner they cleared the table together, she rinsed, he put away, and that domestic choreography settled between them without any need to negotiate it. At one point their hands crossed above the sink and Bucky stopped, turned toward her, and kissed her once, quick, natural, like something he did because she was there and he wanted to.
Y/N smiled against his lips.
"You're going to distract me," she said.
"The dishes can wait."
"The dishes —"
He kissed her again, longer this time, one hand at her back drawing her slightly toward him, and Y/N forgot what she had been about to say about the dishes.When they broke apart her cheeks were slightly warm and Bucky had that satisfied, calm expression of someone who had gotten exactly what he wanted without having had to ask.
"The dishes are waiting," he said.
Y/N looked at him.
"You're impossible."
"I know."
She laughed and picked up the sponge again.The dishes eventually got done and they moved to the living room. Bucky sat on the sofa and Y/N sat beside him, not at the other end, beside him, and he put his arm around her shoulders naturally. She leaned against him, her head in the curve of his neck, and they stayed like that looking at the bridge through the window.His hand moved up and down her arm, softly, steadily, the gesture of someone touching because he wanted to and not because it was going anywhere.Y/N closed her eyes for a moment.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yes."
His hand stilled on her shoulder, and she felt his lips in her hair, not quite a kiss, just that soft and unhurried contact of someone taking something without quite taking it.
"The others are coming at nine," he said.
"I know."
"We have time."
Y/N lifted her head toward him. He was looking at her with that direct, warm attention that wasn't reaching for anything beyond what she wanted to give. She placed a hand on his cheek, that texture familiar to her now, the slight roughness, and kissed him.That kiss was different from the ones before, slower, more present, with that quality of two people who had nowhere urgently to be and both knew it. Bucky's hand moved up her back, the other found her waist, and Y/N felt his warmth through the fabric of her dress.She was the first to pull back, slightly out of breath.Bucky was looking at her, his eyes darker than usual, something more open in his expression.
"We still have time," he said, his voice a little lower.
Y/N laughed softly.
"The others are coming."
"In an hour."
She gave a small shake of her head but she didn't really pull away, she stayed there, at that distance that wasn't really distance, her hand still on his cheek.
"Show me the apartment."
Bucky looked at her for a moment, then nodded. He stood up and held out his hand.She took it.He showed her the apartment without making a tour of it, just a few steps from one room to the next, naming things simply. The bookcase in the hallway with its books arranged in no apparent order but with a density that said something about time spent reading. The room that served as both office and gym, with the punching bag in one corner.And the study, the photos on the corkboard, the faces she didn't know yet, a younger Bucky with a different look in his eyes.
She stopped in front of the photos.
"Is that your unit?"
"Yes."
She pointed to one photo, two men she didn't recognize, somewhere that looked like a desert.
"Who are they?"
"Rodriguez and Park." Bucky came closer. "Rodriguez went back to Arizona. Park is still in service."
Y/N looked at the photos in silence. Then she took his hand, simply, without asking, and held it.Bucky looked at her.
"You don't have to explain," she said. "Not tonight if you don't want to."
He looked at her a moment longer, then brought her hand to his lips.
"Thank you."
They stood there for a while, in front of the photos, her hand in his, the silence between them not empty. Then Bucky turned toward her and kissed her once, gently, there in that study with its photographs and its stopped watch.The kitchen timer went off.
Y/N smiled against his lips.
"The chicken."
"The chicken."
He pulled away reluctantly.She followed him into the kitchen, laughing.
They cleared the table together and the dishes were dealt with quickly, not because they were rushing, but because they had other things on their minds and the dishes weren't that.Bucky dried his hands on the dish towel and turned around. Y/N was leaning against the counter across from him, arms loosely crossed, and she was watching him with that expression he had learned to recognize, not closed off, not calculated, just present, with that quality of attention she had when she was truly there.He crossed the kitchen.She unfolded her arms as he came close, naturally, without hesitation, and her hands found his jacket. He placed his on her hips, that firm, calm contact that wasn't going anywhere urgent but that existed for what it was.
"We have twenty minutes," he said.
Y/N looked up at him.
"You're counting."
"I'm precise."
"Same flaw."
He smiled, the real one, and kissed her. Not gently this time, not like a question. Like someone who knew what he wanted and was taking it because it was there and it was good. Y/N answered with the same certainty, her hands moving up along his jacket, and Bucky drew her slightly closer, the warmth between them more present now.She was the first to pull back, her lips slightly flushed, her breathing a little different.
"You're going to wrinkle the dress," she said.
Bucky looked down at the dress, that soft fabric she had made herself, then looked back up at her with an expression that made it perfectly clear he wasn't particularly concerned about creases.
Y/N laughed.
"Stop."
He let her pull back, but his hand stayed in hers as she drew him toward the living room. They settled on the sofa, her against him, her head in the curve of his shoulder, his hand moving up and down her arm with that quiet steadiness.Through the window, the bridge was there in the night.
"What did you tell them about me?" Y/N asked.
"That you worked for me.That it was more complicated than that. That Mila sent me drawings of horses."
Y/N laughed softly.
"In that order."
"More or less."
She shifted slightly against him.
"And that you were cooking for me."
"That I didn't say."
"So they'll find out tonight."
Bucky tilted his head toward her.
"And?"
Y/N thought about it.
"And it says something."
"Yes."
She nodded. She knew what it said, that he had taken care, that he had prepared, that he had put thought into something concrete because she was coming. His friends would know. She already knew.His hand found hers on the cushion and she turned it over to lace their fingers together.
"What will Steve be like?" she asked.
"Direct. Warm." Bucky looked at the window. "He'll actually listen to you."
"And Sam?"
"Sam will make a joke in the first two minutes to put everyone at ease."
"Natasha?"
"Quiet. She observes first."
Y/N nodded.
"And Yelena."
Bucky hesitated a fraction of a second.
"Yelena will ask you something direct."
"What kind of thing?"
"The kind you don't see coming but that makes sense afterward."
Y/N looked up at him.
"Are you nervous for them?"
He thought about it honestly.
"No. just want you to be comfortable."
Y/N turned and kissed him on the cheek, that simple, natural gesture that came on its own.
"I'll be comfortable."
Bucky turned his head and caught that kiss on his lips instead, short and warm.They stayed like that for a few more minutes, in the time of that hour between dinner and the others arriving, in the quiet of the apartment with the bridge outside and the candle burning lower on the table. Y/N was thinking about her sisters, Mila with her chocolate churros, Léa somewhere in Brooklyn, and the way her life existed in several places at once tonight without that weighing on her.That was something new.Bucky shifted slightly. His hand moved up her back, and he pressed his lips to her temple, a slow, unhurried contact that wasn't quite a kiss but something gentler than that.
Y/N closed her eyes.
"You know," she said softly, "the first time you messaged me on the app, I read your message four times before answering."
Bucky didn't move.
"Why?"
"Because you seemed real." She opened her eyes and looked ahead. "Most messages on those apps sound like scripts. Yours didn't."
"You actually sew?"
Y/N smiled.
"Exactly."
Bucky laughed softly, that brief, real sound she liked.
"It was the most genuine thing I could ask."
"I know." She turned to look at him. "That's why I answered."
He looked at her, that direct and warm attention. His hand moved up to the back of her neck, his fingers in her hair, and he kissed her again, slowly, with that way he had of never rushing things that deserved time.Y/N placed both hands on his chest and let him.That kiss lasted longer than the ones before. Not urgently, with presence, like two people who had time and were truly making use of it. His hand moved down her back, her soft dress under his palms, and Y/N leaned slightly closer, instinctively.When they finally pulled apart, Y/N rested her forehead against his.
"They're coming in five minutes," she said.
Bucky exhaled, that sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.
"I know."
She sat up, straightened her dress, ran a hand through her hair. Bucky watched her with an expression that wasn't exactly frustrated but that held something clearly unfinished in it.
"Tonight," he said, not as a question, as a quiet certainty.
Y/N looked at him.
"Tonight."
The intercom rang.Two short, decisive buzzes.Bucky stood up. Y/N picked up her glass of water and straightened a cushion on the sofa, that casual gesture of someone tidying away the visible traces of a private moment.
"Steve and Sam," said Bucky, going to answer.
Y/N took a breath, ordinary, nothing dramatic.She was ready.
Steve came in first.Tall, broad-shouldered, with something open in his face that wasn't naivety but genuine sincerity. He looked at Bucky first, a brief glance that held a great deal, then his eyes found Y/N and he smiled.
"Y/N."
"Steve."
He held out his hand and she took it, firm, direct, exactly as long as it needed to be.Sam came in behind him with that easy energy of his, an open jacket over a sweater, and he looked at Y/N with a frank curiosity that made no effort to hide itself.
"So you're the one."
"I'm the one."
Sam nodded, satisfied.
"Good." He sniffed the air. "He cooked."
"Yes," said Bucky.
"He only cooks when it matters." Sam said it to Y/N as though passing along classified information. "For us it's pizza."
Y/N looked at Bucky.
"I know. You told me."
Bucky lifted one shoulder slightly.
"True."
"Wait —" Sam looked at both of them. "You told her before we got here?"
"Yes."
Sam pointed at him.
"That's a betrayal."
"That's transparency."
"Same thing."
Steve settled into the armchair with the ease of someone who had known the place a long time, and Sam took the sofa across from Y/N with that natural ease of his. Bucky went to get glasses and Y/N stayed seated, hands on her knees, in those few seconds before everything really got started.Sam looked at her directly.
"You work with him."
"Yes."
"What's that like?"
Y/N thought about it.
"Intense."
Sam laughed, short and genuine.
"That's the word." He leaned forward. "Has he ever looked at you like you just said something completely idiotic?"
Y/N thought about it honestly.
"Twice."
"That's not many."
"I pay attention."
Sam laughed again. Steve smiled from his armchair.Bucky came back with the glasses and sat down beside Y/N, naturally, in the same spot as before, that contact of his arm against hers on the armrest. Sam noticed. He said nothing, but something in his expression shifted by a degree.Steve picked up his glass of water.
"You've been in Brooklyn long?"
"Always."
"Which neighborhood?"
"Park Slope mostly." Y/N set down her glass. "That's where I grew up. That's where my sisters go to school."
Steve nodded.
"You take care of them."
"Yes."
"How long?"
Y/N paused for a moment, not because the question bothered her, but because she was looking for the exact answer.
"Officially since I was seventeen. In practice longer than that."
Steve looked at her with that direct attention of his.
"That's a lot to carry."
"It's my life." She said it simply, without defensiveness. "I wouldn't carry it any other way."
Steve nodded slowly.
"I understand that."
Sam stretched out on the sofa.
"Bucky told us the little one sends him drawings."
"Mila." Y/N smiled in spite of herself. "One a week. They negotiated."
"They?"
"Mila and me. She wanted to send one a day."
Sam looked at Bucky.
"And you, what do you send back?"
"I send things back."
"What do you send?"
Bucky picked up his glass.
"Drawings."
Sam looked at him for a long moment.
"You draw."
"I try."
"What do you draw?"
"Cats."
Sam turned to Steve. Steve was looking at the coffee table with a smile he was moderately controlling. Sam turned back to Bucky.
"You send drawings of cats to a ten-year-old."
"Yes."
"Drawings of cats."
"Yes, Sam."
Sam nodded very slowly.
"All right." He looked at Y/N. "And she keeps these drawings?"
"In a drawer." Y/N was trying not to smile too openly. "She sent him a photo of the drawer to show him they were safe."
Sam put his glass on the table, half rose, and extended his hand toward Bucky.
"I'm proud of you."
Bucky looked at him.
"Sit down."
"No, I mean it. Drawings of cats in a secured drawer, that's —"
"Sam."
"— that's personal growth."
Steve laughed, a real laugh, short, the kind that changed his whole face. Y/N laughed too and made no effort to hide it. Bucky was looking at the ceiling with that mildly worn patience that seemed to be his default expression with Sam, probably for years now.The conversation continued in that natural rhythm, exchanges crossing over one another, silences that excluded no one. Steve asked about Y/N's studies with genuine curiosity, truly listening to her answers and asking the right questions at the right moments. Sam talked about his foundation with that way he had of making everything accessible without simplifying it.Y/N spoke, listened, asked questions. She wasn't trying to be perfect. She was just there.
At one point Steve said something about a veteran from his foundation who had started working in textiles, an unexpected career change after years of service. Y/N said something in return about manual therapies, about the fact that people who were used to working under pressure often needed concrete, finite tasks to decompress.Bucky turned to look at her.Not to validate her. Not to correct her. He looked at her and said, simply, in front of everyone:
"She's right."
Steve nodded slowly. Sam picked up his glass.Three words. Said naturally, as though it went without saying. Not she works for me or she picks things up quickly. Just she's right, with that quiet certainty that asked nothing of anyone.Y/N picked up her glass and took a sip.Steve looked at Bucky for a moment, that brief glance that held a great deal, then looked at Y/N with a warmth slightly different from the one he'd had at the start of the evening.
Sam got up to get more wine and said in passing, without stopping:
"Next time bring Mila."
Y/N looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because I want to see the horse drawings in person." He sat back down. "And because anyone who negotiates a drawing quota deserves to be met."
Nine-thirty on the dot.
The intercom rang twice, short, precise. Bucky stood up without surprise. Sam looked up.
"Yelena's on time."
"Natasha wanted to get here first," said Bucky, going to answer.
Steve nodded. Y/N looked at the intercom, then turned back to Sam.
"Should I be bracing for something?"
Sam considered this with a slightly unsettling honesty.
"Yelena's going to ask you a strange question within the first two minutes."
"Strange how?"
"The kind that seems odd but makes sense afterward."
"And Natasha?"
Steve stepped in, calm.
"Natasha won't say anything for a while."
"What does that mean?"
"That you interest her."
Y/N picked up her glass and waited.The elevator doors opened and two silhouettes stepped into the hallway.Natasha entered without a sound.She nodded, slightly, and came in.Yelena came in behind her with a completely different energy, not loud but present in a way that contrasted sharply with Natasha's silence. She was wearing a jacket too big for her that seemed to belong to someone else, her blond hair barely styled, and she looked at Y/N with a direct and entirely undisguised curiosity.
"You're the one."
Y/N looked at her.
"Yes."
Yelena nodded. Then without transition:
"Do you think he deserves to be happy?"
Sam lowered his glass. Steve looked at the ceiling. Bucky closed his eyes for half a second.Y/N took a moment, not to find the right answer, but to find the true one.
"Yes," she said. "I think so."
Yelena looked at her a moment longer, with that quiet intensity that resembled serious evaluation. Then she nodded once, short and decisive.
"Good." She pulled off her jacket and threw it over the back of a chair. "Do you have anything to drink?"
Bucky went to get a glass. Sam picked up his plate again. Steve exhaled softly.Yelena settled on the sofa next to Y/N with that natural closeness she apparently had with everyone. She took a sip and looked around the apartment.
"He cooked."
"Yes."
"He only cooks when it matters."
"Sam told me."
Yelena raised her eyebrows at Sam.
"You already told her."
"I told her first."
Yelena seemed mildly put out, then accepted it with swift resignation. She turned back to Y/N.
"You like Brooklyn?"
"Yes."
"Dumbo is different from Brooklyn."
"It's still Brooklyn."
Yelena thought about this.
"Fair point." She took another sip. "Did he show you the photos in the office?"
Y/N hesitated half a second.
"Yes."
Yelena nodded slowly.
"He doesn't show everyone."
Y/N didn't answer, because she didn't know exactly what to say to that, whether it was information given so she'd understand something or just a fact set down without particular intention. With Yelena both seemed possible at the same time.
"He told me their names," Y/N said finally.
"Rodriguez and Park."
Yelena looked at her with a slightly different expression, less evaluative.
"He tells you the names."
It wasn't a question. Y/N nodded anyway.Yelena took a sip and looked straight ahead.
"That's good."
On the other side of the living room Natasha had settled into the angled armchair, not on the main sofa, slightly apart, in that observational position that allowed her to see everyone. She had her legs crossed, hands on her knees, and she was watching Y/N with that quiet, steady attention.Y/N held her gaze.Not as a contest, simply because she had decided not to look away. After a few seconds something in Natasha's expression shifted by a degree, imperceptibly.
She said, in a low voice:
"You hold up well."
"I try."
Natasha nodded once, briefly. Then she turned to Steve to ask him something about the foundation, and the conversation moved on.Yelena turned back to Y/N.
"The jacket you're wearing, no, the dress." She looked at the fabric. "You made it yourself."
Y/N glanced down instinctively.
"Yes. How do you know?"
"The seams. Too precise for industrial work, not regular enough for professional handwork." She took a sip. "It's good."
"You know about sewing."
"I know about a lot of things."
Steve said without looking up:
"She learned to restitch uniforms in a former life."
Yelena shot him a look.
"You didn't need to say that."
"I know."
"Then why did you?"
"Because it's relevant."
"It's not relevant."
"It's a little relevant."
Yelena exhaled. Y/N noted the phrase, former life, and left it there without pulling on it.
Sam leaned toward Y/N.
"Are you getting used to him?" He gestured vaguely toward Bucky. "To how he is."
Y/N thought about it.
"I'm getting used to it."
"He's a lot."
"I know."
"And it doesn't make you run."
"No."
Sam nodded as though that were the right answer.
"Good."
Bucky, beside her, didn't react to that exchange. He let the conversation exist without trying to control it, which was in itself something.The conversation widened, more voices, that background hum of a group of people who knew each other well and were folding someone new in with the ease of those who didn't need to explain everything. Y/N spoke when she had something to say, listened when she didn't.At one point Yelena said something to Natasha in Russian, quick, low-voiced. Natasha answered the same way. Y/N didn't understand the words.Yelena turned back to her.
"I told her you seem like someone who knows what she wants."
Y/N looked at her.
"And what did she say?"
"She said that was a good thing."
Natasha, from her armchair, neither confirmed nor denied. She took a sip and looked at the window.That was enough.Bucky went to the kitchen to get something and Y/N found herself between Sam and Yelena for a few minutes. Sam was eating. Yelena was looking at her.
"You like him," said Yelena. Not a question.
Y/N didn't answer right away. She looked toward the kitchen where Bucky was searching for something in a cabinet, his back to her, in that ordinary way he had of existing in his own space.
"Yes," she said softly.
Yelena nodded.
"He likes you too."
Y/N turned to look at her.
"You can't know that."
"I've known him a long time." Yelena took a sip. "He doesn't cook for people he doesn't love."
Sam raised his hand.
"Confirmed."
Y/N looked at her glass. She said nothing, but something in her chest had settled differently.Bucky came back and sat down beside her. His hand found hers on the sofa cushion, that discreet and constant contact. Yelena saw the gesture and looked away immediately. Sam kept talking without missing a beat. Steve took a sip of water.Natasha joined Y/N in the kitchen a few minutes later.She leaned against the counter and watched Y/N fill her glass without saying anything for a moment. Then:
"You know what he's been through."
"Not all of it."
Natasha nodded.
"Do you want to?"
"I want to know what he wants to tell me. Nothing more."
Natasha looked at her for a few more seconds.
"He doesn't say much."
"I know."
"And that doesn't trouble you."
"No."
Natasha nodded once. She pushed off from the counter and moved back toward the living room. At the kitchen doorway she stopped, without turning around:
"He's different these past few weeks."
Y/N held her glass.
"More present," Natasha added. And she disappeared into the living room.
Y/N stood alone in the kitchen for a moment. She thought about what Steve had said to Bucky, I see something different in you, and how it echoed what Natasha had just said.She went back to the living room.Bucky looked up when she reappeared, that brief checking glance. She sat down beside him and he kissed her temple, naturally, without giving any thought to whether anyone was watching.Sam looked away. Yelena looked at the bridge. Steve drank his water.And Y/N, sitting on that sofa, felt something settle inside her, not certainty, not yet, but something that truly resembled it.
The evening had found its rhythm.It was no longer five people in an apartment. It was a group that existed, with its own currents and its own silences and its own ways of functioning. Y/N was part of it without having needed to decide it. She was there, she spoke, she listened, and the people around her responded to her as though it were normal, because it was, for them, tonight.Sam finished his plate and set it on the table with satisfaction. He looked at Bucky.
"The chicken was better than last time."
"Last time you were the one who cooked."
Sam thought about it.
"True." He nodded toward Y/N. "Is she the positive influence, or did you just actually try?"
Bucky looked at him with that mildly worn patience.
"Sam."
"It's a genuine question."
"No it isn't."
Sam smiled and didn't push. Y/N watched the exchange with something between amusement and curiosity, that way they had of communicating, those shortcuts that came from years of knowing each other.Yelena, sitting on the sofa across from her, had her legs tucked under her. She was watching Y/N with that calm attention that was no longer evaluative but simply curious.
"You draw," she said.
"Yes."
"Clothes."
"Mostly."
"And you sew."
"Yes."
Yelena nodded slowly.
"The dress you're wearing, did you make it for tonight or did it already exist?"
Y/N thought about it.
"It already existed. I finished it two months ago."
"For what occasion?"
"None." Y/N paused. "I just wanted it."
Yelena nodded as though that were the right answer.
"The best things are made that way."
Steve stepped in from his armchair.
"Would you want to do it professionally?"
Y/N thought about it honestly.
"I don't know yet." She picked up her glass. "I know I don't want to stop."
Steve nodded. "That's a starting point."
Sam leaned forward. "Does Bucky help you with that?"
Y/N looked at him.
"He told me that if I wanted to move toward the creative side at Alpine, we'd talk about it."
Sam looked at Bucky.
"You told her that."
"Yes."
"Spontaneously."
"Yes, Sam."
Sam nodded with the expression of someone filing away an important piece of information. He said nothing, but something in his look shifted, that quiet satisfaction of someone checking something and finding what they were looking for.The conversation drifted naturally toward Alpine, one of the new collections, a fabric choice Bucky had made. Steve asked practical questions, Steve who knew nothing about the fashion world but wanted to understand.
Bucky explained, with that precision he had when he talked about something he really knew, the exact words, the details that mattered.
Y/N was listening and at one point said something, an observation about the durability of the fabric relative to the visual effect, something she had heard in a production meeting the week before and that had seemed right to her.Bucky turned to look at her.He didn't look at her with surprise. He didn't look at her with pride either, not condescendingly, not paternalistically. He looked at her with that direct attention and said, simply, in front of everyone:
"She's right."
Three words.Sam picked up his glass without looking at him. Steve nodded slowly. Yelena didn't move but something in her posture shifted by a degree. Natasha, in her armchair, turned her head slightly toward Y/N.Bucky kept talking, he explained why Y/N was right, he developed the point with that technical precision of his, and Y/N picked up her glass and took a sip and pretended to be very interested in the candle on the table.
But she had heard.
She's right. Said naturally, as though it went without saying. Not she's picking it up quickly or she's starting to understand. She's right, with the same certainty he would have used about Steve or Sam.
Sam caught her eye over his glass. He lifted his glass slightly in her direction, a tiny, discreet gesture, and went back to the conversation.It was Yelena who created the moment Y/N would remember most.Not by doing something large. By doing something very small.Bucky had said something about the collection, something technical, about the timelines, about a decision he had made alone and that had worked out well. And Yelena, without any transition, said:
"How many hours a night were you sleeping six months ago?"
Bucky looked at her.
"Yelena."
"Answer."
A silence.
"Three. Four sometimes."
Yelena nodded.
"And now?"
Bucky didn't answer right away. Y/N felt his arm against hers on the sofa's armrest, that constant contact that had been there all evening.
"More," he said finally.
Yelena nodded once, decisive, and picked up her glass. She didn't look at Y/N. She didn't need to. Everyone in the room had heard, and everyone knew what it meant.Sam broke the silence in the way that was his, light, direct, without crushing the moment but without letting it become too heavy.
"You look rested," he said to Bucky. "I said it when we got here and I'll say it again."
"I know."
"That's good."
"I know, Sam."
Sam nodded and picked up his glass. Steve was looking at the coffee table with a smile he was moderately controlling. Natasha was looking at the window.Y/N said nothing. But she placed her hand on Bucky's knee, simply, naturally, without making a gesture of it, and Bucky placed his on top of hers.Yelena saw the gesture and looked at the bridge.Sam saw the gesture and said something to Steve about the foundation.Steve saw the gesture and drank his water.And no one made it into anything other than what it was, something real, set down there, in the low light of the apartment with the bridge outside and the candle nearly burned through.Around eleven Steve stood up. He said goodnight to everyone with that direct warmth he had, and when he reached Y/N he stopped.
"It was good to meet you."
"For me too."
Steve nodded. Then, in a lower voice:
"Take care of yourself too. Not just the others."
Y/N was quiet for a moment.
"I try."
Steve smiled, the real one.
"I know."
Sam followed a few minutes later, in that way he had of leaving, no ceremony, a joke halfway down the hall, a wave. He stopped in the doorway and looked at Y/N.
"Tuesday and Thursday."
Y/N frowned.
"What?"
"Sofia. You have lunch with her Tuesday and Thursday." He shrugged. "Keep that."
"Bucky told you."
"Bucky tells people the things that matter."
He gave a wave and was gone.Natasha and Yelena stayed another half hour. Natasha talked more, not much, but more than at the beginning. Yelena asked Y/N two more questions, about her studies, about what she loved in design, and listened with that serious attention that sometimes contrasted with the way she entered conversations.When they left, Yelena passed Y/N and stopped.
"The question I asked you when I arrived."
Y/N looked at her.
"Yes."
"You could have lied."
"I know."
Yelena nodded.
"You didn't lie."
Then she picked up her jacket and walked out.Natasha left last. She looked at Y/N for a moment, that quiet and direct gaze, and said, in a low voice:
"He has bad days."
"I know."
"When he does, he goes quiet." A pause. "Don't let him do it too long."
"Okay."
Natasha nodded once. And she left.The apartment emptied.Bucky closed the door and turned around. Y/N was still on the sofa, hands on her knees, in that silence that always came back after people left, fuller, like a space that had been lived in.He sat down beside her.They didn't say anything for a moment.
"It went well," said Y/N finally.
Bucky looked at her.
"Yes."
"Yelena stared at me for twenty minutes without saying anything at the start."
"That's how she accepts people."
"It's terrifying."
"I know."
Y/N turned toward him.
"You really talked to them about me."
Bucky looked at her.
"Yes."
"Not just in passing."
He thought about it honestly.
"No."
Y/N nodded. She thought about Yelena, three hours a night six months ago, and now more, and about Sam who had lifted his glass in her direction without anyone else seeing. She thought about Steve who had told her take care of yourself too with that direct frankness that wasn't intrusive.She rested her head on Bucky's shoulder.He put his arm around her and kissed her hair, that unhurried contact of someone taking something without quite taking it.Outside, Brooklyn went on. The bridge was still there.And Y/N had nowhere she needed to be right away.The candle went out on its own.The flame searched for a little more wax, flickered once, twice, and was gone. A faint curl of smoke remained, and the warm smell of melted wax, and the room grew darker, lit now only by the lamp at the far end of the living room and the diffuse glow coming from the bridge through the window.
Neither of them moved to light anything else.Y/N still had her head on Bucky's shoulder. His hand was moving up and down her arm, softly, steadily, the gesture of someone touching because he wanted to.
"Three hours a night," she said.
Bucky kept the movement going.
"You heard."
"I heard."
A silence.
"That was before," he said simply.
Y/N lifted her head toward him. In the low light his face was different, less the way he held himself at the office, less of that habitual guardedness. Just him, in his apartment, after an evening that had gone well.
"Is it better now?" she asked.
Bucky looked at her.
"Yes."
"Why?"
He thought about it, genuinely, not to find the right answer but the true one.
"Because I have something to look forward to."
Y/N looked at him a moment longer, then leaned in and kissed him, gently at first, her hands on his jaw, and Bucky responded immediately, one hand in her hair, the other at her back drawing her closer.That kiss didn't have the restraint of the first ones. It held the history of the past few weeks inside it, the late messages, the mornings at the office, the dinners and the walks and all those moments that had accumulated without either of them needing to count them.When they pulled apart Y/N's cheeks were warm and Bucky was looking at her with that expression, his eyes darker than usual, something more open in his face.
"Yelena was right," said Y/N.
"About what?"
"She said you loved me."
Bucky didn't answer right away. His hand moved up her back, his fingers in the soft fabric of her dress.
"She says things before I say them." He looked at her. "It's her main flaw."
Y/N smiled.
"That's not an answer."
"No." He rested his forehead against hers. "It's true."
Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, let those two words exist, simply, without analyzing them right away.
"Me too," she said softly.
Bucky said nothing, but something in his posture changed, that imperceptible release that came when something heavy was set down. His hand moved up to the back of her neck and he kissed her again, more slowly this time, with that way he had of never rushing things that deserved time.Y/N placed both hands on his chest and let him.They stayed on the sofa a while longer afterward, not talking, just present, in that silence that was full rather than empty. Y/N was looking at the bridge through the window from Bucky's shoulder, her hand in his, thinking about the evening, about the friends who had left something good behind them when they went, about Steve who had told her take care of yourself too, about Sam and his glass lifted in her direction.
"Sam likes you," she said.
"Yes."
"He's going to talk about me."
"He's probably already started."
Y/N laughed softly.
"And Steve?"
"Steve said what he thought at the end." Bucky paused. "He doesn't say much, but when he does it's what he actually thinks."
"Take care of yourself too."
"Yes."
Y/N nodded. She was thinking about that phrase, about the way Steve had said it with that direct frankness that wasn't intrusive, that wasn't trying to say more than it contained.
"Natasha told me not to let you go quiet."
Bucky laughed, short and real.
"She says that to everyone."
"She said it to me specifically."
"I know." A pause. "She's right."
Y/N sat up slightly to look at him.
"What does it look like when you go quiet?"
Bucky thought about it honestly.
"I answer messages more slowly. I work later. I eat less." He paused. "I disappear without really leaving."
Y/N looked at him.
"And if I tell you you're doing it?"
"You tell me." He looked at her. "And I listen."
Y/N nodded slowly. She was thinking about what Natasha had said, don't let him do it too long, and the way it had given her something, not a responsibility but a permission. The permission to name things when she saw them without being afraid it would break something.She got up and went to the window.Up close the bridge was even more present, that massive structure that had stood there for decades. She placed her hand on the cold glass.Bucky came to stand behind her. Not beside her, behind her, and he placed his hands on her hips, his lips at her neck. A slow and deliberate contact that wasn't going anywhere urgent but that existed fully.
Y/N placed her hands over his.
"You see it every morning," she said.
"Yes." His voice was lower from that position, close to her ear. "The light is different in the morning."
"I'll see it tomorrow morning."
Bucky stopped for a moment. Then his hands tightened slightly on her hips.
"Yes."
Y/N turned toward him, he was a few inches away, his eyes in hers, something open in his expression that didn't appear often.She placed a hand on his chest.
"I'm staying tonight."
Bucky looked at her. It wasn't a question, but he waited anyway.
"Yes," she said, more clearly. "I'm staying."
He nodded, simply, without making anything more of it. Then he kissed her, there, in front of the window with the bridge behind them, and that kiss had something in it that the others hadn't. No urgency. Just the quiet certainty of two people who knew what came next and had no need to rush to get there.His hand moved up along her back, found the zipper of her dress, and stopped there, a question in that gesture.Y/N nodded against his lips.He led her toward the hallway.
The bedroom was in that low light the bedside lamp made, warm, without excess, with that particular quality of spaces that had been prepared to receive someone without it looking like staging.The bed was made. Y/N saw it and thought about that morning, Bucky who had started cooking early, who had lit the candle before coming downstairs, who had made the bed. Those small things prepared without being announced.Bucky stopped beside her.He didn't rush. He did nothing other than look at her, that direct, quiet attention he had everywhere, but more present here, in this silence, in this light.Y/N placed a hand on his chest and felt his heart under her palm, steady, but not completely calm.
"You're nervous," she said.
He looked at her.
"A little."
She hadn't expected that, that simple honesty, set down without defensiveness. She thought about everything he was on the outside, the precision, the certainty, that way of occupying space with a solidity that didn't let much show, and what he was here, in his bedroom, with that hand on his chest feeling his heart.She rose onto her toes and kissed him softly.He responded immediately, his hands found her waist, drew her closer, and that kiss shifted gradually in nature, slower, more present, with that quality of something taking its time because it had time.His hand moved up her back, found the zipper of her dress, and this time he didn't stop to ask. He had already asked, already had the answer, and Y/N felt the fabric loosen softly along her back.
She didn't stiffen.That was the thing that surprised her most, that she didn't stiffen. Her body didn't do that habitual reflex of checking, calculating, is this safe, do I really want this. It was just there, present, trusting in a way that didn't need to be decided.The dress slipped from her shoulders.Bucky pulled back slightly, not to look at her in the sense of evaluation, just to see her, with that attention that didn't take but that recognized.
"You're —" he stopped, searching for the word.
Y/N looked at him.
"What?"
"Here." He said it simply. "You're really here."
Y/N understood what he meant, not physically, or not only that. That complete presence, without half her mind calculating something else, without the mental list running in the background. She was here, in this room, with him, without any residue of elsewhere.
"Yes," she said.
Bucky looked at her one more moment, then kissed her again, and his hands moved with that same quiet precision he had for everything, unhurried, without hesitation, just exactly what it needed to be.Y/N put her arms around his neck.She felt his warmth, real, concrete, not abstract, and that warmth had something fundamentally reassuring about it that had nothing to do with romanticization. It was simply human. Two bodies in a space, with the history of everything that had brought them there, and the quiet certainty of something that was where it belonged.
He brought her toward the bed with that same care, no rushing, no gestures reaching to make it more than it was.
Later.
The room was silent.
Not the silence from before, fuller, more real, with that particular quality of spaces that had just been inhabited in a new way.Y/N was lying on her side, eyes open in the half-dark. Not because she couldn't sleep, she could have, her body was relaxed in a way she didn't often know. She was awake because she wanted to be, because she wanted to stay in that moment a little longer before letting it become the past.Bucky was beside her. Not asleep either, she knew it from his breathing, from the slight tension in his shoulders that existed even at rest. She placed a hand on his chest, softly, and he turned his head toward her.
"You're not sleeping," he said.
"No."
"Why?"
She thought about it.
"I don't want to yet."
Bucky looked at her in the low light. His hand found hers on his chest and covered it, that simple and weighty gesture at the same time.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
The question was direct and straightforward, like all his questions. Y/N thought about it genuinely before answering.
"Yes." A pause. "More than all right."
Something in his posture changed, that release that came when something heavy was set down. He drew her slightly toward him and she let herself be drawn, her cheek against his chest, his arm around her.His hand was moving up and down her back, that same steady, quiet gesture going nowhere, existing just to exist.Y/N closed her eyes.She could hear his heart under her cheek, steady now, calmer than before. She could hear Brooklyn outside, that constant and indifferent presence of the city going on without concern for what was happening in people's rooms.
"Yelena said you were sleeping three hours a night," she said softly.
Bucky laughed, that brief, real sound.
"She says things."
"Will you sleep tonight?"
A pause.
"Probably better than usual."
Y/N smiled against his chest. Her hand found the line of his jaw, moved up toward his hair, that exploratory and unhurried gesture of someone learning the geography of another person without rushing.Bucky let her. He had that capacity to be touched without stiffening, to receive something without calculating what it meant.
"Your sister," said Y/N. "Does she know you're sleeping better?"
"Rebecca?" A pause. "She'll see it when she sees me. She sees everything."
"Like you."
"More than me."
Y/N nodded against his chest. She thought about Rebecca, that voice on the phone she hadn't really heard yet, that person who had told Bucky he was going to be all right while looking at him as though it were true. She was looking forward to meeting her in a way she hadn't anticipated.
"Will you tell her you met her tomorrow?" she asked.
Bucky laughed softly.
"She was probably calling during dinner."
Y/N lifted her head.
"Really."
"She has an instinct for bad moments." He looked at the ceiling. "And good ones."
Y/N rested her head back on his chest. Her hand found his and they stayed like that, still, in that full silence, with the bridge visible through the slightly open window and the cool Brooklyn air coming in softly.
At some point Bucky said, very quietly:
"I'm glad you're here."
Y/N heard it, not just the words, but what was inside them. That direct simplicity that wasn't trying to be poetic or to impress. Just a truth said because it was true.
"Me too," she said.
His hand squeezed hers once.
The silence returned, soft, inhabited, with that particular quality of silences that held something good rather than something empty.
Y/N felt her body grow heavier gradually, that slow descent into sleep that came when the mind finally agreed to be quiet. No list. No checking. Just his chest under her cheek, his hand in hers, and outside Brooklyn existing in its ordinary indifference.
She fell asleep.
Bucky stayed awake a little longer.He was looking at the ceiling in that way he had at night, not with anxiety, just that old vigilance that never fully switched off. But tonight it was different. Less heavy. Less alone.His hand moved slowly into Y/N's hair, that slow and careful gesture of someone doing something for himself, not to be seen.He thought about Sam who had said you look rested with that way he had of saying important things lightly. He thought about Steve who had looked at Y/N with that quiet approval. He thought about Yelena who had named the three hours of sleep without asking his permission.He thought about Y/N who had said me too, simply, without dramatizing it, like a truth set down because it was true.His hand stilled in her hair.He closed his eyes.And for the first time in a long time he didn't fight against sleep.He just let it come.
That soft grey of morning filtering through the curtains, not yet sun, just its promise, that quiet announcement that the night was over and something else was beginning. Y/N caught it before she fully opened her eyes, from that intermediate space between sleep and waking where things still existed without their usual weight.It took her a few seconds to remember where she was.
Then she heard movement in the kitchen.
She lay still a moment longer, in Bucky's bed, with his sheets and his pillows and that warmth that lingered even when he was no longer there, and let that simple fact exist. She was at his place. She had slept here. The sun wasn't up yet and there was no list in her head.It was strange and good at the same time.She got up quietly, found Bucky's sweater laid over the chair near the bed, not by accident, she was nearly certain, and pulled it on. It fell to her thighs, loose and warm, carrying that smell that was his. She went toward the kitchen.Bucky was there, his back to her, at the stove. He was wearing pyjama trousers and a t-shirt, his hair slightly disheveled, and he was cracking eggs into a pan with that quiet precision he brought to all his movements. He hadn't heard her steps, or perhaps he had and was letting her come.
Y/N stopped in the doorway.He turned around.His expression when he saw her, in his sweater, her hair still from sleep, standing in his kitchen, changed in a way she couldn't quite name. Not surprise. Something softer than that.
"You slept," he said.
"Yes." She came into the kitchen. "You too?"
"Better than usual."
"How many hours?"
He thought about it.
"Five."
"That's good."
"It's better than three." He turned back to the pan. "Do you want coffee?"
"Please."
She leaned against the counter and watched him work, the eggs in the pan, the coffee running through the machine, those ordinary morning gestures that had something different about them when it was in someone else's kitchen with a person who looked over their shoulder at you sometimes.
"You slept in my sweater," he said.
Y/N looked down at herself.
"It was there."
"I put it there."
She looked up at him.
"Deliberately."
"Yes."
Y/N nodded. She thought about the candle lit before coming downstairs to get her, the bed made that same morning, the sweater laid over the chair. Those small things prepared without being announced.
"You think of everything in advance," she said.
Bucky turned around with the pan.
"Is that a flaw?"
"No." She took the mug he held out to her. "It's just unusual."
He smiled, the real one, and turned back to the plates.Y/N took a sip of coffee. It was perfect, not too strong, not too weak, exactly what she would have made herself. She said so.
"It's good."
"I told you I knew how to make coffee."
"You told me you knew how to do three things. The chicken, the coffee, and eggs in the morning."
He set a plate in front of her.
"All three this morning."
Y/N looked at the plate, scrambled eggs, toast, something that looked like sautéed mushrooms on the side. She looked up at him.
"You made mushrooms."
"You like mushrooms."
"You remembered."
Bucky looked at her with that mildly amused expression.
"You mentioned it once in passing in a message." He sat down across from her. "I remember things."
Y/N looked at her plate, then at him.
"That's slightly terrifying."
"I know."
"And pleasant at the same time."
"I know that too."
She picked up her fork and ate. The silence between them was the morning silence, different from the one at night, clearer, more ordinary, with that quality of things that existed without needing to be underlined.Bucky ate across from her. Sometimes he looked at her briefly, that checking glance that wasn't intrusive but was there all the same, that way he had of making sure things were all right without always asking it in words.
"Mila is going to ask if you brought cookies," said Y/N.
Bucky laughed.
"I thought about that."
Y/N stopped.
"Really."
He stood up, opened a cabinet, and came back with a small bag, the same cookies he had brought for Mrs. Ortega. He set it on the table.
Y/N looked at it.
"You'd prepared."
"Yes."
"Before I left."
"Yes."
Y/N looked at the bag, then at him.
"You're —" she searched for the word.
"What?"
"Thoughtful." She said it simply. "In a way that has no hidden agenda."
Bucky looked at her.
"You were looking for the hidden agenda."
"At the start, yes."
"And now?"
Y/N picked up her mug.
"Now I think there isn't one."
Outside the light had changed, the grey had warmed, the sun was beginning to truly exist behind the rooftops. Y/N was looking at the kitchen window and thinking about what Bucky had said last night, the light is different in the morning, and she understood now what he had meant. The bridge seen from here in the morning had a different quality from the night, less dramatic, more real, with that way morning light had of rendering things exactly what they were.
"Do you like mornings?" she asked.
Bucky thought about it.
"Quiet ones."
"This one?"
He looked at her.
"Yes."
Y/N nodded. She took a last sip of coffee and checked the time, seven twenty. She thought about Mila at Mrs. Ortega's, probably still asleep at this hour. She thought about Léa who woke up early even on weekends out of habit.
"I need to go home," she said.
Bucky nodded.
"I know."
"Mila is going to want details."
"I know."
"And Léa won't ask anything but she'll see everything in my face."
He smiled.
"Mrs. Ortega too."
Y/N laughed softly.
"Mrs. Ortega especially." She set down her mug. "Will you take me back?"
She went back to the bedroom, put on her dress, returned the sweater with a slight hesitation, a moment where she held it a second longer before laying it back on the chair. Bucky saw it from the doorway.
"You can keep it if you want."
Y/N looked at him.
"I'm not going home in your sweater."
"Why not?"
"Because Léa is going to —" she stopped.
Bucky smiled.
"Léa is going to what?"
Y/N put the sweater back on the chair.
"I'm not keeping it."
Bucky nodded with the expression of someone who had already won something even though Y/N had just said no.She picked up her bag in the entryway, checked her phone, three messages from Mila sent at hours when a ten-year-old should not have been awake, and one from Léa that simply said everything's fine here. Y/N answered quickly.
Y/N:
I'll be back in about an hour.
Léa:
ok.
Léa:
you seem fine in your head this morning.
Y/N looked at the message. She hadn't said anything about how she was in her head. Léa had deduced it from I'll be back in about an hour, from the way the sentence was set down, probably. She had that instinct.She put her phone down and turned back to Bucky, who had put on his jacket.
"Léa knows it went well."
"How?"
"She deduced it from a four-word message."
Bucky nodded with the expression of someone who was not in the least surprised.
"She's very good."
Y/N picked up her coat.
"Don't tell her that. She'll become insufferable."
They went down in the elevator, the same mechanical sound as on the way up, that particular slowness that gave you time for nothing and everything at once. Bucky put his arm around her shoulders the way he had last night, and Y/N leaned against him.
"Are you working Monday?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I'll come by your office in the morning."
"Lindsey will notice."
"Lindsey has always noticed everything."
Y/N laughed.
"That's not an answer."
"I'll come by anyway."
The doors opened.Outside the air was cool and clean, that Brooklyn morning that smelled of coffee and pavement still wet from the night, with the first lights of shops coming on and those few people walking with coffee in their hands as though the world didn't quite exist yet.Bucky took her hand.They walked to the car in that silence that didn't need to be filled, and Y/N watched the streets of Dumbo waking up with that particular quality of a morning in a neighborhood she was beginning to know from the inside.
In the car he drove toward Brooklyn with that same easy calm, his hand on her thigh sometimes, the radio on in the background at a volume you heard without really listening. Y/N watched the city pass and thought about the evening, about Steve and Sam and Natasha and Yelena, about the candle that had gone out on its own, about the eggs with mushrooms because he had retained a detail said once in passing.He parked in front of her building.They stayed a moment in the car without moving, that transition between the apartment and what came after, that moment you sometimes took before returning to your own life.Bucky turned toward her.
"It was a good evening."
"Yes." Y/N looked at him. "It was a very good evening."
He kissed her, gently, the morning different from the night, simpler and perhaps more real for that. She placed a hand on his cheek and let him.When they pulled apart she picked up the bag of cookies from the back seat.
"For Mila."
She nodded.
"She'll be delighted."
"I know."
Y/N opened the door and got out. She turned back for a moment.
"The eggs were good."
Bucky smiled.
"I know that too."
"You know everything."
"Not everything." He looked at her. "But I remember what matters."
Y/N nodded. She closed the door and went up the steps toward home, the bag of cookies in her hand and something in her chest that was light in a way she hadn't had in a long time.
The door wasn't locked.Y/N pushed it open and stepped into the entryway. The apartment smelled of coffee and something sweet, Mrs. Ortega must have left churros. She hung up her coat and set the bag of cookies on the small table.She heard footsteps.Quick. Then quicker.Mila appeared in the hallway in her socks, hair wild, eyes still half-closed but her body already in sprint mode. She stopped two feet away and looked Y/N up and down.
"You're back."
"Good morning, Mila."
"You're wearing the same dress as yesterday."
"Yes."
Mila nodded slowly, like someone registering an important piece of information.
"You slept there."
"Yes."
"In his apartment."
"Yes, Mila."
Mila nodded again, still with that detective's seriousness.
"Was it good?"
"It was good."
"Did he treat you well?"
Y/N looked at her.
"Where did you hear that expression?"
"Mrs. Ortega. She said 'I hope he treats her well' at least four times last night."
Y/N smiled in spite of herself.
"Yes. He treated me well."
Mila seemed satisfied. She looked at the entryway table, saw the bag, and her eyes lit up.
"What's that?"
"It's from him. For you."
Mila took the bag, opened it, looked inside.
"The cookies." She looked up. "He remembered."
"He remembers things."
Mila closed the bag carefully, as though it were something precious.
"I'm sending him a drawing today."
"It's not your quota day."
"It's to thank him. Thank-yous are outside the quota."
Y/N opened her mouth, closed it again.
"All right."
Mila headed back toward the kitchen with her bag, satisfied. Y/N took off her shoes and crossed the hallway.Léa was at the kitchen table with her coffee, a book open in front of her. She looked up when Y/N came in and studied her for a moment, that calm, precise gaze that asked nothing but saw everything.
"You slept well."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
Léa picked up her coffee again.
"That's good."
Y/N took a cup and poured herself some. She sat down across from Léa and they stayed like that for a moment, the morning silence between them, Mila opening her bag of cookies in the hallway with excessive noise.
"MILA," said Léa without looking up. "Cookies are not breakfast."
"They're a gift."
"That's not an answer."
"It's a different answer."
Léa sighed. Y/N drank her coffee.
"When is he coming?" asked Léa.
Y/N looked at her.
"Who?"
Léa gave her a look.
"Next Saturday maybe." Y/N picked up her mug. "Why?"
"Mila wants to show him her new horse-drawing technique in person." Léa turned a page. "She's prepared a lesson."
Y/N stopped.
"She's prepared a lesson."
"With notes." Léa paused. "And illustrations."
Y/N looked toward the hallway where Mila had disappeared.
"Did she tell him?"
"She sent him a message last night to confirm his availability."
Y/N closed her eyes for two seconds.
"Of course she did."
Her phone buzzed on the table.
Bucky:
I'm back. and Mila sent me a schedule for next Saturday.
Y/N looked at the screen.
Y/N:
I know. I just found out. I'm sorry.
Bucky:
why? I'm free Saturday.
Y/N looked at the message.
Y/N:
you're actually going to come and sit through a horse-drawing lesson.
Bucky:
legs first. that's what she said in the schedule.
Y/N put her phone on the table and buried her face in her hands. Léa looked at her over her book.
"Are you all right?"
"He's coming Saturday for the drawing lesson."
Léa lowered her book slowly.
"He accepted."
"He replied that he was free."
"All right," said Léa.
She picked up her book again.
"He's really something."
Mila reappeared in the kitchen with a pencil behind her ear and a sheet of paper in her hand. She put it on the table in front of Y/N.It was a programme. Written by hand, with underlined headings.
DRAWING LESSON — SATURDAY Step 1: The legs (15 minutes) Step 2: The body (10 minutes) Step 3: The mane (10 minutes) Step 4: Free practice (unlimited)
Y/N looked at the sheet. Léa looked at the sheet. They both looked up at Mila at the same time.
"You put time slots," said Y/N.
"So he knows how long to allow."
"There's a step four."
"Free practice is important." Mila took back her sheet. "I'm sending him the programme as an attachment."
"Mila —"
But Mila was already gone back to her room.
Y/N looked at Léa.Léa drank her coffee.
"I told you he was something.Luckily, I have an unlimited phone plan for my phone."
"You couldn't know that from three meetings."
"And I told you I could." Léa picked up her book again. "Anyone who accepts a horse-drawing lesson with a programme sent as an attachment deserves to be here."
Y/N didn't answer, because Léa wasn't wrong about anything.Her phone buzzed again.
Bucky:
she just sent me the programme as a PDF.
Y/N:
I know. I'm sorry.
Bucky:
stop apologizing. what time is it Saturday?
Y/N looked at the screen, then at Léa, then at the hallway where Mila was singing something in her room.
Y/N:
two o'clock according to the schedule I think.
Bucky:
I'll be there at ten to two.
Y/N put down her phone.
"He'll be there at ten to two," she said.
Léa nodded without looking up.
"I told you."
The day passed in its ordinary rhythm.Grocery shopping in the morning, laundry in the afternoon, Mila refining her lesson programme by adding illustrations in the margins. Léa studied her chemistry with that silent determination she'd had since her sixteen the week before. Y/N did her own studying, made dinner, and at no point did she feel that habitual Sunday weight, that low-level anxiety about the next day that usually settled in somewhere during the afternoon and didn't leave.She noticed its absence without dwelling on it.In the evening, after dinner, after Mila had fallen asleep and Léa had closed her door, Y/N sat on her bed with her notebook. She opened to a blank page and started drawing without any particular aim, lines, shapes, a sleeve searching for its direction.
Her phone buzzed.
Bucky:
are you asleep?
Y/N:
no. I'm drawing.
Bucky:
what?
Y/N:
I'm not sure yet. it looks like a jacket for now.
Bucky:
for now.
Y/N:
sometimes it becomes something else along the way.
Bucky:
show me when it's done.
Y/N looked at the message. Then she picked up her phone, photographed the unfinished sketch, the lines still hesitant, the annotations in the margins, and sent it before she could change her mind.
Bucky:
the proportions are good.
Y/N:
Sofia told me the same thing.
Bucky:
Sofia is right.
Y/N:
you've been comparing notes.
Bucky:
no. it's just true.
Y/N looked at the sketch. Then she picked up her pencil again.
Y/N:
what are you doing?
Bucky:
reading.
Y/N:
what?
Bucky:
a book on sustainable textiles. riveting.
Y/N:
you're lying.
Bucky:
a little. it's tedious but useful.
Y/N:
you're reading that on a Sunday night.
Bucky:
I read it every night.
The difference is tonight is worse than last night.
Y/N looked at the message. Something in her chest did something she didn't try to analyze.
Y/N:
that's because last night you were sleeping.
Bucky:
that's not why.
Y/N put down her pencil.
Y/N:
Mila added illustrations to Saturday's programme.
Bucky:
I know. she sent me version two an hour ago.
Y/N:
there's a version two.
Bucky:
with visual examples for each step.
Y/N closed her eyes for two seconds.
Y/N:
I'm really sorry.
Bucky:
Stop. I looked at the illustrations. The horses are better.
Y/N:
the legs?
Bucky:
four. properly placed.
Y/N:
she's improving.
Bucky:
she's serious about it. that's good.
Y/N smiled and picked up her pencil again. She drew a few more lines, the sleeve was taking shape, something that resembled a collar was beginning to exist at the top of the page.
Y/N:
Léa said you were something.
Bucky:
Léa said that.
Y/N:
word for word. "he's really something."
Bucky:
that's a significant compliment coming from her.
Y/N:
it is.
Bucky:
what else did she say?
Y/N:
That anyone who accepts a drawing lesson with a programme sent as an attachment deserves to be here.
Bucky:
she's right.
Y/N:
you're saying that to everyone tonight.
Bucky:
people are saying true things.
Y/N looked at the ceiling for a moment, then at her sketch, then at her phone.
Y/N:
did you call Rebecca today?
Bucky:
she called me. as expected.
Y/N:
what did she say?
Bucky:
she said she wants to meet you as soon as possible.
Y/N:
is that worrying or reassuring?
Bucky:
with Rebecca it's always both.
Y/N laughed softly, that silent evening laugh so as not to wake anyone.
Y/N:
what did you tell her about the evening?
Bucky:
that it was good.
Y/N:
that's all?
Bucky:
she asked if you'd liked his friends. I said yes.
Y/N:
and what did she say?
Bucky:
she said "good" and hung up.
Y/N:
does she always hang up like that?
Bucky:
when she has what she wanted to know, yes.
Y/N put her phone on the bed and looked at her sketch. The jacket was taking shape, not finished, not yet settled in all its details, but existing in a way that was no longer just lines on a page.She picked up her phone again.
Y/N:
I think I like your friends.
Bucky:
I know.
Y/N:
you knew before I said it.
Bucky:
Yelena sent me a message on the way home.
Y/N:
what did she say?
Bucky:
"she's good. don't mess it up."
Y/N looked at the message for a long time.
Y/N:
Yelena told me you loved me.
Bucky:
she says things before I say them.
Y/N:
you're not bothered?
Bucky:
no. it was true.
Y/N put the phone on her knees. She looked at the window, the street outside, the lights of Brooklyn, that sky that was never truly dark in a city.She picked up the phone again.
Y/N:
me too. I told you last night.
Bucky:
I know. I just wanted you to say it again.
Y/N:
that's honest.
Bucky:
always.
She smiled and put the phone down. She picked up her pencil and went on with the sketch, the collar was clarifying, the proportions were balancing, something was beginning to look like a real piece rather than a vague idea.Twenty minutes later her phone buzzed.
Bucky:
go to sleep. you have exams in two weeks.
Y/N:
I'm still drawing.
Bucky:
sleep anyway.
Y/N:
you're not my mother.
Bucky:
no. but
I'll be there Saturday at ten to two and I want you to have slept.
Y/N looked at the message.
Y/N:
goodnight Bucky.
Bucky:
goodnight sweetheart.
She put down her phone, closed her notebook, switched off the lamp. In the dark she lay with her eyes open a few minutes longer, not because she couldn't sleep, because she wanted to hold onto the day a little while more.Then she closed her eyes.And she slept.
