Summary: Partners in the field, best friends everywhere else, and cowards about their feelings. It takes one bullet on Valentine's Day to rip the silence open.
Warnings/tags: gunshot injury, surgery mention, near death, angst, hurt comfort, steve/natasha/tony are alive, mission gone wrong, besties to lovers, only one use of doll, happy ending
Part Two
The tower kitchen is too bright for six in the morning. You squint as the winter sunlight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, pale and almost silver, washing over the marble countertops and catching on the stainless steel appliances. The city below is still stretching awake, traffic thin, steam rising in soft curls from street grates. Up here, everything feels suspended, like the world hasn't quite started yet.
Bucky's already there, quietly facing away from the entry, watching the coffee drip into the pot. The light cuts across his back, metal reflecting the morning's glow. He looks soft in the light, though his features are sharp.
You don't say anything when you step in. The tile is cool beneath your feet, and the hem of your sweater brushes your thighs as you cross the room. The smell of the coffee hangs thick in the air. He doesn't look at you right away, but his shoulders ease a fraction when he notices your presence. He seems to know when it's you.
"Can't sleep?" you ask quietly, reaching past him for the coffee pot.
He steps aside, making room for you. His arm brushes yours, warm and solid. "Somethin' like that," he murmurs.
You pour your coffee slowly. The light catches the thin line of steam rising between you. You hold the pot toward him, signalling your willingness to refill his mug. He stretches his arm out, fingers curled around the handle.
Across the kitchen table, Sam lowers his spoon with a pointed clink against the bowl. "It's too early for this," he mutters. "It's Valentine's Day, and I'm having to do a stupid mission instead of wining and dining my lady."
"Sounds like you're doing plenty of whining," You smirk over the rim of your mug.
Sam points his spoon at you in accusation, but he's smiling. The kitchen feels warmer for a second, lighter, like this is just another morning and not the start of something dangerous. Not the kind of day that gets circled on calendars and wrapped in red hearts and pink lips.
Valentine's Day.
You hadn't meant to think about it all last night. It's easier not to; easier to pretend it's just another square on the calendar, just another mission day, just another early morning with mediocre coffee and tired eyes. Except it feels strange this year, almost... off balance. Because if you could choose where to be tonight, it wouldn't be at a restaurant or on a date.
It would be exactly where you usually are anyway, shoulder to shoulder with Bucky, sharing takeout containers and quiet conversations about everything and nothing. Your knees bumping his when you laugh at something he says. It's comfortable. Easy. Almost dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with the missions you go on.
He's your best friend. That's the name you gave it. It's safe that way. The one that lets you keep him around without risking the relationship. But lately the word feels small. You wonder, not for the first time, when "best friend" turned into the person you look for in every room before anyone else. The person whose footsteps you can pick out from the hallway. The one you save the last sip, the last bite, the last story of the night for.
Your gaze drifts to him without meaning to. It always does. You notice he's pretending not to listen to Sam anymore, but he definitely is. His mouth is doing that barely there thing, not quite a smile, but a small curl in the corners. The morning light sits in his hair, softening his appearance, making him look less like a weapon and more like a man who belongs in the kitchen at sunrise. Your chest tightens quickly. If anyone asked, you'd say today didn't matter. But man, it certainly feels like it should.
His eyes lift like he feels it. They land on you with quiet precision. Caught in the act, you forget to look away right off. For half a second, it's just the two of you in the kitchen, city glowing behind him, dust motes turning lazy circles in the light.
There's something unfair about how gentle he looks this early. No armor, no tactical gear, just a dark Henley stretched across his shoulders and sleep clinging to the edges of him.
"What?" he asks softly.
The word is low, private, and meant only for you, despite the fact that Sam is still loudly excavating cereal nearby.
You blink. "What, what?"
"You're starin'," he says, and there's a faint hint of humor in it, tucked into the corners of his mouth. Not a tease or a challenge, just a simple observation offered carefully.
Heat creeps up your neck. "Am not."
He lifts one brow, but he doesn't argue. Somehow, that makes it worse. Your pulse does that annoying stutter; it only ever does around him. You take another sip of your coffee to buy yourself a second. It would be so easy to tell the truth. I like looking at you. I always have.
Instead, you shrug. "You look grumpy. I was just checkin' if the coffee offended you again."
That earns you a real reaction, a soft laugh. "It's terrible," he says. "Think it melted the spoon."
"It's stainless steel, Buck," you reply.
"Still offended."
Sam groans. "I'm surrounded by chaos. Romance is dead."
You laugh, but your attention slides right back to Bucky Barnes, pulled there like it always is. His shoulder brushes yours when he leaves over to grab the coffee pot. It's a small, unconscious lean that he never corrects. Comfort settles in again, familiar and dangerous. It's the kind that makes you forget the lines you're supposed to stay behind.
Somewhere down the hall, the alert chime sounds. It's not too loud from where you are, but it's enough to make you sigh. You hear Sam push his chair back as he stands to bring his bowl to the sink. Bucky's expression shifts. The day is starting whether you like it or not.
Bucky sets his mug in the sink next to the bowl, already shifting into motion. Mission mode never looks dramatic on him. A straightening spine, a quieter face. All focus and no fun.
"You comin'?" he asks.
You nod and set your mug down. Your fingers bump the ceramic, still warm from his hand. The heat lingers for a second against your skin, and you hate how aware you are of it.
The hallway outside the kitchen is cooler, the polished floor reflecting the morning light in long pale stripes. Your footsteps fall into rhythm beside his without effort. They usually do. You've walked like this a thousand times, close enough that your sleeves brush, far enough that no one would think anything of it. Most of them think something of it, though.
Your shoulder knocks his lightly when he slows to let a tech hurry past. His hand comes up automatically, hovering near your back, not fully touching you. You feel it anyway, like he's protecting you.
"You bring your good boots?" you ask quietly.
He glances down at them like he has to check. "I always do."
"Last time you wore the old ones and complained for six hours."
"I did not complain."
"You narrated your suffering?"
"That's different."
You smile. There it is again, that almost smile of his in response, small but real. People sometimes say relationships are built on big moments. But yours is built on this. Shared steps and low voices. Knowing exactly how someone takes their coffee and hovering hands without needing credit for the catch.
Up ahead, the briefing room doors slide open. Screens glow blue against the dim interior. The rest of the team is already filtering in, half-suited, half-caffeinated. The room smells of coffee, still steaming in the single-use cups. A wide holographic display rotates slowly above the central table, throwing blue light across tired faces as everyone settles into place. You take your usual seat without thinking, and like always, Bucky ends up in the chair beside you. Your legs meet briefly under the table, and you smile at him before turning your attention to the front of the room.
A satellite image sharpens overhead. Industrial buildings, rail lines, and a river cut through the edge of the property line.
"Alright, lovebirds and lonely hearts," Sam says, dropping into his chair and spinning it once before stopping with his boots hooked on the table edge. "Let's ruin the most romantic day of the year."
"I had a whole speech about work-life balance prepared, but then illegal weapons trafficking ruined the mood," Tony says.
A few groans answer him.
"We intercepted encrypted chatter late last night. A breakaway weapons cell set up temporary operations here, inside an abandoned freight distribution hub just outside the city. They're moving product, and we think it's for something bigger."
"Define product," you say.
"Portable guided munitions," Tony answers. "Shoulder launcher, smart tracking, not very romantic. The kind of stuff that turns crowded places into headlines."
Everyone sighs. Thermal scans layer over the model. Moving heat signatures. Parked trucks. Guard rotations plotted in neat predictive loops.
"Buyer?" Steve asks.
"Still in the wind," Tony replies. "Which means if this shipment rolls, we get to play find the missile later. I hate sequels."
"Got it. So we hit it before it moves." Sam says.
"Gold star," Tony points a finger at him. "Transfer closes before noon. After that, distribution branches and our neat little problem become a messy big one."
Routes appear in colored lines. Entry vectors, blind spots, and jammer zones pulse red. Security notes scroll beside the map: patrol density, signal interference, and interior barricades built from old shipping containers.
"Outer ring is armed and alert," Tony continues. "Inner flor is compartmentalized. They're expecting competition, just not you specifically, which I find insulting."
"Tragic," Bucky deadpans.
"My reservation's at seven," Sam mutters. "Non-refundable."
Tony doesn't look up. "You've generously donated to the restaurant industry."
Sam gestures between you and Bucky. "Meanwhile, these two have zero plans ever and look the most offended."
You keep your eyes on the map. It's safer there. Assignment tags blink across the layout. Advance element, east service corridor. Your name. Bucky Barnes.
Sam makes a soft drumroll on the table. "Predictable and adorable."
Tony points at Sam, "Ariel sweep. No flirting with the hostiles."
"No promises."
The plan builds in layers, contingencies stacking clean and fast. Timing is everything in missions like this. Speed matters more. Every minute of delay increases the odds that those launchers leave the building.
"Go suit up. If we're fast enough, nobody should miss their plans tonight."
Chairs slide back, and you hear the sound of boots down the hall as the mission gravity settles in. You stand at the same time Bucky does. Of course you do. Your sleeves brush as you turn toward the exit. You're not exactly sure when you started noticing every little touch, or look, or breath he takes.
The corridor outside the briefing room is quieter than the main floors, with the lights set low for the early hour. Your footsteps echo in sync, a steady rhythm that matches the pulse in your throat. Pre-mission silence feels stretched tight, every sense tuned sharper. People don't joke as much out here.
Your hand flexes at your side, already thinking through your kit, blade placement, reload time, angles of entry. But there's something else layered beneath today's readiness, something more distracting. Maybe it's the date. Maybe it's him. It's probably the two combined.
"You good?" he asks.
He doesn't look at you when he says it. Eyes forward, scanning corners like you're already midmission.
"Yeah..." you answer. "You?"
"Always."
It's automatic, the reply. You know better. He knows you know better.
A tech team rolls a cart across the intersecting hall, and Bucky reaches up to grab your elbow to pull you back. You just missed the cart. You could live inside these touches. You already do.
"Whoa," you gasp. "Thanks, Buck."
His mouth curves faintly, there and gone.
The armory door slides open with a hydraulic hiss. Inside, the air smells like oil, cold steel, and polymer. Overhead strip lights reflect off neatly organized racks, labeled drawers, and charging stations blink green. You head over to your station.
Gear up is its own language. No wasted motions. You lay everything out first, same order every time. Twin knives balanced with familiarity in your palms. Widow bite gauntlets, compact and dark, you snap them open and check the charge indicators. Micro line launcher, shock disks, compact smoke pellets. Each piece of gear gets a touch, a check, and a place on your frame.
Across from you, Bucky works in heavier shapes and darker lines. Field pistols broken down and reassembled with fluid precision. Magazine springs tested, slides racked. He lines up his knives last, more of them than anyone else carries, edges catching the light like thin mirrors. You watch his hands for half a second too long, and he notices.
He spins one blade once, testing the weight, then loops up at you without lifting his head. "You're doin' it again."
"Doin' what?"
"Starin' at me."
"I'm observing craftsmanship, James."
"It's a knife."
"It's your knife."
His eyebrows raise. You feel the warmth creep up your neck. You step closer before you even think about it.
"Hold still," you say.
He does. The leather's twisted near the buckle. You straighten it, fingers working close to his collarbone. You can feel his warmth through the fabric, steady and solid. Your knuckles brush the edge of a scar. His breathing shifts just slightly.
"All set," you murmur.
Your turn comes faster than expected. His flesh hand checks the seal on your gauntlet strap, firm and careful. He always double-checks your restraints and closures.
"Good," he says quietly.
For a second, you're standing close enough that if either of you leaned in, even a little, the line you've protected for so long would disappear.
Boots thud past the armory entrance, voices come and go, and suddenly reality sets in again. Weapons loaded, armor ready, hearts doing things they shouldn't be doing. You push those feelings aside and steady yourself before heading toward the Quinjet.
The ramp hums under your boots as you board. Inside, the cabin lights glow low amber, casting long shadows across harness straps and cargo netting. The familiar shape of the jet feels steadier than the morning has.
Sam drops into the seat across from you and starts strapping in, still talking like the silence might actually kill him. "I just want it noted," he starts, "that if anybody asks, I was ready to be romantic today.
From the cockpit doorway, Nat glances back while running a systems check on her wrist display. "You say that every year."
"I mean it every year."
"It's never true, though."
He presses a hand to his chest. "That hurts."
She doesn't even look up. "You'll live."
Bucky takes the seat beside you, knees almost touching yours in the narrow spacing. He locks his harness with one clean pull, then checks yours without comment. Tug, glance, satisfied nod. Every flight, without fail. Across the aisle, Steve adjusts his gloves with a quiet focus. His posture is straight, even at rest. He looks up and scans the cabin, doing his own head count. He always does.
"Wheels up in thirty seconds. Primary plan still holds." Steve says calmly.
A few nods. Tension is thick, though, it always is before a mission. You lean forward to recheck your gauntlet charge. Green reflections dance across your knuckles. Bucky watches the motion, cataloging it without meaning to. He wonders, not for the first time, how someone built for sharp edges learned to move so carefully. He's supposed to be reviewing entry angles. Instead, he's memorizing the way your mouth presses into a thin line when you concentrate.
The engines deepen in pitch. The cabin vibrates through the soles of his boots. Mission gravity settles in his chest, a familiar weight that he's grown accustomed to. Danger is simple when you're a deadly assassin. Feelings for your best friend aren't. He's risked everything in wars, in prisons, in the blank spaces where his past was taken from him. Yet saying one honest sentence to you feels more terrifying than any of that.
You glance over, catching him looking this time. You lift your eyebrows in a silent question. "You're quiet," you say over the engine.
"Thinkin'," he answers.
"Uh oh."
"Yeah," he says softly. "Uh oh."
The jet lifts. Natasha's voice comes over the cabin channel. "Check comms. Jammers might be active."
Sam groans. "Nothing says Valentine's Day like signal interference and ass-kicking."
Bucky flexes his metal fingers once, then rests his hands on his knees. He's completely gone for you and running out of reasons to pretend otherwise.
The jet settles into descent with a controlled shudder, engines throttling down to a low, predatory hum. The cabin lights shift to red. Outside the small side window, the warehouse district spreads in gray blocks and skeletal remains of buildings that once held life. Morning haze clings to the river. Mission air feels thick and sharp.
Bucky rolls his shoulders once and lets the soldier part of him take the wheel, but it doesn't push everything else out. It never really does when you're within arm's reach. Harnesses click open in staggered snaps. Across the cabin, Steve stands first.
"Final check. Comms are good, keep them clear. We stay quiet unless we need to."
"Copy," comes Nat over the internal channel, already mission-ready near the ramp.
Sam taps his earpiece. "If I whisper any quieter, I'm technically thinking."
"You should try that more often." You say.
Bucky doesn't smile, but he feels the shape of one trying to happen. His attention keeps splitting, half on approach vectors, half on you doing your premission ritual. Adjusting your gloves for the third time, a tell you don't know you have: anxious, nervous, whatever you want to call it.
You stand from your seat and close your eyes. You cross your left arm over your chest, your right hand grabbing that elbow to stretch. You take a deep breath. Then you do the same motion with the opposite arms. You drop your arms and drop your head back, taking another deep breath. You shake your hands out by your sides. Bucky watches you every time. Infactuated? Captivating?
He wants to tell you to be careful. He wants to tell you to stay behind him. He wants to say I'll protect you. Instead, he checks your shoulder seam for a snag that isn't there and pulls his hand back as if nothing happened.
"Another day, another mission." You whisper, smiling at Bucky.
"We'll do fine." He nods, seriously. Stoic soldier fronting.
"That's why I love ya, Buck." You laugh quietly.
The ramp lowers just enough to slip bodies through. Cold air rushes in, damp and metallic, carrying the smell of wet concrete and old fuel. The jet sets down behind a derelict storage structure two blocks from the target, shielded from line of sight. Boots hit the ground softly with silent nods to the rest of the group. Formations take place instantly.
Tony's voice threads through the comms, filtered and dry. "Nice and warm here in the Tower, folks. Satellite drift in ninety seconds. After that, you're under local for another ninety. That cycle repeats. Try not to do anything cinematic."
"No promises," Sam whispers.
You and Bucky peel off together toward the eastern approach, cutting between stacked cargo containers beaded with condensation. Your movement matches his without signals, without discussion. Years of shared missions turned into instinct. He knows your pace, your angles, and how much distance you like between you and a partner when you're hunting quietly. He knows the sounds you make when you're trying not to be scared.
You're making it now, that almost silent breath through your nose. It's controlled. But he knows it, hears it. He wants to reach for your hand again. The urge is sudden and overwhelming. But it's not smart.
"In position," Steve says into comms. "Status report."
Bucky keys his mic with a minimal press. "East corridor. No visual compromise."
"Copy," Steve says. "We're staged west. Sam, status."
"Nothing above so far."
You crouch at the service door access panel, pulling a slim tool from your belt. Your shoulder brushes Bucky's thigh as you work. He watches your hands instead of the perimeter for half a bear too long, but he trusts his training to cover the gap. He knows the curve of your focused face better than he knows his weapons at this point.
The lock clicks open under your tool with a tiny metallic sigh. You glance up at him, eyes bright.
"Ready?" you mouth.
He nods once. Steady on the outside, but falling straight through the inside.
The door opens, and you slip in first. Smooth and low, Bucky follows close enough to cover your blind side without crowding your movement. Inside, the air changes. Stale dust, cold iron, and old oil soaked into concrete. Light filters through high cracked windows in pale vertical strips, turning floating particles into drifting static. Somewhere deeper in the structure, machinery rattles from the wind. The door eases shut behind Bucky with barely a sound.
Bucky's senses narrow and sharpen. Angles, shadows, and distance to cover fill his mind. The world becomes lines and timing. And you. Always you at the center of his awareness like a fixed star.
"East corridor entry complete," you say quietly over comms, voice steady and low.
"Copy," Steve answers. "West team moving to outer ring."
"Roofline set," Sam adds. "Two patrols above you, catwalk level."
You hold up two fingers, then point left. Your wrist gadget shows a heat signature under the next doorway. Bucky nods once. He shifts and draws a knife.
The guard steps halfway through the doorway and never gets the chance to finish his next step. Your widow line snaps tight around his ankles and pulls him off balance while Bucky closes the distance. One hand over his mouth, one precise strike.
You look at Bucky, quickly checking on him. He gives you a nod before he turns to continue through the door. Every time you move like this, efficient and alive, something in his chest aches with pride he has no right to claim. You're not his to protect, but he does it anyway.
You advance deeper. The corridor opens onto a loading floor the size of a football field, stacked with crates, hung with chains, and suspended walkways. Voices carry in broken reflections off metal walls. Engines idle near the far bays. Transfer is active, and Tony was right on the mark.
"Visual on cargo," you report calmly. "Multiple crates, launcher-sized."
"Confirmed," Tony says. "Tags match."
A laugh drifts across the floor from a cluster of armed buyers near a truck. They think they're safe. It's almost comical. They're casual and relaxed. Just hoping for the next big payday.
Bucky watches you scan sightlines, mark routes, and count bodies. You watch him when you can, too. How his head drops slightly when he's zoning in on a target. How he flips his knife before sinking into a hostile. How he always seems to be looking at you when you want to look at him.
He loves you. You love him.
The thought lands fully formed this time in Bucky's head, in his chest, in his heart.
It should feel like a crisis. Instead, it feels like the missing piece that he hadn't realized he was missing.
"East side, hold," Steve says over comms. "West is almost in position."
"Copy," Bucky answers.
You both settle behind a stack of wrapped pallets. Close enough that your arms are pressed along his from shoulder to wrist. His breathing is steady, and you count it without meaning to. His metal fingers flex once against the knife handle.
"West side set," says Steve in your ear. "Eyes on three exterior doors and the north catwalk."
"Roofline ready," adds Sam. "I've got overwatch on two trucks and a bored guy picking his teeth."
"Focus," Nat sighs.
"I am focused. On his dental hygiene."
You shift beside Bucky, leaning just enough to sight past the pallet edge. He adjusts with you automatically, your shoulders aligned, fields of fire interlocked. It feels like dancing, if dancing involved knives and suppressed rounds.
"Buck, you're cleared to move to inner cover."
You move together from pallets to crates to forklifts. Each crossing is timed between patrol turns and engine noise. Your wrist gadget flicks once, twice, disabling a camera node with a soft spark that vanishes beneath the echoing machinery.
Bucky tracks threats, but he also tracks you. The way you signal without looking. The way you trust him to be exactly where you expect. And you do. Because he's Bucky, the same guy who has never let you down even one single time. Who you love. Trust is a heavier weight than armor.
A buyer group shifts near the central truck, weapons sling careless. One steps away to smoke. Nat's voice threads in, low and certain. "Isolated target, south stack. I've got him."
Three seconds later, the man is quietly horizontal and out of the story.
"Outer ring is thinning," she reports.
"Timing's good. Tony says over comms. "Thermals show crate loading starting now. You're inside their window."
You pause behind a vertical beam, back almost against his chest as you peek at the angle. He can feel you breathe through layers of gear. He could say it right now, he thinks wildly. After this, he promises himself. After this push, we're home. No more waiting for the perfect moment.
Across the floor, Steve and Nat shift positions among stacked cargo, drawing attention with their subtle, deliberate movement. Guards are redirected over towards them. Lines of sight change. Everyone's watching something and tracking someone, adjusting for obvious threats.
"Let's move in, fast."
The warehouse erupts into motion, controlled and surgical. Steve and Nat make noise, a rolling wave of impact and command presence that pulls attention hard. Shouted orders are heard over the hum of machinery as hostiles make their way over. Eyes turn away from your sector exactly as planned.
"Go," Bucky says, already moving.
You launch with him. There's no hesitation between you, no verbal count. You both break cover on the same breath, splitting angles like mirrored instinct. Your widow line snaps out and yanks a rifle sideways just as its owner tries to shoulder it. Bucky's already there, driving forward, disarming with a brutal twist. He drops the man flat. You pivot off Bucky's momentum, plant a boot on a crate edge, and vault. Midair, you loosen a shock disk that pops up against a second guard's vest in a crackle of blue. He folds with a strangled yelp. Bucky doesn't even need to look to confirm. He knows you hit your shots.
He covers your landing with two suppressed shots, tight grouping, and clean. Your knife flashes past his shoulder a split second later and buries into the strap of a third hostile's weapon, pinning it useless against a post. It's just you and him, years of watching each other move, learning rhythms, building a shared combat language no one ever formally taught.
"Cutting center," Bucky reports.
"Seen," Steve answers. "Keep pushing."
A forklift roars to life near the truck bay as a driver panics. You're already moving toward it. Bucky beats you there by half a stride and shoots the hydraulics. The machine slumps sideways with a groan, blocking the exit.
You grin at him, quick and bright. "Show off."
He almost says only for you. Instead, he tosses your thrown knife back to you without looking. You catch it by the handle. More proof of how locked in you are with each other. Gunfire cracks from the catwalks, misdirected toward Steve's pressure line. Sam's voice cuts in.
"Topside scrambling. I'm herding."
"Copy," says Nat. "Left ladder clear."
Bucky steps into your space to redirect your line of fire by half an inch, his metal arm bracing briefly against your ribs so you don't overexpose yourself beyond cover. The contact is firm, protective, and gone way too fast. His heart is pounding harder from that than from the shooting.
He's dimly aware that if anyone watched you two long enough, they'd see it. Not just the efficiency, but the care threaded through it. The constant adjustments to keep each other safe. You've never fought like this with anyone else.
The last guard in your immediate lane drops. For half a second, it feels like the center is yours. Noise shifts and targets are thinning out.
Nobody calls out the guard on the far mezzanine. Bucky starts to turn toward you to say your name. The rifle cracks. The sound is wrong. Not the scattered echo of crossfire, not the muffled thump of suppressed shots. This one is sharp and clean and close enough that Bucky feels it in his teeth.
He's already turning toward you when it happens. Your body jerks like someone yanked a wire through you. The motion is small, almost confused, and then momentum disappears. The knife slips from your fingers and clatters across the concrete in a lonely metallic spin. For half a heartbeat, his brain refuses to translate what he's seeing. He sees the red bloom on your suit, and the color leaves your face.
"Contact, mezzanine!" Sam barks over comms a fraction too late. "High right!"
Bucky is moving before the words finish. He fires twice at the man who may have just killed you. Pure instinct, driving the shooter back behind the railing. You hit the ground hard. Everything drops out of focus. Sound narrows to a high rushing ring. The warehouse becomes distant shapes and irrelevant motion.
Training says to secure the threat, maintain formation, and keep the objective in sight. Bucky drops to his knees beside you instead. Your eyes are open but unfocused, breathing unevenly. Blood is spreading fast through the seam of your suit at your side, darker than the shadows.
"No," he hears himself say, rough and immediate. "No, no, no."
"What's going on?" Steve says through comms.
"We're hit, it looks bad," Bucky responds, no longer mission-focused.
His gloves are already slick as he clamps pressure over the wound, hands shaking despite iron strength.
"Stay with me," he says to you, voice breaking loose from control. "Look at me."
You try to focus on him. The pain comes in waves but never stops. You summon all the strength you have left to reach for his face, trying to cup his cheek. He reaches out to help you bring his hand to his cheek. You move your thumb once before feeling like you're fading away.
This is the moment he's rehearsed in nightmares, always wordless, always too late. He doesn't want this to be the end.
"Med evac is almost here," Nat says. "I'm moving to them."
"Shooter confirmed dead. We got 'em all." Sam comms.
Bucky leans closer, forehead almost touching yours, the world reduced to your barely there breath and the heat leaving your skin under his hands.
"I was gonna tell you," he blurts, the words tearing out unfiltered. "I was gonna tell you after this, I swear."
He presses harder on the wound, but the blood doesn't stop coming. You try to speak, but the words can't come out. You form what you think are words for Bucky, but they come out as pained moans.
"You can't," he says, voice fraying. This is the man under the soldier stripped bare.
Steve walks up to Bucky, who's still learning over your body.
"C'mon, Buck, we gotta get her out of her."
Bucky looks up at Steve, two lone tears stream down either side of his face. Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a light squeeze.
Bucky whispers in your ear, hoping you can hear him, "I love you. Please stay."
You're on the med jet, strapped to a stabilization board, with med foam packed right against the wound. Your face has gone too pale under the smear of blood and antiseptic. It launches almost the moment your stretcher locks into place. Priority transport. Gone into the morning sky before the rest of the team even finishes loading out.
Bucky watches it disappear through the narrowing edge of the ramp, jaw locked so tightly it aches. He doesn't realize he's taken a step after it until Steve puts a steady hand on his shoulder.
"They'll get her there faster this way." He reminds Bucky quietly.
Bucky nods once. It's not really an agreement, but he knows he can't do anything about it.
There's no banter on their flight home. No post-mission ritual. Just engine thunder and the low vibration through the deck plates. The cabin lights stay dim.
Bucky sits away from everyone else, his eyes stuck on the floor between his boots. Elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging empty between them.
The other three sit near enough to talk quietly. Nat cleans blood off her gloves with slow strokes. Sam takes worried glances at Bucky every now and then, checking on him silently. His wings are folded neatly, and he removes some gear for an excuse to fidget with something.
Bucky keeps replaying the moment in his head. He can still hear the sound of the gun going off. He can hear the gasp you let out when the bullet entered your skin. He can see the color drain from your face and the glossy look of your eyes before they finally shut. He'll never forgive himself if that's the last time he sees you. The last time he feels your warm skin and listens to you tease him for being a show off. His brain is trying to solve it differently, like there's still time to intercept the bullet.
After a while, Sam clears his throat. "She's stubborn," he says. "That counts for something."
"It counts for a lot."
Bucky swallows hard. He hasn't been able to trust his voice. Steve unstraps and crosses the distance, movements balanced against the jet. He doesn't sit down, just braces a hand on the seat frame beside Bucky.
"You did everything right," Steve says.
Bucky lets out a shaky breath that almost turns into a broken laugh. "I didn't, she still got hit."
"That doesn't mean you failed."
"It does to me."
Steve studies him for a moment, not pushing him to say more. "You broke the shooter's line of sight in under a second. You stopped that second round. You kept her alive."
What happened, Bucky thinks, is that he almost lost her. And he should have been the one to take the bullet. His hands curl into fists. Metal fingers whisper against each other.
"I finally said it," he says quietly, like a confession.
Steve knows exactly what he means. "Yeah," he answers. "I heard you."
Heat crawls up the back of Bucky's neck despite the cold cabin air. "Wasn't how I planned it."
"Most real things aren't," Steve says. "But you can tell her again later. She's gonna get through this."
The engine pitch shifts as they change altitude. The sound fills the pause.
"It's Valentine's Day afterall," Steve adds after a moment. "Kind of a perfect day built for saying what matters."
Bucky looks up at him then, eyes red-edged and exhausted. "What if she dies?"
Steve's grip tightens briefly on the frame. "We cross that bridge if we have to. Until then, you make sure you tell her again when she wakes up."
The jet keeps cutting forward through the morning, carrying all of them home without the one person Bucky keeps checking for. No one speaks after that.
The tower feels too normal when they land. Glass catching sunlight now that it's early afternoon. The kind of day that shouldn't exist when someone's life is hanging in the balance a few floors below.
They move through intake and security on autopilot, putting their gear back where it belongs. Logging weapons and writing signatures. No one lingers or jokes. The absence of your footsteps is felt by everyone on the team.
Debrief happens quickly. The conference room screens glow with mission playback, drone angles, heat maps, and timestamps. Freeze frames of impact points and takedowns. Tony stands at the head of the table, scrolling through data with tight, economical gestures.
"Shipment was secured," he says. "Inventory intact enough that we have full trace. Buyers' network is sweating, so that's a win."
No one reacts. Tony reads the room quickly. He swipes to a Redwing camera playback. The moment of the shot pauses mid-frame, but he doesn't play it.
"Crossfire variables stacked wrong," Tony says. "Early rotation and elevation shadow. That's on their dice, not your skill."
Bucky doesn't answer. He hasn't even sat down.
Steve chimes in, "Status?"
Tony exhales sharply, and there it is, the himan crack in the armor. "Out of surgery. Bullet passed straight through. Missed the worst of the organs by a margin."
Bucky's fingers flex at his sides. "When can we see her?"
"Short version, not yet," Tony explains. "Long version, they'll page you when she is able to have visitors."
Tony looks straight at Bucky now. "She made it to the table alive because of you, Barnes."
Bucky gives a solid nod and turns to leave the room. He needs a hot shower, fresh clothes, and maybe a good cry if he can manage it.
---
The medical floor is too white, too bright, too controlled. Footsteps soften automatically on the polymer flooring. People speak in low tones, as if the volume itself were part of the treatment. Bucky waits through two checkpoints and one firm-handed nurse who makes him sit for exactly four minutes that feel like forty. He doesn't argue with her, although he wishes he could.
Finally, a door slides open down the corridor.
"Okay, Mr. Barnes. She's all yours."
He nods. The room is dimmer than the hallway. Monitors glow in gentle blues and greens. Lines run across one screen, and other machines breathe softly beside the bed. And there you are. Too still and too pale. Bandaging wrapped clean at your side, shoulder exposed above hospital fabric, skin marked with adhesive and sensor leads. Your hair looks wrong against the pillow, like it hasn't been brushed.
For a second, he can't even step forward. Battlefields never did this to him. Hydra never did this to him. You, quiet and hurt in here, almost drops him to his knees.
He moves to the bedside slowly. His metal hand hovers, then settles carefully around your fingers, mindful of the wires. You're warmer now, thank god.
"I'm here now," he whispers.
He studies your face as if he's relearning its map. The crease near your brow and the tiny scar near your chin. Of course, he knew they were there, but he had taken them for granted before.
"You picked one hell of a day to scare me," he murmurs. "I had a whole speech planned. You kinda ruined my timin'."
His thumb strokes once across your knuckles. "I meant it. I don't know if you heard me, but I meant it."
Time stretches in the recovery room until it no longer feels measurable. The monitors keep their steady rhythm. Your chest rises and falls quietly. Each inhale pulls his attention like a thread. Bucky sits forward in the chair, forearms braced on the mattress edge, still holding your hand. He doesn't even know what time it is, only that Sam has left to go have his "wine and dine" dinner date.
He keeps talking because silence feels like surrender.
"Remember that terrible takeout place you like so much?" he quietly smiles to himself. "I would do anything to eat their greasy food with you right now."
His thumb traces a slow line along your fingers.
"I was gonna grab that for us tonight. That was the big plan. Real smooth, right? Greasy food and probably a movie you'd pretend not to cry to." His voice tightens on the last word.
"Steve says timing's never right for the important stuff. Guess he's got a point. Still hate that he's right though."
Footsteps pass in the hallways. A cart rolls by. Life keeps moving outside this room, and it feels offensive. He bows his head a little, bringing his arm up as a makeshift pillow.
"I've jumped out of planes and fallen from trains," he sighs. "None of it comes as close as to how I feel right now."
Time moves by slowly and quickly all at once. It's eight o'clock now. Bucky only knows because a nurse came in to check on you. She wrote down the time on the whiteboard by the door. He's hungry, he's thirsty, and he'd rather die of starvation and dehydration than leave your side. He looks out the window in the room, wishing the two of you could be out in the city, laughing and hanging out. He wishes he could tell you how he feels and hear what you have to say.
There's a faint shift in your hand. So small that someone might miss it. He jerks upright, studying your face carefully. Another small movement. Bucky is frozen in place. Another tiny movement, your fingers trying to curl but not quite getting there yet. Your brows tighten like you're fighting up through deep water.
"Easy there," he whispers. "You're okay."
Your lashes flutter, stop, and flutter again. The monitor ticks a little faster.
"That's it," he encourages. "Come back to me."
Your eyes open a sliver, unfocused, light sensitive. Confusion takes over. Then discomfort. A low groan escapes your throat as you adjust. A throbbing ache at your side. You try to assemble the room piece by piece.
Bucky's the first thing that resolves clearly in your line of sight. Relief hits his face so openly it would scare him if he were capable of self-consciousness right now.
He lets out a breath, "Hey."
Your voice doesn't come out yet, but your lips part like you're trying. Your gaze drops, finds your bandaging, the wires, then climbs back to him with a question and a memory tangled together.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "You got hit. Thought you died."
Your fingers tighten weakly around his. Tears burn his eyes instantly, and he laughs under his breath. He tries not to let them fall, but he can't help it. A shaky breath comes out as he shakes his head.
"Told you not to get shot," he whispers. "You never listen."
Your throat works to get the words out. Your voice is barely there, scraped thin.
"...Gotta keep.. you on your toes."
He huffs a broken, grateful breath. Your gaze locked on his, hazy but sharpening by the second. The room comes to you in layers: sounds first, then light, then pain. But always him.
"I... love you, too." You manage to get out.
Emotion crowds his throat again, but this time he lets it stay.
"I wasn't supposed to say it like that," he continues, voice low and unguarded. "I had this whole night planned.
He glances down at your joined hands, then back up, blue eyes clear and terrified and certain all at once. "I meant it, though, every word."
You smile at him. Bits and pieces of the morning play in your head. You've never seen a man break down quite like Bucky had earlier. And honestly, you had been grateful you were able to hold his face one last time before the darkness took over.
"Thought I was a goner," You mumbled.
He nods, understanding exactly how you feel.
"You know, I've been in love with you for a while now," he says, simple and direct. "Didn't know if we should put a label on it. Was too nervous to ruin the relationship with my favorite person."
His thumb brushes your knuckles, but he keeps his eyes on you.
"Me too, Buck."
"I kept telling myself I had time," he goes on. "More missions, more mornings in the kitchen. More chances to say it at the right time, exactly how I wanted. But I wasn't sure I was allowed to want more."
Your eyes shine now, fully awake, completely present.
"The days leading up to Valentine's Day felt... complicated?" he admits. "Not because I didn't have someone, but because the someone I wanted was already with me, and I didn't know if we could be anything more."
Your fingers squeeze his with surprising strength.
He leans in a little, voice softer but steadier than it's been in hours. "I'm telling you right here, right now, I love you. As more than a mission partner, as more than a friend. I love everything about you."
Your eyes fill before he even finishes the last word. Not from pain, not from the meds, but from the way he's looking at you like the truth finally got tired of waiting and chose to come out. You study his face like you're confirming something you've known for a long time but never dared to name. The worry lines, the softness he only shows when he forgets to hide, and the way his grip never loosened.
"I thought..." you murmur. "I guess I thought it would be easier for me to pretend not to notice."
His brows pull together. "Notice what?"
"How it feels when you walk into the room."
He just looks at you, waiting for you to continue.
"I didn't say anything," you go on. "Because I didn't want to lose you. But honestly, best friends isn't enough for me."
Silence folds around you, warm and full instead of empty. His thumb is still moving over your hand, as if he can't stop touching you, as if touch is proof you're still really here.
"You sure this isn't the meds talkin'?"
You manage a faint, crooked smile. "If it were the meds, I'd have told you months ago."
And that does it. The last of his restraint gives way. He rises from the chair and leans in slow enough for you to stop him if you want. Close enough that you can feel his breath, warm and unsteady.
"My lips are so dry from this place," you whisper through a giggle.
"I don't care," he smiles.
The kiss is gentle, careful of tubes and soreness, and the fact that you're still healing. Soft, lingering, reverent. Not scared and rushed like a battlefield claim, not desperate to get the words out. This is more like a sweet beginning.
His warm hand cradles your jaw lightly. He kisses you as if he's been holding it back for years, and he plans to keep doing it for the rest of his life. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing the same air.
"Happy Valentine's Day," he whispers.
"Took you long enough, James."
"You're worth the wait, doll."
———
Part Two
Thanks for reading<3 Just a reminder that my requests are open! I’d love to hear from you!
I don’t think people realize how much Bucky holds himself back in fights now? Like, actively trying not to be the Winter Soldier. But then someone takes his girl. His soft, civilian, never-thrown-a-punch-in-her-life girl. And he wades through men like wheat to get her back. And when he finds her and sees her bloodied and bruised? The men who did it die begging. And she isn’t scared of him for a heartbeat. Just relieved that he’s here, that he came for her.
i think about this every moment of every day
------------
He’s gentle now. That’s what people miss.
When they talk about James Buchanan Barnes—the ex–Winter Soldier—they say lethal, trained, dangerous. They talk about his arm, his past, his programming. But they never talk about how hard he works to stop.
How he counts his breaths when someone shoves him too hard at the market.
How he unclenches his fists when a man yells too close to your face.
How he reminds himself, You’re not him anymore.
He hasn’t thrown a punch in months. Not because he can’t. Because he chooses not to.
When the call comes—your name whispered through static, the broken sound of your phone being dropped—something inside him stops choosing.
“Buck,” Sam says carefully, watching him stand from the couch, voice tight. “Let’s take a second before—”
But Bucky’s already gone.
They take his girl. His soft, sunshine, laugh-like-bells girl.
The one who hums in the kitchen while she makes coffee, who writes reminders on his palm in ink, who’s never so much as raised her voice.
They take her.
And Bucky goes still in that terrifying, absolute way that only he can.
It’s not rage, not yet. Rage is human. This is the cold focus of a weapon remembering its purpose.
He tracks them easily. They’re amateurs.
The first man doesn’t even see him. One crack of bone, a hand over his mouth, and the body slumps silently.
Two more in the hallway. Bucky doesn’t bother with stealth now. He moves through them like a storm, metal and muscle and fury, the sound of breaking things echoing down concrete walls.
When one of them fires, Bucky doesn’t duck—just raises his arm, the bullet ricocheting uselessly. The man’s gun jams when he tries again. Bucky’s smile is thin and joyless as he crushes the barrel flat.
“You shouldn’t have touched her.”
The man doesn’t get a chance to answer.
By the time he finds the door, he’s breathing hard, his knuckles painted in other people’s blood. There’s a hum in his skull—mission parameters, eliminate threat—and he lets it hum.
He breaks the lock with a twist.
And there you are.
You’re on the floor. Wrists bound, lip split, one eye swelling shut. When you hear him enter, you flinch—not from fear, but from pain. Then your gaze finds him.
“Bucky.”
Your voice cracks on his name, and he thinks it might break him more than anything the Hydra chair ever did.
He’s on his knees before he even knows he’s moved. His metal hand hovers midair, shaking. He doesn’t want to touch you until he’s sure he won’t hurt.
“Hey, doll,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You okay? Talk to me.”
You blink back tears. “You came.”
That’s when the last thread snaps. The part of him that still thinks he’s undeserving, unworthy, unwanted. Because of course he came. He’d tear down cities for you.
One of the men behind him groans. Bucky rises, slow and quiet, and for the first time in years, he doesn’t stop himself.
He’s not fast about it. The Winter Soldier never is. Efficiency would be mercy, and there’s no mercy left in him for these men.
He doesn’t use a gun. He doesn’t need to. The sound that fills the room isn’t just violence—it’s justice wrapped in grief.
They die begging, voices breaking on pleas that fall on deaf ears.
When it’s done, he wipes his metal hand on his thigh and turns back to you.
And for all the blood that paints the walls, for all the ruin he’s left behind, you aren’t scared. Not for a heartbeat.
You reach for him the second he crouches beside you again. He flinches when your fingers brush his jaw, not because of what you touch—but because he doesn’t think he deserves to be touched after what he’s done.
“Hey,” you breathe, gentle even now. “You’re shaking.”
“I—” His throat closes. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”
You shake your head. “I wanted you to come for me.”
Something raw flashes in his eyes. “I always will.”
He cuts the zip ties from your wrists, wraps his jacket around your shoulders. You lean into him, trembling, but it’s not from fear. It’s the crash of adrenaline, the sudden safety.
Your cheek presses to the cool metal of his arm, and you whisper, “You didn’t have to hold back for them.”
Bucky swallows hard. “You saw me.”
“I saw you,” you correct softly. “Not him.”
That’s the part that undoes him—the way you say it like there’s a difference. Like you can tell. Like you’ve always known.
He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, holds you tighter than he probably should. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“For what?”
“For what I did.”
“For saving me?”
He huffs something between a laugh and a sob. “For what I became to do it.”
You tilt his chin up so he has to look at you. There’s blood on your face and dirt in your hair and still—still—you look at him like he hung the stars.
“You became mine,” you say quietly. “And that’s enough for me.”
Later, when backup arrives, they find the place silent. Bodies cooling, air heavy with cordite and copper. You’re curled in Bucky’s lap on the steps outside, his metal arm around you, his human hand tracing lazy circles on your knee.
He’s watching the horizon like it might judge him.
Sam crouches beside him, eyes flicking between the massacre and the way you’re tucked against Bucky’s chest. “You good, man?”
Bucky’s jaw flexes. “She’s safe.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Bucky looks down at you—the way your fingers have wound tight in the fabric of his shirt, as if even asleep you can’t stand to let go. The tension in his shoulders eases just enough to breathe.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “I will be.”
Later, back home, you clean the dried blood from his knuckles. He watches your careful hands, the way you touch him without hesitation.
“You should be scared of me,” he murmurs.
You smile faintly. “Then you don’t know how safe I feel right now.”
He doesn’t have an answer for that. Just leans forward, forehead to yours, eyes closed.
“Next time,” you whisper, “just get there faster.”
He huffs a quiet laugh against your lips. “Next time, doll, they won’t even make it out the door.”
You believe him. And you don’t mind.
Because there’s a difference between the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes.
The world might never see it.
Summary: Backstage, you were just the agency’s trusted makeup artist... until the calls got urgent, the secrets got heavier, and Steve and Bucky realized you weren’t only hiding stress… you were hiding a whole identity. When the truth finally comes out, they have to decide what’s real: your name, your power, or the feelings you’ve been trying so hard to protect.
Wordcount: 20k
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader x Steve Rogers
Warnings: MDNI, hidden identity, secret relationship, friends to lovers, mutual pining, polyamory, triad, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, confession, protective steve, protective bucky, comfort, emotional intimacy, fingering (f receiving), oral (m receiving), protected p in v, praise and degradation, panic/anxiety symptoms, fear of being used for money/status, family pressure / succession / corporate control, injury mention (minor fall / sprained ankle), workplace stress, invasion of privacy (calls/pressure)
Elixir's Arcade Event: Pair with secret billionaire + model AU
A/N: This is my last entry for the event, and trust me when I say this was the one where the plot was the hardest to find until my brain finally came with an idea. This was beta read by Cassie, a big thank you to you my dear as always.
Masterlist
Backstage always felt like its own country – stitched together from clipped voices, hanging fabric, and the soft, constant hiss of steamers. The air was warm from the lights and heavy with the scent of hairspray and powder, sweet florals from perfume samples, and the faint bite of coffee that somebody had set down and forgotten. There were mirrors everywhere, each one framed in bulbs that turned skin into something almost cinematic. People moved fast but quietly, like the whole place had learned to breathe around the fact that the camera could start rolling at any second.
You’d been here long enough that the chaos didn’t pull at you anymore.
You stood at your station with a belt of brushes around your waist and your kit open like a surgeon’s tray – clean, orderly, exactly where your hands expected everything to be. Someone from wardrobe hurried past with a garment bag, murmuring a quick “Sorry – excuse me,” and you shifted half a step without even looking up, still focused on the palette under your fingers.
“Five minutes,” a production assistant called, somewhere behind you.
You didn’t flinch. Five minutes could be an eternity or a heartbeat in your world. You’d learned how to stretch it.
Bucky was already in your chair, legs stretched out like he owned the place, elbows braced on the armrests. He looked unfairly good even before you’d done anything – bone structure that makeup artists would sell their souls for, lashes that didn’t make sense, that stubborn line of his mouth that photographers loved because it always looked like he was about to say something he wasn’t supposed to.
He was watching you with that particular, lazy focus he had when he wasn’t pretending not to pay attention.
“You’re doing that face,” he said.
You glanced up, one brow lifting. “What face?”
“The one where you’re about to commit a crime with a blending brush.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“It is if you turn me into a dewy woodland creature again.” He tipped his chin as if that was evidence enough. “The magazine called it ‘ethereal.’ I’m still recovering.”
You huffed a laugh and reached for a sponge. “It was one editorial. And you liked it.”
Bucky’s mouth quirked. “I liked that you liked it.”
That – soft, almost accidental – landed somewhere warm in your chest. You masked it by leaning closer, tapping concealer beneath his eye with practiced precision. Up close, you could see the faint freckles on his cheekbones that the camera never quite caught unless the lighting was cruel. You could also see the small scar near his brow that he pretended wasn’t there, as if ignoring it would make it disappear.
Your fingertips were gentle, but not apologetic. You’d never treated him like he was breakable. He trusted you for it.
“You’re early,” you said, because routine mattered. It was a safe line. A normal one.
“I’m not early,” Bucky argued immediately.
“You’re in my chair. That means you’re early.”
He blinked as if you’d surprised him with logic. “That’s… not how that works.”
“It’s exactly how it works,” you said, and smoothed the edge of the concealer until it melted into his skin. “You’re early because you like to sit here and be annoying.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I do not.”
You caught your own reflection in the mirror behind him – your posture calm, your mouth tilted like you already knew the outcome of this exchange. “You do.”
A beat.
Bucky leaned in just a fraction, voice low enough that it felt like a secret. “Annoying you is what I’m best at.”
For a second, you forgot the noise around you. Forgot the bright bulbs, the rush, the assistant counting down time. Your hands stayed steady because they had to, because you couldn’t afford tells, but the warmth slid up the back of your neck anyway.
You pressed the sponge once more under his eye, a little firmer than necessary. “Good,” you murmured. “At least you’re specializing.”
Bucky chuckled, and it was the kind of sound that made people turn their heads. It didn’t carry far, but it carried enough.
Across the room, Steve looked up.
He was standing near wardrobe, halfway into a tailored jacket that somebody was adjusting at the shoulders. Even surrounded by hangers and fussing hands, he had this steady gravity to him – as if the whole set organized itself around where he stood. His hair was half-done, pushed back off his forehead, and his expression was the calm, polite one he wore when he knew people were watching.
But his eyes found you immediately.
They always did.
You gave him a tiny, wordless nod: I see you. I’ve got you. It was part of your routine too, a quiet promise exchanged without anyone else needing to know it existed.
Steve’s mouth softened on one side, almost a smile, the kind he tried not to show too openly backstage because he didn’t want to be that guy, the one who acted like the set belonged to him. He didn’t realize the set already did.
He lifted a hand in a small wave, like you were across a café table instead of ten feet away in controlled chaos. It was ridiculous. It was sweet. It made something in you ease.
“Rogers,” Bucky said, without looking away from you, because he didn’t need to. “He’s staring again.”
“He’s not staring.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked toward the mirror, and the corner of his mouth lifted. “He’s staring.”
You ignored it with the easy competence of someone who’d been ignoring their own heart for months. “Hold still.”
“I am holding still.”
“You’re talking.”
“I can do both.”
“You can’t.”
Bucky sighed dramatically, then actually quieted. For about three seconds.
“You ever wonder,” he said, “how you got stuck with us?”
That line could’ve been a joke. The wording made it playful, light. But the way he said it – the careful casualness – made your stomach tighten.
You met his eyes in the mirror. “I didn’t get stuck.”
Bucky held your gaze. He didn’t push, didn’t make a big show of it. He just waited, like he knew you’d answer if he gave you space.
You reached for powder and dusted the T-zone with quick, confident motions. “I chose it.”
A flicker crossed his face, something like satisfaction, quickly hidden behind his usual mischief. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said simply.
Bucky looked like he wanted to say something else, something that edged too close to truth, but the room shifted – someone calling for Steve, a stylist tugging at fabric, the photographer stepping onto the set and clapping once to get everyone’s attention.
“Steve,” the photographer called, “you’re up first.”
Steve turned, nodded, and then – before he stepped away – his eyes found yours again. He raised two fingers to his temple in a little salute, like he was some kind of dorky soldier acknowledging his spotter.
Bucky made a sound of disgust. “God, he’s so wholesome it’s offensive.”
You tried not to smile. You failed.
Steve walked toward the set, the jacket settling onto his shoulders like it had been made for him alone. People parted for him instinctively. He moved with the kind of quiet confidence that didn’t need to be announced. Under the lights, he’d look like a myth. Off them, he still did, just with softer edges.
You watched him go longer than you meant to.
When you looked back at Bucky, he was already smirking.
“What?” you said, flat.
“Nothing.”
“Barnes.”
He held up his hands, innocent. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to,” you muttered, and reached for a clean brush to blend around his jawline, putting a little more distance between yourself and whatever that look was trying to tell you.
Bucky’s voice dropped again, just for you. “You worry too much.”
Your brush paused.
He wasn’t talking about the makeup.
You resumed blending, slower now, careful. “It’s my job.”
Bucky’s gaze stayed on you, steady and unguarded in a way that still startled you sometimes. “Your job is to make us look good.”
“Same thing,” you said automatically, and immediately hated yourself for it.
Bucky’s expression softened, almost imperceptible. He didn’t call you on it. He didn’t tease. He just said, quietly, “You’re allowed to be taken care of too, you know.”
You swallowed, eyes dropping to your kit as if you could find an answer between lip liners and setting spray.
Before you could respond, your phone buzzed.
Once. Twice.
A third time, insistent.
You didn’t look at it right away. You didn’t want to. Even seeing the screen would yank you out of the bubble you’d carved out here – a bubble where you were just you, where your name didn’t come with a shadow, where your hands did something useful and real.
The buzzing continued.
Bucky noticed. Of course he did. His gaze flicked down to your pocket, then up to your face. He didn’t say anything this time. He just watched, patient, waiting to see what you’d do.
Steve’s voice carried faintly from the set – easy, cooperative, thanking someone for an adjustment. The photographer laughed at something he said. The shutters started, rapid-fire, like a heartbeat.
Your phone buzzed again.
You exhaled slowly through your nose, then pulled it out, angling the screen away on instinct. The name flashing across it made your stomach drop, even though you’d been expecting it.
Adam.
You didn’t answer – couldn’t, not here. Not in front of them. Not when one slip of tone could crack the careful life you’d built.
You silenced the call with a practiced swipe and slipped the phone back into your pocket like it hadn’t mattered.
Except your hands had gone a little too still.
Bucky saw that too. His eyes narrowed, not suspicious yet – just attentive. “Everything okay?”
You forced your fingers to move again, reached for setting spray, clicked the nozzle once to test it, like the tiny ritual could anchor you. “Yeah,” you lied, smooth as silk. “Just… family stuff.”
Bucky’s gaze stayed on you, and it wasn’t the teasing kind anymore. “Do you want–”
“I’m fine,” you cut in gently, then softened it with a small smile. “Promise.”
Bucky didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. Not now. Not in front of everyone.
Across the room, Steve stepped off the set for a wardrobe change, cheeks faintly flushed from the heat of the lights. His eyes swept the backstage area like he was looking for something to orient himself.
They found you.
You smiled automatically – small, careful, meant to reassure.
Steve’s expression shifted, just a fraction. Like he’d noticed something behind the smile. Like he could feel the crack even if he couldn’t see it.
He started to walk toward you. And then a stylist called his name, tugging him back into place, and the moment snapped like a thread.
You turned back to Bucky, lifted the spray, and misted a fine veil over his face. “Close your eyes.”
Bucky did, obedient for once.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the simple things: the soft click of the bottle cap, the clean line of his jaw under your brush, the familiar hum of work. The kind of work that made sense.
The kind of work that didn’t ask you to choose between being wanted and being known.
“Okay,” you said, stepping back to assess him critically. “You’re done.”
Bucky opened his eyes and blinked at you. “How do I look?”
“Like trouble,” you said, because it was true.
His grin returned, easy, relieved. “Perfect.”
He stood, rolling his shoulders, and for a second he leaned in, close enough that only you would hear.
“If that family stuff gets worse,” he murmured, voice low and careful, “you tell us, yeah?”
Us.
Not just him. Not just Steve. Both of them, like you were already a unit and nobody had said it out loud yet. Your throat tightened, and you forced yourself to keep your smile steady. “Yeah,” you said, softer than before. “I will.”
Bucky held your gaze a second longer, like he was memorizing the promise, then stepped away toward the set, sliding into his role like it was second nature.
You watched him go, then glanced toward Steve again.
Steve was under the lights now, waiting for his next shot, posture relaxed, expression composed. He looked like the kind of man who never had to worry about masks slipping.
But when he caught your eyes, there was something there – quiet, sincere, almost pleading.
A question he wasn’t asking.
Not yet.
Your phone stayed heavy in your pocket, silent now but loaded with everything you were trying not to become.
You squared your shoulders, picked up a brush, and turned back to your kit like it could keep you safe.
Backstage roared on around you – fabric and laughter and camera clicks – while, somewhere under all that noise, the softest crack widened, waiting for the moment it would finally be seen.
The next time it happened, you almost missed it.
Backstage was the usual controlled storm – racks of clothing rolling over cables, assistants weaving through bodies with clipboards pressed to their chests, stylists calling out last-minute changes like prayers. A makeup artist somewhere laughed too loudly; the photographer’s voice carried from the set, upbeat and commanding. Someone sprayed hairspray and the scent drifted across your station in a sweet, chemical cloud.
Your hands moved on autopilot. Powder. Concealer. A small tap of highlighter on the inner corner of Steve’s eye, because the lights on set were harsh today and you knew exactly how to soften them.
Steve sat in your chair, shoulders relaxed, gaze fixed on his own reflection as if he was trying to pretend he wasn’t being fussed over. He had a way of being patient that wasn’t passive – he made stillness look like something he’d chosen.
“You’re quiet,” he said, voice low enough that only you would hear over the chaos.
“I’m always quiet,” you lied lightly, leaning in to blend along his cheekbone.
Steve’s mouth twitched. He didn’t call you out. He just watched you in the mirror, his eyes tracking the smallest shifts in your expression like he’d been doing it for weeks now – like he’d learned to read the difference between your focused calm and the kind of calm that came from holding something down.
Before you could answer, your phone vibrated against your thigh.
One short buzz.
You kept your face neutral. Didn’t reach for it. Most people wouldn’t even have noticed, not with the noise and movement around you.
But Steve noticed everything.
His eyes flicked down for a fraction of a second, then returned to your face – careful, not intrusive, like he’d been trained not to stare at wounds.
You ignored the phone. Finished the blending. Reached for setting powder.
The phone buzzed again.
Longer this time.
You felt it like a heartbeat you hadn’t asked for.
You set the powder down with a touch too much precision. “Hold still,” you murmured, just to give yourself something to say.
“I’m holding still,” Steve replied, obedient, but his gaze sharpened a little. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
You froze – not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you felt it. You forced your hand to move again, sweeping powder across his forehead with the gentlest strokes.
“It’s nothing,” you said.
Steve’s expression didn’t change. But his voice softened. “Okay.”
He didn’t push. He never pushed. That was part of what made him dangerous to your composure – he gave you room, and the room made it harder to hide.
The buzzing stopped. The moment passed. You breathed again.
And then, ten minutes later, it happened again.
Not a buzz this time. A call. Your phone lit up in your pocket and the vibration was insistent – continuous, urgent in a way personal calls rarely were during shoots. You felt the screen heat against your skin like it was trying to burn a hole through the fabric.
You didn’t look at it. Not at first.
You kept your face smooth and reached for a brush, as if you’d planned to do that all along. You tilted your body slightly, using your shoulder to block the line of sight from anyone standing behind you.
You were good at angles. You built your whole life on them.
Steve watched you in the mirror.
His eyes narrowed – not suspicion, not accusation. Concern.
“Do you need to take that?” he asked quietly.
You forced a smile. “No.”
The phone vibrated again, like it didn’t believe you.
Across the room, Bucky was in wardrobe, halfway through shrugging into a coat that probably cost more than your first apartment. He was talking to a stylist, all casual charm, but his gaze lifted at the exact moment your smile faltered. It locked onto you like a hook.
You felt it in the pit of your stomach, that old instinct: don’t let them see.
You stepped back from Steve. “I’ll be right back,” you said, making it sound like a normal thing – like you were just grabbing another product.
Steve’s head turned slightly as you moved. “Hey,” he called, soft and careful, not wanting to draw attention. “You sure?”
You paused with your hand on your kit, fingers hovering above a compact you didn’t need. You met his eyes in the mirror. For a second, you wanted to say yes – wanted to let the truth spill out, not the whole truth, but something real enough to breathe.
Instead you nodded once. “Yeah.”
You slipped toward the edge of backstage, weaving between racks and people until you found a narrow corridor that smelled like dust and fabric and the bitter tang of black coffee. A quiet pocket. A place where the light didn’t reach as hard.
You pulled your phone out.
The name on the screen made your chest tighten.
Adam.
Not “Grandpa.” Not a nickname. The contact label you’d chosen on purpose – formal enough that if anyone saw it, it could belong to anybody. A habit born from fear.
You let it ring one more time, because you were stubborn, because you were still clinging to the illusion that you could choose when your life demanded you.
Then you answered, voice pitched perfectly neutral. “Hello?”
A breath on the other end, followed by his voice – warm, composed, threaded with something you almost never heard from him.
Impatience.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“At work,” you said, as if that should be answer enough.
“I know you’re at work. I mean– are you alone?”
You glanced down the corridor. Nobody. You lowered your voice. “Yes. What’s wrong?”
A pause. You could hear faint hospital ambience behind him – wheels on tile, a distant announcement, the murmur of another voice.
“My ankle,” he said, as if he’d only just remembered. “It’s nothing. A foolish misstep. Your grandmother scolded me as if I were twelve.”
Your stomach dropped anyway. It didn’t matter that he said “nothing.” It mattered that he’d called you like this, in the middle of a shoot, with urgency in his tone.
“What happened?” you asked, too quickly.
“I fell,” he admitted. “Do not worry. I am not breaking apart yet.” Then, softer: “But it was a reminder.”
Your grip tightened around the phone. “A reminder of what?”
“Time,” he said simply. “And risk. We have been careful, you and I. We have been… perhaps too careful.”
You swallowed. You already knew where this was going. You’d felt it circling for weeks, in the way he’d been asking about meetings, in the way he’d started bringing up succession as if it were weather.
“I’m in the middle of something,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Can we talk later?”
“You can,” he replied. “But the board cannot. They want to see you. They want assurances. They want–”
“Not now,” you cut in, sharper than you meant to. You closed your eyes, inhaled slowly. “I’m sorry. Not now.”
There was silence long enough that you could hear your own pulse.
When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. “I’m not calling to frighten you.”
That was, in itself, terrifying.
“I just need you to understand,” he continued, “that I won’t be able to keep you hidden much longer.”
Hidden.
You pressed your free hand to your forehead as if you could physically hold yourself together. “You promised,” you whispered.
“I promised to protect you,” he corrected. “Not to build you a cage.”
Your throat tightened.
“I like my job,” you said, and it came out too raw for a work call. “I like being… normal.”
“You were never normal,” he said with a fondness that hurt. “You were simply unseen.”
Unseen. Incognito. Safe.
Not real.
You swallowed hard. “I can’t do this right now.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “But you will. Soon. I need you in the office tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. And I will need you to stop declining the board’s invitations. They are beginning to take it personally.”
You could almost hear the unspoken part: They will start asking questions. The wrong people will start looking.
Tomorrow. Ten o’clock. An office you hadn’t stepped into as yourself in months.
You rubbed your thumb over the edge of your phone. “Okay,” you said, voice flat with resignation. “I’ll be there.”
“Good,” he replied, and you could hear relief slip into his tone. “And– my dear–”
“What?”
“Be careful,” he said. “Not of them. Of yourself. You have a habit of carrying things until they become too heavy.”
Your chest ached. You forced a thin laugh you didn’t feel. “You’re one to talk.”
He made a sound that might’ve been amusement. Might’ve been affection. “Go,” he said. “Do your work. We will speak later.”
The call ended.
You stared at the dark screen for a second too long, as if it might offer you another path. Then you slid the phone back into your pocket and leaned your head against the wall.
Just for a moment.
You let the weight settle behind your ribs. Let the fear take shape: the board, the announcement, the name that wasn’t supposed to be attached to your face in a room full of people who would smile at you like sharks.
Then you pushed off the wall and walked back toward the light.
You knew what you looked like. You could already feel the difference in your posture – still composed, still efficient, but with something taut pulled tight under your skin. You’d learned to be polished. You hadn’t learned to be unafraid.
As you rounded the rack of clothes and stepped back into the hum of backstage, Steve’s gaze snapped to you immediately, like he’d been waiting for your return.
Bucky’s did too.
Steve didn’t speak right away. He just watched you, eyes searching your face with quiet patience, giving you the chance to decide what to offer.
Bucky was less subtle. He leaned slightly forward from where he stood, the line of his shoulders sharpening, his expression alert.
You forced your mouth into the right shape. The familiar one. The one that said everything is fine, keep going, nothing to see here.
“Sorry,” you said, light, breezy. “Just– family.”
Steve didn’t nod immediately. His eyes flicked to your pocket, then back to your face.
“Everything okay?” he asked again, softer this time.
You held his gaze and lied as smoothly as you could. “Yeah. He just… worries.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly. He crossed his arms, leaning back like he was playing it cool, but you’d worked with him too long to miss the tension in his jaw.
“Must be some kind of family,” he drawled, aiming for teasing and missing by a hair. “You’ve been getting those a lot lately.”
You laughed – too quick, too practiced. “He’s dramatic.”
Steve’s expression stayed gentle. “Do you want a break?”
“No,” you said immediately, because you couldn’t afford breaks. Breaks gave people time to look at you closely.
You turned back to your kit and picked up a brush you didn’t need, just to keep your hands moving. The familiar motions steadied you, like they always did.
But you could feel it now – the shift. The way the calls weren’t just background noise anymore. The way they had teeth.
And you could feel Steve and Bucky watching, not like clients, not like coworkers, but like people who cared enough to notice when the air changed.
They didn’t know what was coming.
But you had the sinking certainty that they were starting to sense it.
It didn’t happen all at once.
Your life didn’t split cleanly down the middle with one dramatic announcement, one headline, one explosive argument. It fractured the way ice does – quietly, invisibly – until you looked down and realized the surface you’d been standing on was webbed with cracks.
One morning, a few days after meeting with the board, you woke up to a calendar that no longer belonged to you.
Your phone was already lit when you reached for it, the screen glowing an accusing blue in the dimness of your bedroom. Notifications stacked like a second alarm clock: emails flagged urgent, messages marked high priority, meeting invites that had been accepted on your behalf by an assistant you didn’t employ – at least, not in the life you were pretending to live.
Your “real” job – your actual day, the one you loved – was supposed to start with a shoot at nine. Steve and Bucky had back-to-back editorial looks, two hair changes, one wardrobe swap that would take a miracle and a prayer. You were meant to be there early, coffee in one hand, brush belt on your hips, ready to catch the chaos before it spilled.
Instead, your phone buzzed again.
A message from a number saved under a name you never used out loud.
Car is downstairs. We’ll take you through the service entrance.
Your thumb hovered over the screen. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
You dragged yourself out of bed, got dressed on autopilot, and forced your face into something composed in the bathroom mirror. You could do composed. You’d built your entire adult life on it. You just hadn’t expected to need it at eight in the morning with a meeting agenda you hadn’t even agreed to.
When you arrived at the studio, the familiar backstage smell – warm lights, hairspray, fresh fabric – hit you like a memory. It should’ve soothed you. It almost did.
Almost.
You stepped into your station with your kit, and your hands began doing what they always did: laying out brushes, wiping palettes, checking products. Normal. Grounding. A ritual that made your body believe you still had control.
Then your phone vibrated. Again.
You didn’t even have to look to know it wasn’t casual.
You angled the screen away from any wandering eyes and saw an email subject line that made your throat go tight:
Re: Succession Announcement – Confirm Attendance
You locked the screen and slid the phone under your makeup bag as if you could hide it there the same way you’d hidden yourself.
“Hey.”
Steve’s voice, soft and close.
You looked up to find him standing at the edge of your station, still in sweats and a white tee, hair damp like he’d showered at the studio. He’d brought you a coffee – he always did now, as if it had quietly become part of his routine to look after you in small ways you could pretend weren’t meaningful.
He held it out. “Thought you might need this.”
Your smile came too fast. Too bright. “You’re a saint.”
Steve’s eyes flicked over your face, as if he was checking the way your smile sat. “You okay?”
You reached for the cup, forcing your fingers not to shake. “Yeah. Just… busy.”
“Busy like normal busy?” he asked, gently, like he was offering you the chance to correct the lie without calling you a liar. “Or busy like… something happened?”
Your chest tightened.
There was a moment – half a second – where you almost told him. Not everything. Not the name. But the simplest truth: my grandfather fell, and now the world I’m hiding is knocking at the door.
Instead, you shrugged, light as air. “Normal busy.”
Steve didn’t argue. He just nodded, but the nod was slow, thoughtful. Like he was storing the answer somewhere, filing it away.
From across the room, Bucky’s laughter cut through the noise – bright, sharp, and a little forced, the kind he used when he was playing “fine” for other people. You glanced up instinctively and caught his eyes.
He was sitting in wardrobe’s chair, a stylist adjusting his collar, but his gaze was locked on you like a compass. He lifted an eyebrow, wordlessly asking: What’s going on?
You mouthed nothing back. You didn’t know what you could say.
The day went like that – tightrope walking between your hands and your phone.
You did Steve’s base in record time, blended his contour like your life depended on it, fixed the way the lights made his skin look too harsh. You adjusted Bucky’s brow with a careful brush and pretended you didn’t notice how his eyes kept flicking to your pocket every time your phone buzzed.
The calls weren’t constant, not enough to justify panic.
They were worse.
They were patterned.
A buzz at 09:12. A call at 09:47. A calendar invite at 10:05. A voicemail at 10:06. An email marked “confidential” at 10:07.
Like someone had put your day on a leash and was giving it short, sharp tugs.
You started slipping away in small increments – thirty seconds here, a minute there. You’d step behind a rack, answer a call in a whisper, then return with your posture straight and your smile intact.
And every time you came back, the air around you felt a fraction different.
Not because anyone could name what had changed – but because Steve and Bucky could feel it.
They knew you. That was the problem.
It was midday when the first domino actually fell.
You were crouched by your kit, searching for a specific lip liner Bucky insisted was “the only one that doesn’t make me look like I’m dying,” when your phone rang – an actual call, full volume, because you’d forgotten to put it on silent after the last one.
The sound was sharp and out of place in the backstage hum.
You froze.
For a second, the whole room seemed to hear it. Not because it was loud – because it was you. You weren’t the person whose phone went off. You weren’t the one who got interrupted. You were the calm center people moved around.
Steve’s head turned immediately.
Bucky’s too.
You snatched the phone, thumb hovering over the screen, and caught the name before you could stop yourself.
Not “Adam” this time.
A different contact. One you never should’ve been receiving calls from on set.
Chairman – Private Line.
Your blood turned cold.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t – there were too many eyes, too much risk. You silenced it, heart pounding, then forced yourself to straighten like nothing had happened.
But the second you looked up, you knew you’d lost something.
Bucky was staring.
Not playful. Not teasing.
Alert.
Steve’s expression had gone very still, a quiet kind of concern sharpening into something closer to… calculation.
“Who was that?” Bucky asked.
He tried to make it casual. He failed. His voice was too careful, like he was stepping on glass.
You swallowed. “Just– someone from my family.”
Bucky’s eyebrows lifted. “Your family has a chairman?”
Your breath caught.
Steve’s gaze flicked to Bucky – don’t push – then back to you. Steve’s voice was softer when he spoke, almost a rescue rope. “You don’t have to tell us,” he said. “We’re just… noticing.”
You forced a laugh, thin and brittle. “It’s not that dramatic.”
Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave your face. “It kind of looks dramatic.”
You set the phone down with deliberate calm, picked up the lip liner, and turned it between your fingers like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. Anything to keep your hands busy. Anything to avoid the fact that your chest felt too tight to breathe properly.
“I’ve got stuff going on,” you said finally, steadying your voice. “That’s all.”
Steve nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He didn’t believe you. But he accepted what you were willing to give.
For the next hour, you worked like you were trying to outrun your own thoughts. You kept your focus on the faces in front of you because faces were easy – skin tone, symmetry, light. You could fix those. You couldn’t fix the way your world was tightening around you.
And your agenda – your real agenda – kept mutating in real time.
At 14:00, you were supposed to be on set for the second shoot. You were supposed to touch up between shots, correct shine, fix flyaways, be the invisible pair of hands that kept everything perfect.
Instead, you got a text: Your grandfather needs you at the office. Now.
You stared at the words until they blurred. Your throat went dry.
There was no graceful way out of this.
You found the producer, lied smoothly about a “family emergency,” promised you’d be back before final looks. You grabbed your kit, but not all of it – only the essentials – because taking everything would look like an exit.
You felt Steve’s eyes on you the whole time.
When you turned, he was already moving toward you, a quiet urgency in his stride.
“Hey,” he said, stopping just close enough that you could smell his cologne – clean, understated. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” you said automatically.
Steve’s jaw tightened, the smallest sign of frustration you’d ever seen from him. Not anger – worry that didn’t know where to go.
“Okay,” he said, voice low, “then tell me why it feels like you’re disappearing.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
You blinked, and for a second you couldn’t pretend. You couldn’t do breezy. Your lungs forgot how to work.
“I’m not disappearing,” you managed, but it came out too quiet. Too honest.
Steve’s eyes softened. “It feels like you are.”
Behind him, Bucky had drifted closer too – not in a confrontational way, but like he was drawn by gravity he didn’t control. His posture was casual, arms crossed, but the tension sat high in his shoulders.
“You’ve been leaving,” Bucky said, blunt but not cruel. “A lot. And you’re not… yourself.”
You forced a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “I’m fine.”
Bucky’s gaze sharpened. “You keep saying that like it’s a spell.”
Steve didn’t interrupt. He just watched you like you were something precious he didn’t want to handle wrong.
You hated how much you wanted to lean into that.
You hated even more that you couldn’t.
“I have to go,” you said, and it wasn’t an excuse this time. It was a fact. The leash tugged again, and you had no choice but to follow.
Steve stepped back slightly, giving you space, but his voice caught you before you could turn away.
“Text me,” he said.
You paused. Looked at him.
He didn’t say where are you going. He didn’t say why are you leaving. He didn’t demand details.
Just Don’t vanish. Let me know you’re okay.
Bucky added, quieter than usual, “Yeah. Just– don’t ghost us.”
The word landed wrong because it was too close to the truth.
You nodded once, throat tight, and then you turned and walked away before they could see the fear crack your composure.
In the car, the city moved past the tinted windows like a film you couldn’t quite follow. Your phone buzzed again – another invite, another reminder, another demand dressed up as a request.
Somewhere in that constant pull, you realized the worst part wasn’t the schedule itself.
It was the way it was starting to take you away from the only place you’d felt real.
And the way Steve and Bucky were starting to notice the gaps you left behind.
By the end of the month, the pattern had become impossible to ignore.
It wasn’t just the phone calls anymore – though those were bad enough, constant little jolts of urgency that made your smile thinner and your movements sharper. It was the way you started arriving at the studio already braced, like you’d been carrying something heavy long before you stepped through the doors. It was the way you vanished between looks and returned with your eyes too bright, cheeks faintly flushed as if you’d been breathing air that tasted like pressure.
It was the way you kept apologizing.
You never used to apologize. Not like that.
Steve noticed first because Steve noticed everything that mattered.
Bucky noticed second because Bucky noticed everything you tried to hide.
They didn’t talk about it the first week. Or the second. They exchanged glances, little wordless check-ins across mirrors and racks of clothing. Steve’s look was worried and patient, the kind that asked permission before stepping closer. Bucky’s was sharp and restless, the kind that circled like a guard dog pretending he didn’t care.
And you, stubbornly, kept doing what you always did: you kept working.
You kept fixing details and smoothing edges, as if you could make the whole world behave if you blended hard enough.
On a Friday, the studio had booked a late shoot – one of those glossy, high-concept editorials where the set looked like a dream and the hours dragged into exhaustion. There were fewer people around by evening. The energy changed when the caffeine wore off and the lights made everyone’s skin look sallow. It grew quieter, almost intimate, the way a place does when you’ve been in it long enough that it stops feeling public.
You were still moving fast.
You were packing your kit with the brisk efficiency of someone trying to outrun the moment the room went still enough for feelings.
Steve watched you do it from the edge of the set, towel around his shoulders, hair damp from a quick rinse between shots. Bucky was sitting on a folding chair nearby, hands clasped loosely, his gaze fixed on you as if he was trying to memorize your movements.
Your phone buzzed again – one of those short, vicious vibrations that didn’t even pretend to be casual.
You didn’t look at it.
You just… flinched. The tiniest reaction. Barely there.
Steve’s jaw tightened.
Bucky’s head tilted, eyes narrowing.
You zipped your bag like that ended the conversation.
“I’ll be right back,” you said, too quickly, already stepping away.
You didn’t make it three steps before Steve spoke.
“Hey.”
Not loud. Not a command. Just your name – careful, as if he was reaching for your wrist without actually touching you.
You stopped anyway, because some part of you always stopped for Steve.
You turned, forcing that smile into place again. “What’s up?”
Steve didn’t answer right away. He glanced toward Bucky – silent communication, a check of agreement. Bucky nodded once, barely perceptible, like he was giving Steve the go-ahead.
That was the first domino you couldn’t pretend you hadn’t seen: they were coordinated.
Bucky stood up, slow and deliberate, and moved closer. Not crowding you. Just… present.
Steve’s voice stayed low. “We need to talk.”
Your stomach dropped.
You tried to laugh. “Is this an intervention? Because if it’s about the concealer I used on you last week, I stand by it.”
Bucky snorted – almost – but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Not about concealer.”
Steve’s gaze held yours, steady. “Not about work, either.”
The edges of the room seemed to sharpen. You became hyper-aware of everything: the hum of the lights, the faint music playing from someone’s speaker, the distant click of a camera being packed away. The smell of perfume samples and fabric and heat.
You swallowed. “Okay.”
Steve took a slow breath, like he was choosing every word on purpose. “We’ve been noticing… things.”
You opened your mouth to deny it. To dismiss it. To make a joke and slide away.
Bucky spoke first, and it was so unexpected it stopped you cold.
“We’re not mad,” he said.
His voice was rougher than usual, stripped of the teasing. Honest in a way that made your chest tighten.
Steve nodded, backing him up without hesitation. “We’re not mad,” he echoed. “We’re just… concerned.”
Your heart beat too hard. “About what?”
Bucky’s gaze flicked to your pocket where your phone had buzzed. Back to your face. “About you.”
That was the problem, wasn’t it?
If it had been about makeup, about schedules, about a difficult client, you could have handled it. You could have fixed it, managed it, controlled it.
But they weren’t asking about your work.
They were asking about you.
You forced your shoulders to stay relaxed. “I’m fine.”
Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, the closest he got to frustration. “You keep saying that.”
Steve’s voice softened even more, like he was trying to give you a safe landing. “And maybe you are,” he said. “But you don’t look fine. You look… like you’re holding your breath all day.”
You stared at him, throat closing.
Bucky shifted, weight rolling from heel to toe, restless but contained. “You’ve been disappearing,” he said. “You get those calls, and you go somewhere, and you come back like you’ve just… stepped out of a different life.”
You flinched, barely, because that was too accurate.
Steve’s eyes sharpened. “We don’t need details,” he said quickly, like he’d seen the way you tensed. “We’re not asking to pry.”
Bucky cut in, quieter now. “We’re asking because we care.”
The words hit like a bruise.
You looked between them – Steve’s steady concern, Bucky’s wary protectiveness – and felt something inside you want to give. Want to fall into the honesty they were offering you like a bed.
But honesty had consequences. Honesty had headlines. Honesty had a board of directors and a grandfather’s voice in your ear telling you it was time.
Honesty had the risk of Steve and Bucky looking at you differently forever.
You swallowed hard. “It’s family stuff,” you said, because it was the only truth you could say without detonating your life.
Bucky’s gaze held yours. “Okay.”
The single word was deceptively gentle. Not permission. Not dismissal. Just acknowledgment.
Steve nodded too. “Okay.”
Then Steve took another breath, slower, and his voice dropped into something almost intimate. “Are you safe?”
The question stole your air.
You blinked. “What?”
Steve didn’t look away. “Are you safe,” he repeated, carefully. “Because the way you’ve been… it looks like something’s chasing you.”
Your mouth went dry. You hated that your eyes stung. You hated that your body wanted to answer like a confession.
You managed a tight, brittle laugh. “No one’s chasing me.”
Bucky’s gaze sharpened. “Feels like they are.”
He sounded like someone who knew what it was like to be cornered.
Steve took a small step closer – not into your space, just close enough that you could feel his presence. “We’re not trying to corner you,” he said, as if reading your panic. “We just… don’t want to keep guessing.”
Bucky nodded, jaw tight. “We’ve been guessing all month,” he admitted. “And it sucks.”
There was a beat of silence where you could hear the studio settling, people leaving, the night stretching out beyond the walls.
Then Steve glanced at Bucky again, a quiet exchange you caught only because you knew them both well now – Steve asking is this okay, Bucky answering yeah.
Bucky spoke, voice lower. “We talked about this,” he said, and something about that made your stomach twist.
We talked about this.
They’d been discussing you behind your back – not in a cruel way, not with gossip, but with worry. With care. With strategy.
Because they didn’t want to scare you.
Steve nodded slightly, as if confirming the same thought. “We did,” he said. “Because we didn’t want to do it wrong.”
You stared, pulse racing. “Do what wrong?”
Bucky’s eyes didn’t soften, but his voice did. “Come at you like an accusation.”
Steve’s gaze was gentle but unwavering. “Or make you feel like you owe us answers.”
Bucky shifted again, hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t trust himself to. “So,” he said, blunt but careful, “here’s what we decided.”
Your breath caught.
Steve lifted his hand slightly, palm open, an instinctive calming gesture. “You can tell us nothing,” he said. “And we’ll accept it.”
Bucky nodded once. “But you can’t keep telling us you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”
Steve’s eyes held yours. “We just need something real,” he said quietly. “Even if it’s small.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked to Steve, then back to you. “Like– do you want us to back off?” he asked. “Or do you want us to stay close?”
Stay close.
The words landed like a promise and a threat all at once.
You felt your throat tighten, the urge to say please stay and please don’t look at me too closely colliding so hard it made you dizzy.
You looked down at your hands – empty now, because your kit was packed, because your work shield was gone. You had nothing to hide behind.
“I…” Your voice cracked. You cleared your throat quickly. “I don’t know.”
Steve’s expression softened, not pity – understanding. “That’s okay,” he said.
Bucky’s jaw worked, like he was chewing on something bitter. “Just don’t shut us out,” he murmured, and it sounded like it cost him to say it.
Silence stretched again.
You could feel the shape of the truth pressing against your ribs – your name, your money, your grandfather, the board, the fact that you weren’t just the woman with the brushes.
You couldn’t say it. Not yet.
But you also couldn’t pretend they weren’t right.
So you did the only thing you could manage: you gave them a sliver.
“It’s complicated,” you said quietly. “And it’s… bigger than I want it to be.”
Steve nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave your face. “But you’re safe.”
You hesitated just long enough to be honest. “Yes.”
Steve exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. Bucky’s shoulders eased a fraction.
Steve’s voice was gentle. “And you’re not in trouble.”
You almost laughed. Almost cried. “No,” you whispered. “Not trouble.”
Bucky’s mouth twisted, something like relief and frustration tangled together. “Good,” he muttered. “Because if someone was messing with you–”
“Buck,” Steve warned softly, not scolding, just grounding.
Bucky shut his mouth, but his eyes stayed fierce.
Steve looked back at you. “We’re not asking you to fix it,” he said. “We’re just… letting you know you don’t have to carry it alone.”
That was the part that nearly broke you.
You forced your chin up, trying to keep your composure intact. “I appreciate it,” you managed. “I do.”
Bucky tilted his head, studying you. “Is that all we get?”
It was half-tease, half-test, like he was trying to give you a way out that didn’t feel like surrender.
You managed a tiny smile, shaky at the edges. “For now.”
Steve’s smile was soft, faint. “Okay,” he said again. “For now.”
Bucky’s gaze lingered a beat longer, then he nodded, as if locking the agreement into place. “For now.”
Steve stepped back, giving you your space again, but his voice caught you once more before the moment could dissolve.
“Just… text,” he said. “When you leave like that. So we know you’re okay.”
Bucky added, quieter, almost grudgingly sincere, “Yeah. A thumbs-up emoji would do.”
You let out a breath that trembled. “I can do that.”
Steve’s eyes warmed. “Good.”
Bucky’s mouth quirked, the barest hint of his usual mischief returning. “And if your mysterious family stuff involves you being kidnapped by some rich vampire cult, I’m gonna be pissed.”
You laughed – real this time, a short burst that surprised you. It eased something tight in your chest.
Steve’s expression softened further, relief hidden behind a calm façade.
“No vampire cults,” you promised, as if that was something you could control.
You shook your head, still smiling, and for a moment the room felt almost normal again.
Almost.
But even as they let the subject drop – carefully, respectfully – you could feel it: the shift had happened.
They’d named the distance. They’d reached for you together and, for the first time, made it clear they weren’t going to look away just because you wanted them to.
They weren’t trying to corner you.
They were trying to be close enough that, when the truth finally fell, you wouldn’t hit the ground alone.
It was supposed to be a normal afternoon.
Not easy – nothing was easy when the call sheet was packed and the lighting crew was behind schedule – but normal in the way you’d learned to love. Controlled chaos. Predictable problems. A zipper that wouldn’t cooperate, a model who needed water, a photographer who wanted “more shine” and didn’t realize that shine meant sweat under these lights.
Normal meant you could fix it.
You were moving between stations with your kit half-open, brush belt snug at your hips, eyes scanning faces and fabric like a checklist only you could read. Steve was on set, framed by a white cyclorama and a fan that made his shirt billow just enough to look effortless. Bucky was next up, pacing near wardrobe with that restless energy he got when he had to wait – hands flexing, jaw working, gaze occasionally snapping to you like he was making sure you were still there.
You’d promised them you’d text when you stepped away.
You’d even meant it.
But your phone didn’t care about promises.
It started with a vibration at your hip – short, insistent, the kind that wasn’t a friend checking in. You ignored it, finishing a quick touch-up on Steve’s collarbone where the light caught too harshly. Another buzz followed immediately, longer.
You felt Steve’s eyes on you from the set.
He couldn’t look away for long, not when something was off. He’d gotten good at watching you through reflections – mirrors, shiny floors, the dark glass of a monitor. You’d learned to keep your face neutral even when your pulse picked up, but he still saw the tiny shifts: the way your shoulders went tight, the way your smile became a fraction too smooth.
Bucky saw too. He always did. He didn’t say anything yet, but you could feel his attention like a hand at the back of your neck.
You told yourself you’d handle it after the shot. After the next shot. After the next one.
Then your phone rang.
Not a buzz. Not a silent little demand. A full, bright ringtone – because you’d forgotten to switch it back to silent after you’d used it for a playback clip earlier. The sound cut through the backstage hum like a blade.
For a split second, everything in you went cold.
Your hand shot to your pocket on instinct, silencing it, but it was too late. Heads turned. A PA glanced up. Someone from wardrobe looked irritated.
Steve’s head turned sharply, a flicker of concern on his face even under the bright, controlled expression he wore for the camera.
Bucky stopped pacing.
You forced a laugh you didn’t feel, a quick, apologetic gesture. “Sorry– sorry. My bad.”
The photographer waved it off, already refocusing. “All good. Steve– chin down. Perfect. Hold that.”
You swallowed, heart pounding, and stepped back from the set. You needed a corner. A rack to hide behind. Thirty seconds of privacy.
You could feel Steve’s eyes tracking your movement as if he was trying not to make it obvious.
Bucky, on the other hand, didn’t even bother pretending. His gaze followed you like a tether.
You slipped behind a tall rack of coats – heavy fabric, designer labels, the faint smell of new wool – and pressed your back to the metal frame, pulling your phone out.
You didn’t look at the name at first.
You already knew it wouldn’t be a friend. Wouldn’t be your grandfather – he usually texted when he knew you were working, keeping the urgency disguised.
This call had teeth.
Your thumb hovered over the screen.
The name staring back at you made your stomach drop anyway.
Elliott – Chairman’s Office.
The contact wasn’t supposed to exist on your phone as you. It was supposed to belong to the version of you that sat at the head of a table, not the one who carried a brush belt and had foundation smudged on her knuckles by noon.
You closed your eyes for a beat, then answered, voice controlled and low. “Hello.”
“Finally,” a man’s voice replied immediately – professional, clipped, the kind that was trained to sound calm even when delivering pressure. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
“I’m working,” you said, and even that sounded like a lie in your mouth now.
There was a pause – tiny, polite, sharp. “Yes. We’re aware you’re at the studio. I won’t take long.”
Your throat tightened. “What do you need?”
“The chairman would like confirmation,” he said. “For Monday.”
Your grip on the phone tightened. “I told him I can’t commit yet.”
“With respect,” the man replied, and there was no respect in it, “that isn’t sufficient. The board wants clarity. They’re asking whether you’ll attend the meeting in person or appear remotely. They’re asking whether you’ll be prepared to address – ”
“No,” you cut in, sharper than you intended. You took a breath, forced your tone back into neutrality. “No. I can’t confirm to the board before Monday.”
You didn’t hear the end of your own sentence at first. All you heard was the silence that followed.
Because silence, in a room like backstage, had weight.
You realized – too late – that you weren’t as hidden as you thought.
The rack of coats wasn’t a wall. The fabric didn’t block sound the way you’d wanted it to. And you’d angled yourself in a rush, focused on escaping eyes, not on where those eyes might have followed.
A shadow shifted on the other side of the rack.
You froze, every nerve in your body firing at once.
“–Miss?” the voice on the phone continued, oblivious. “If you could just give us a sense of your preference, we can manage expectations. The partners are asking questions. Press is already–”
“Elliott,” you hissed, voice low and tight, “I’m in the middle of a shoot. I will call you back.”
There was another pause, a breath. “Understood. But I’ll need something concrete by end of day.”
You swallowed the panic down. “I said I’ll call you back.”
You ended the call before he could respond.
For a heartbeat, you stared at the dark screen as if it could help you undo what you’d just said out loud.
Board.
The word echoed in your skull like a dropped glass.
You felt the prickle of being watched.
Slowly – so slowly – you lifted your gaze.
Bucky was standing on the other side of the rack.
Not close enough to invade you. Not far enough to pretend he hadn’t heard. His posture was deceptively casual, hands in his pockets, but his eyes were sharp and fixed on your face like a lock picking at your mask.
Behind him, half a step back, Steve hovered in the corridor of open space – drawn there without meaning to be, the way he always moved toward someone in distress. He wasn’t staring at your phone. He was staring at you, expression gentle but too focused to be neutral.
Neither of them spoke.
And that, more than anything, made your stomach twist.
Bucky broke the silence first.
“Board,” he said, softly.
It wasn’t a question yet. It was just the word you’d dropped, offered back to you like evidence.
Your throat went dry. You forced a laugh that sounded wrong even to your own ears. “Yeah, uh–”
Steve’s voice cut in, quiet and careful. “You said… the board.”
The way he phrased it – no accusation, no sharp edges – gave you a chance to steer. A chance to explain it away. The kind of chance that made the lie harder.
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came out.
Bucky’s eyes flicked from your face to your phone and back. “Why does a board need you to confirm anything?” he asked. “You’re–” He stopped himself, as if he was trying not to say what he was thinking. You’re our visagist. You’re backstage. You’re not–
You could see the thought running across his face, colliding with all the little inconsistencies he’d been collecting all week.
Steve stepped forward half a step, palms open at his sides, body language gentle. “Hey,” he murmured. “You don’t have to explain everything. But– are you okay?”
The question landed like a hook behind your ribs.
You swallowed. Your voice came out thin. “I’m fine.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Stop saying that.”
The words weren’t harsh, but they were loaded. You could hear the worry in them – worry disguised as irritation because that was how Bucky kept his fear from showing.
Steve glanced at Bucky, a silent request: easy. Bucky’s shoulders rose and fell once, like he was forcing himself to dial it down.
Then Steve looked back at you, eyes warm and steady. “Talk to us,” he said softly. “Just… a little.”
You looked between them and felt the walls of your careful life narrowing.
There were a hundred lies you could tell. A hundred versions of “consulting,” “family investments,” “an old job I used to have,” “I help with admin sometimes.”
But your body had already betrayed you. The flinch. The urgency. The way your hand had gone tight around the phone like it could hold your world together.
Bucky tilted his head slightly, voice lower now. “Is this why you keep disappearing?”
You inhaled, slow and shaky. “It’s– complicated.”
Steve nodded like he’d expected that answer. “Okay,” he said. “Complicated is allowed.”
Bucky’s gaze didn’t soften, but it steadied. “Is it dangerous complicated?” he asked, blunt.
You blinked. “No.”
Steve’s eyes stayed on yours. “Is it something you’re ashamed of?”
The question hit differently – gentle, but precise.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your throat burned.
“I’m not ashamed,” you whispered, and the truth of it hurt. “I’m… scared.”
Bucky’s expression shifted, quick and involuntary. “Of what?”
You let out a breath that trembled. “Of you looking at me differently.”
The words were out before you could stop them. Too honest. Too raw.
Steve’s face softened, immediate understanding flashing in his eyes. Bucky’s jaw tightened like he’d been punched – not because he was angry, but because the implication landed hard.
You flinched. Not because he was wrong. Because he was right.
Steve’s voice was a quiet anchor. “Hey,” he said again, closer now. “Whatever this is– whatever the board is– it doesn’t change who you are.”
You almost laughed at that, bitter and afraid. Because it did change things. It had to. Names and money and power always changed things, even when people swore they wouldn’t.
Bucky took a small step closer, then stopped himself, like he didn’t want to crowd you. “Just tell us one thing,” he said. “Are you in charge of something?”
Your breath caught.
Your silence was answer enough.
Steve’s eyes widened just a fraction, the pieces sliding into place. Not all of them. Not yet. But enough to shift the ground under the three of you.
“Okay,” Steve said slowly, voice gentle as ever, but now threaded with something new – shock, maybe, or awe. “Okay. That’s… bigger than we thought.”
Bucky let out a low breath, staring at you like he was seeing you for the first time and trying not to let it show. “Yeah,” he murmured. “No kidding.”
Your heart hammered. Your palms were damp around the phone.
You forced yourself to lift your chin. “I didn’t want it to matter,” you said, voice shaking despite your effort. “I didn’t want… this… to get in the way.”
Steve’s gaze softened further. “You didn’t want us to be here because of that.”
You nodded once, throat tight.
Bucky’s eyes held yours, fierce and steady. “We’re here because of you,” he said, and it sounded like he meant it with his whole chest.
For a second, you couldn’t breathe.
Behind you, the studio noise surged again – a stylist calling for Bucky, the photographer asking where his next model was, the set lights humming like a distant storm.
Reality tugged at you.
You stepped back a fraction, clutching your phone like a lifeline. “I have to–” you started.
Steve’s voice was quiet but firm. “We’re not done.”
Not a threat. A promise.
Bucky nodded, gaze locked on you. “We’ll talk,” he said. “When you’re ready. But we’re not pretending we didn’t hear that.”
You swallowed, eyes stinging, and managed a small nod.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Steve’s expression was gentle, but unyielding. “Okay.”
Bucky’s mouth twisted – half frustration, half relief. “Now go,” he said, voice softer than his words. “Before they start yelling your name and I have to fight a stylist.”
A shaky laugh escaped you despite yourself.
And then you turned back toward the set, your kit suddenly heavier at your hip, your secret suddenly louder than any ringtone – because now it wasn’t just living inside you anymore.
Now it lived in their eyes too.
The shoot ended the way they always did – abruptly, like someone had snapped their fingers and decided the day was done.
One moment the set was a bright, artificial world of wind machines and white walls, the photographer calling out adjustments, assistants darting in with water and lint rollers. The next, the lights dimmed, the camera was lowered, and the air seemed to release a breath it had been holding for hours.
“Beautiful. That’s it,” the photographer said, satisfied, already turning to talk about selects. People began to disperse in that exhausted, efficient shuffle: stylists gathering pins and tape, wardrobe rolling racks back into place, the hair team rushing to clean brushes and close drawers. A PA called out tomorrow’s call time like it was a forecast.
You kept moving because stopping meant thinking.
You packed your kit with muscle memory, wiping down palettes, sliding brushes into their sleeves, making sure each item went back exactly where it belonged. You could control your kit. You couldn’t control the way your chest felt too tight for the air.
You caught Steve’s reflection in the dark screen of a monitor. He was still in wardrobe’s last look – shirt half unbuttoned, hair slightly mussed, skin still warm under the afterglow of the lights. His expression was calm, polite as he thanked the crew, but his eyes kept flicking toward you like a compass needle that couldn’t settle.
Bucky’s gaze was more direct.
He was standing near the edge of the set, arms crossed, jaw set, the line of his shoulders too tense for exhaustion alone. He wasn’t frowning, not exactly – but there was a hard edge to the way he held himself, like he’d been reining something in since that moment behind the coat rack.
Board.
The word still echoed in your head.
You tried to slip away while everyone was busy. You made it as far as the corridor outside the studio before Steve’s voice stopped you.
“Hey.”
Not loud. Not sharp. Just your name, careful.
You turned, forcing your face into something neutral. “I need to–”
“We know,” Bucky cut in, stepping out behind Steve. “You always need to.”
His tone wasn’t cruel, but it was too blunt to be a joke.
Steve shot him a look. Not reprimand – grounding. Then Steve looked back at you and softened his voice. “Can we talk? Somewhere that isn’t… this.”
He gestured vaguely toward the studio behind you, as if even saying backstage out loud might make it listen.
You glanced between them. Your heart hammered with the instinct to run. But they weren’t cornering you. They were giving you an out – an option. A choice.
“Now?” you asked, and hated how small your voice sounded.
Steve nodded. “If you can.”
Bucky’s eyes stayed on your face. “Unless you’re gonna disappear again.”
You flinched. There it was – the hurt, wearing the shape of irritation.
“I’m not–” You swallowed. “I’m not trying to disappear.”
Steve’s expression softened further. “Then don’t,” he said simply.
The simplicity of it hit harder than any accusation could have.
You exhaled slowly. Your phone sat heavy in your pocket, silent for once, but you could feel the pending demands like a storm on the horizon.
“Okay,” you said, because there was no version of this where you didn’t eventually say it. “We can talk.”
Bucky’s shoulders eased a fraction, like he’d been holding his breath. Steve’s gaze stayed steady, quiet relief flickering behind his composure.
“Where?” Steve asked, gentle.
You hesitated.
There were a hundred places you could choose – some quiet diner, a bar with dim light, a corner booth where nobody would recognize them. A hotel lounge. A private room somewhere.
But the truth was, every public place felt like a risk. Public meant eyes. Public meant the possibility of your name being spoken too loudly, of a stranger catching a glimpse, of the wrong person overhearing.
Public meant you wouldn’t be able to breathe.
And there was only one place you felt you could say it out loud and not immediately regret it.
“My place,” you said quietly.
Bucky blinked. “Your– apartment?”
You nodded, throat tight. “It’s… close.”
Steve’s brows lifted slightly, surprised but not suspicious. “Okay,” he said. “If you’re comfortable.”
Comfortable was a generous word. You weren’t comfortable. You were terrified.
But you also knew you couldn’t keep trying to hold this inside you until it rotted.
“Yeah,” you lied softly. “I’m comfortable.”
The ride was quiet.
Steve offered to drive – because Steve always offered – but you insisted on calling a car, your fingers moving fast over the screen. The driver recognized you immediately. You saw it in the way his posture shifted, the way he greeted you with a “Good evening, miss,” that held a weight Steve and Bucky didn’t yet understand.
You slid into the back seat, Steve on one side, Bucky on the other. Their warmth boxed you in – protective, familiar – and it should have been comforting.
Instead, you felt like you were sitting between two truths: the life they knew, and the one you’d been hiding.
Streetlights streaked across the windows. The city blurred. Steve’s knee brushed yours once when the car turned, and his hand hovered, as if he wanted to steady you and didn’t want to assume he could.
Bucky kept glancing at you like he was trying to figure out what kind of secret required this much caution.
You didn’t speak until the car slowed and the building rose ahead – glass and steel, tall enough to scrape the sky. The lobby was lit like a museum, spotless and quiet. A doorman stepped forward immediately.
“Welcome back,” he said, voice warm.
And then, because you’d never needed to hide it here – because this was the one place you allowed yourself to exist as you – he added your name.
Not your professional name.
Your full name.
The one that belonged on company documents and private lines and board agendas.
Steve’s body went subtly still beside you. Not tense – just… attentive. The way he became attentive when something important entered the room.
Bucky’s gaze snapped to you, sharp.
You didn’t correct the doorman. You couldn’t. Correcting it would be another lie.
You just nodded once and walked forward, the sound of your heels too loud on the marble.
The elevator opened without anyone needing to press a button. The attendant inside greeted you like you were expected, like this was routine.
“Penthouse,” he said, and your stomach dropped even though you’d chosen this.
Bucky let out a low breath, almost soundless. Steve’s eyes flicked toward you, questioning but gentle.
The doors slid closed.
The elevator rose in smooth silence. The numbers climbed. Your heartbeat climbed with them.
When the doors opened, the hallway outside was carpeted and quiet, lit with warm, understated lamps. There was art on the walls – real art, not prints. The kind of detail you stopped noticing when you lived with it, but that screamed its meaning to anyone else.
Bucky’s gaze lingered on it, then on you. He didn’t say anything. Not yet.
Your door unlocked with a soft beep. You stepped inside and the penthouse swallowed you whole – open space, floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawling below like a necklace of lights. The air smelled clean, faintly like expensive candle wax and something floral you couldn’t name. A grand piano sat near the window. A long couch faced a sleek fireplace. Everything was elegant and quiet, built for a life that required privacy and power.
The kind of life you’d sworn you didn’t want to be defined by.
Steve stepped inside and stopped.
Bucky stepped inside and stopped harder.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Their silence wasn’t judgment. It was shock. Their brains recalibrating.
Bucky was the first to find his voice, because Bucky always was.
“Okay,” he said slowly, looking around, “so… you’re not living in a studio apartment over a bakery.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “No.”
Steve turned toward you, expression controlled but wounded at the edges. “You–” He stopped, like he was choosing his words carefully. “You never said–”
“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”
Bucky’s gaze cut into you, not cruel, just too direct. “You lied to us.”
Your throat tightened. “I didn’t want to.”
Steve’s voice was soft, but it held weight. “You did,” he said. “Even if you didn’t want to.”
You nodded, because denying it would be pointless.
“I didn’t tell you,” you said, voice shaking, “because I didn’t know how.”
Bucky’s laugh was short, incredulous – not amused. “Try ‘I’m rich.’ That’s pretty straightforward.”
You flinched. “It’s not just that.”
Steve stepped closer – not crowding, but grounding. “Then tell us,” he said quietly. “We’re here.”
The words we’re here made something crack in you.
You walked to the couch because you needed to move somewhere that didn’t feel like the middle of the room. Your legs felt too weak to hold you up. You sat, hands clasped so tightly your fingers hurt.
Steve and Bucky hovered for a second – uncertain, like they didn’t want to overwhelm you – then Steve sat on your left, Bucky on your right. Not too close, but close enough that you could feel their body heat.
And then, almost in unison, each of them placed a hand behind you.
Steve’s palm rested between your shoulder blades, steady and warm. Bucky’s hand settled lower, at the small of your back, like an anchor.
It was shockingly intimate. Shockingly kind.
You stared at your own hands because you couldn’t look at them yet.
“Okay,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll tell you.”
Silence settled around you, soft and expectant.
You took a breath that trembled. “The agency… is part of a bigger group. Fashion, media, charity foundations, investments. My grandfather founded it.”
Steve’s hand shifted slightly, a gentle rub like encouragement.
Bucky’s fingers pressed once against your back, wordless support that still felt like something fierce.
“And I’m…” You swallowed hard. “I’m his heir. The main shareholder. On paper, I’m–” You almost couldn’t say it. “I’m the CEO.”
Bucky went very still. “You’re what.”
You squeezed your eyes shut. “Not publicly. Not yet. My grandfather is still– he’s still holding the front. He’s been… pulling strings to keep my name out of it. To keep me hidden.”
Steve’s voice was soft, but you heard the sting under it. “All this time?”
You nodded, eyes still closed. “All this time.”
Bucky’s hand flexed against your back, the only sign of what he was feeling.
You forced yourself to continue. “I started working in beauty because I wanted to. I love it. I love–” Your voice cracked. “I love being there with you. With the team. I love doing something that feels real.”
Steve’s breath left him slowly. “And the calls.”
“The calls are because he fell,” you said quickly, because you needed them to understand the urgency. “It was just his ankle. A sprain. But it scared him. It reminded him he can’t do this forever. He… he told me it’s time.”
Bucky’s voice came sharper now, anger finally surfacing – not directed at you exactly, but at the whole situation. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna… step out of this and become some corporate queen overnight?”
You flinched. “I don’t want to.”
Steve’s hand tightened briefly, then relaxed. “Why didn’t you tell us?” he asked, and the hurt in his voice made your throat burn.
You opened your eyes finally and stared at the city lights beyond your windows. “Because I was scared.”
Bucky let out a rough breath. “Scared of what?”
You laughed weakly, and it sounded like a broken thing. “Scared that it wouldn’t be… real. That you’d look at me and see–” You gestured vaguely at the penthouse, the height, the space, the evidence. “All of this.”
Steve’s voice went quieter, almost hoarse. “And you think we would?”
You couldn’t look at him. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to find out.”
Bucky’s anger sharpened, finally finding words. “You thought we’d what?” he demanded, and there was pain under it. “Sell you to the highest bidder? Start kissing up because you’ve got money and connections?”
Your eyes snapped to his, startled by the rawness. “No–”
“Because that’s what it sounds like,” Bucky said, jaw tight. “Like you didn’t trust us enough to believe we could just… like you.”
Steve’s hand moved, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades like he was trying to keep the moment from tipping into something you couldn’t come back from. But his voice, when he spoke, held its own wound.
“You think I’ve been flirting with you because of your status?” Steve asked softly.
The tenderness of the question nearly broke you.
You shook your head fast. “No. God, no. Steve–”
“Then why,” he murmured, eyes searching your face, “did you keep us out?”
Your composure finally cracked.
You pressed a hand over your mouth, but the words pushed through anyway, trembling and urgent.
“Because I wanted it to be real,” you whispered, and your voice shattered on the last word. “I wanted to be sure that when you looked at me– when you smiled at me– when you–” You swallowed hard, eyes burning. “When you cared… it was because it was me.”
Bucky’s expression faltered, anger shifting into something else – something like understanding, laced with guilt.
Steve’s eyes softened immediately, heartbreak and empathy tangled together.
You kept going because stopping would mean drowning. “People approach me differently when they know,” you said, voice shaking. “They laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. They touch my arm too much. They offer things they wouldn’t offer otherwise. They say my name like it’s a key.” You breathed in, sharp. “I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to wonder if every kind thing was… bought.”
Bucky’s jaw worked, like he was chewing through his own emotions. “So you decided to lie,” he said, quieter now.
You nodded, tears slipping free despite you trying to hold them back. “Yes.”
Steve’s hand left your back for the first time, and your chest clenched – until he brought it around to your shoulder, fingers gently curling there, grounding you. “Hey,” he murmured.
You looked at him, and the hurt in his eyes made you feel sick.
Steve spoke first – exactly like you’d imagined, except softer. “Do you think,” he asked, voice careful, “that this changes the feelings we have for you?”
The question punched the air out of your lungs.
You stared at him, stunned. “Steve…”
Bucky let out a breath that sounded like frustration at himself. “That’s what you’re worried about?” he muttered, but there was no bite left in it. Only pain. “You really think we’re that shallow.”
You shook your head helplessly. “I don’t think you’re shallow. I think… people change. They can. Even good people.”
Steve’s gaze held yours, steady. “We’re not asking you to tell us your bank balance,” he said softly. “Or your last name. Or what your board wants.”
Bucky’s hand pressed more firmly into your back, warm and solid. “We’re asking you to let us stay,” he said, voice rough.
The words landed so gently they hurt.
You blinked hard. “Stay,” you repeated, because you needed to hear it in your own voice to believe it.
Steve nodded. “Stay,” he echoed, and his thumb brushed your shoulder in a quiet, reassuring stroke. “If you want us to.”
Bucky’s gaze was fierce but soft around the edges now. “We’re disappointed,” he admitted, honest. “Because you didn’t trust us.”
Steve added, quietly, “It stings.”
You swallowed a sob. “I’m sorry.”
Bucky huffed, not unkind. “Yeah. We can tell.”
Steve leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours, his voice low enough it felt like a secret. “Just… don’t make the decision for us,” he said. “Don’t decide we’ll leave before we’ve even had the chance to choose.”
Bucky’s hand stayed at your back, steady. “And don’t disappear again without saying something,” he murmured. “Even if it’s just– ‘I’m okay. I’ll explain later’.”
You nodded quickly, tears still falling. “I can do that,” you whispered. “I can. I promise.”
Steve’s mouth softened into the faintest smile, sad but real. “That’s all we need right now.”
Bucky let out a slow breath, shoulders finally easing. “Yeah,” he agreed, quieter. “We don’t need the whole story tonight.”
Steve’s hand stayed on your shoulder, warm and sure. “We just need you to let us be here.”
For the first time in days, the pressure inside your chest shifted – still there, still heavy, but no longer crushing you alone.
You sat between them on the couch in your too-big penthouse, city lights sprawled below like a thousand eyes, and somehow – despite everything – your world felt a fraction less lonely.
You leaned back, letting both of their hands steady you, and whispered the truth you’d been too afraid to believe.
“Okay,” you said. “You can stay.”
You lifted your head toward Bucky, wiping at the dampness on your cheek with the back of your hand as if you could rub the vulnerability away. Your voice still shook when you spoke, betraying you in a way you couldn’t control.
“So…” you began, and the word snagged on your throat. You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “Your feelings?”
There was hope there, unmistakable. A fragile thing perched on the edge of your confession, waiting to be pushed one way or the other.
Bucky’s mouth twisted. For a second he looked like he didn’t know what to do with that hope – like it made him angry simply because it existed at all, because you had ever been forced to doubt it. He grimaced, and his gaze flicked sharply toward Steve, the kind of look that carried a whole argument without a single word.
Steve, for his part, only lifted his brows a fraction, expression caught somewhere between exasperation and fondness, as if Bucky’s dramatics were the most predictable thing in the world.
Bucky huffed, the sound more breath than laugh, and then he looked back at you. The edge in his face softened – not all at once, but enough that you felt your chest loosen by a hair.
“You didn’t seriously think,” he said, voice rough, “that I’d become punctual.”
The line was so Bucky that it almost made you cry again – because it was a joke, and it was also an admission, and it was also his way of saying he was still here, still himself, still yours in the sense he’d been circling for months.
A quiet laugh slipped out of you, shaky but real. It sounded strange in the wide, expensive room, like something too human for all the glass and skyline.
Bucky’s gaze held yours. “I wanted to spend time with you,” he added, and there was no joke in that part. Just the truth, laid down like something solid.
“Oh,” you breathed, caught off guard by how simple it was.
Bucky’s eyes narrowed in mock disbelief, and he leaned in a fraction. “Yeah,” he shot back, like you’d missed something painfully obvious. “Oh.”
The word landed with the kind of blunt affection that made your stomach flip. It didn’t sound like a tease. It sounded like Bucky refusing to let you make yourself small.
You turned your head toward Steve, still half expecting the floor to give out beneath you. Your expression must have been openly questioning, because Steve’s reaction was immediate: he looked at you like the answer had been sitting in front of you for months and you were only just now daring to read it.
He rolled his eyes – barely, a soft gesture of long-suffering patience – then his gaze warmed.
As if, in his mind, there had never been any question at all.
Steve leaned toward you slowly, deliberately, giving you time to pull away if you wanted, giving you control. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing the tear track with a gentleness that made your lungs forget how to work.
You didn’t move away.
You didn’t flinch.
You let him.
His mouth brushed yours, soft at first – careful, almost reverent. It wasn’t a kiss meant to claim. It was a kiss meant to reassure. A quiet promise pressed into your lips: I’m here. I mean it.
Your eyes fluttered shut. You tasted him – clean and warm, faintly mint from whatever he’d been chewing earlier to keep his mouth from drying out under studio lights. His other hand settled at the base of your neck, steady, grounding.
When he deepened the kiss, it was still tender. Still slow. Still a choice. His lips moved with yours like he was trying to memorize the shape of this moment, as if he’d been holding himself back for so long that he didn’t trust it was real.
You made a small sound you hadn’t meant to let out, and Steve eased closer in response, as if that sound had been permission.
The kiss ended gently, not snapped off, not stolen. Steve stayed close, forehead nearly touching yours, his thumb still resting on your cheek.
For one suspended second, you were aware of everything: the weight of Bucky’s hand still at your back, the warmth of Steve’s palm on your face, the city lights outside the window watching like a thousand distant witnesses.
Then Bucky moved.
He shifted closer, and his hand slid from the small of your back to your shoulder – firm, insistent, like he was reminding you that he was real too. Before you could even turn fully, he hooked two fingers under your chin and tugged your face toward him with unmistakable confidence.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice low, as if he was talking to only you even though Steve sat right there.
You barely had time to inhale.
Bucky kissed you.
It was different from Steve – less careful, more immediate. Not rough, not aggressive, but charged with all the things he hadn’t said: the jealousy, the fear, the frustration, the aching need to know he hadn’t been imagining you. His mouth met yours like he was proving a point, like he was refusing to let you doubt him ever again.
His lips were warm, his stubble faint against your skin. One hand stayed at your jaw, the other sliding behind your neck, fingers splaying there with a possessive steadiness that made your pulse jump.
You melted into it before you could think too hard, letting yourself be kissed, letting yourself be held in the way you’d been starving for without admitting it.
When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead hovered near yours, his breath warm against your mouth.
His eyes searched your face with an intensity that was almost painful.
“There,” Bucky muttered, as if that settled everything. As if it should have been obvious.
Steve let out a soft sound – something between a laugh and a sigh – and his hand slid from your cheek to your shoulder, anchoring you again.
You sat between them on the couch, still trembling, lips tingling, cheeks damp, your heart loud in your ears.
And for the first time since the secret had started crushing your ribs, you felt it – clear and undeniable.
They weren’t here because of your money. They were here because of you. Both of them.
You remained seated on the expansive leather couch in your penthouse, nestled snugly between Steve and Bucky, their warm bodies pressing close on either side of you. The city lights twinkled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft glow over the room, but your focus stayed locked on the heat radiating from the two men who had just kissed you.
“Okay,” you murmured, your eyelids fluttering shut as you tried to steady your racing heart. “Okay.”
Bucky's voice came low and gentle, his fingers shifting from the small of your back to rest lightly on your knee, sending a spark through your skin. “You okay?”
“I... Yes, I think...” you replied, your eyes still closed, the world narrowing to the sensations overwhelming you. “Maybe it’s just... a little too much.”
You felt Steve lean in before you saw him, his broad chest brushing against your shoulder, his warm breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of your neck. A shiver raced down your spine, raising goosebumps in its wake.
“Do you want us to stop?” he asked, his voice husky with concern and something deeper, more primal.
“No!”
The word burst from you as your eyes snapped open, and you turned toward him.
His face hovered mere millimeters from yours, blue eyes dark with desire, lips parted slightly. This time, you closed the distance yourself, capturing his mouth in a fierce kiss. Your lips moved against his with urgent need, tongues tangling as his hand cupped your cheek, pulling you deeper into the heat of it. He tasted like mint and promise, his shaved chin grazing your skin in a delicious scrape.
When you finally broke away, breathless and flushed, you turned your head to Bucky. His gaze burned into you, intense and waiting.
You leaned in without hesitation, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that started soft but quickly ignited. Bucky's hand on your knee tightened, sliding up your thigh just enough to make your pulse thunder, while his other arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you closer. His kiss was slower, more teasing, nipping at your lower lip before delving deeper, exploring with a hunger that matched your own.
Pulling back slightly, you searched their faces, your voice emerging almost timidly amid the pounding of your heart.
“Do you want to go to the bedroom?”
Bucky rose from the couch first, his strong hand enveloping yours as he pulled you gently to your feet, his grip firm yet tender. The heat of his palm sent a fresh wave of anticipation through you.
Steve followed suit, standing tall and broad-shouldered, his eyes never leaving yours as you led the way down the hallway, your baskets padding softly over the polished marble floors.
The bedroom awaited at the end, a vast sanctuary that mirrored the opulence of the penthouse – king-sized bed draped in silk sheets, walls lined with abstract art, and a massive window overlooking the glittering skyline. Dim lights flickered on automatically, bathing the space in a warm, inviting glow.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, Bucky spun you around and pressed your back flush against his solid chest. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you steady while his chin rested on your shoulder, forcing your gaze toward Steve.
“Watch him,” Bucky murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear.
Steve stood at the foot of the bed, his fingers already tugging at the hem of his shirt, peeling it up and over his head in one fluid motion.
You devoured the sight of him – his chiseled abs flexing under golden skin, the V of his hips dipping into his jeans, the bulge already straining against the fabric. He kicked off his shoes next, then unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, letting his pants slide down his muscular thighs to pool at his feet.
Bucky's breath was hot on your neck as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“We've talked about this for months,” he whispered, his words laced with raw hunger.
“Steve wants to pin you down and fuck your mouth while I spread your legs and lick your pussy until you scream. We've imagined burying our cocks inside you, one after the other, filling you up until you're dripping with our cum. Taking turns sucking on your tits, biting your neck, making you beg for more.”
His voice dropped even lower, vibrating through you.
“And that's just the start… we're gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name.”
Your body responded instantly, a flush creeping up your chest as arousal pooled between your thighs.
Bucky's hands moved with expert precision, starting at the top button of your blouse. He worked them open one by one, agonizingly slow, exposing inch after inch of your skin to the cool air. The fabric parted to reveal your lace bra, the sheer material doing little to hide the hardening peaks of your nipples.
He shrugged the blouse off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a whisper of silk. Then his fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, sliding them down your hips and over your ass, the denim dragging against your skin until you stepped out of them, leaving you standing there in nothing but your bra and matching lace panties, the fabric already damp with your need.
Steve stepped forward now, clad only in his tight black boxers that outlined the thick length of his cock pressing insistently against the cotton. He took over seamlessly, his large hands replacing Bucky's as he cupped your face and kissed you deeply, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with possessive strokes.
Bucky released you reluctantly, stepping back to strip off his own shirt, revealing the sculpted planes of his torso, the small patch of dark hair on his chest adding to his rugged allure. He unfastened his jeans next, shoving them down along with his underwear, his hard cock springing free – long and thick, veins pulsing along its length as he stroked himself once, eyes locked on you.
Steve broke the kiss, trailing his lips down your jaw to your collarbone, nipping lightly as his hands roamed your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. Bucky watched, his breathing heavy, as he closed the distance again, his naked body pressing against your back once more. The heat of his erection nudged against your ass through the thin lace, promising more to come.
Steve's hands slid down your sides, his fingers tracing the curve of your hips as he pressed his body against your front, sandwiching you firmly between him and Bucky. The heat from both men enveloped you, their hard cocks trapped against your lace-covered ass and belly, throbbing with need.
Bucky's lips found the nape of your neck first, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin while Steve captured your mouth in a deep, demanding kiss, his tongue plunging inside to tangle with yours. You moaned into him, the sound muffled as Bucky's mouth trailed up to your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe.
They switched seamlessly – Steve pulled back, his blue eyes dark with lust, and Bucky turned your head toward him, claiming your lips with a fierce hunger that left you breathless. His stubble scraped your chin as he devoured you, one hand cupping your jaw while Steve took his turn at your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your pulse.
Back and forth they went, their mouths alternating on yours, on your throat, your shoulders – kisses turning sloppy and urgent, tongues licking and teeth biting until your head spun in a haze of sensation. Air grew scarce in your lungs, each inhale shallow and desperate, your body arching instinctively between them, seeking more friction against their straining erections.
Finally, Steve scooped you up effortlessly, his arms banding around your waist as he carried you to the bed, Bucky's hand lingering on your thigh the whole way. They lowered you onto the silk sheets, the cool fabric a stark contrast to the fire in your veins.
Steve settled on your left, Bucky on your right, their bodies framing yours like bookends.
Bucky's fingers hooked into the straps of your bra first, sliding them down your shoulders with deliberate care, unhooking the clasp at your back. The lace fell away, exposing your breasts to their hungry gazes, nipples already pebbled and aching.
Steve leaned in to kiss you softly as Bucky peeled the bra free, then together they tugged your panties down your legs, the damp fabric whispering over your skin until you lay completely bare before them.
Your heart hammered in your chest as they both shifted closer, their naked forms pressing against your sides – Steve's broad chest to your left breast, Bucky's leaner muscles to your right. Each man gathered saliva on his fingertip, the wet sheen glistening in the low light, before trailing their hands down your body.
Bucky's mouth latched onto your right nipple, sucking hard and swirling his tongue around the tight bud, while Steve mirrored him on the left, his lips sealing over the peak with a gentle pull that sent sparks straight to your core.
At the same moment, their index fingers pressed against your slick folds, parting them easily before sliding deep into your pussy. The dual intrusion stretched you just right, their digits thick and insistent as they curled inside, stroking your inner walls in unison.
You gasped, hips bucking up off the bed as pleasure coiled tight in your belly.
Their thumbs joined the rhythm, alternating strokes over your swollen clit – Steve's callused pad circling first, firm and teasing, then Bucky's taking over with lighter, flicking pressure that made your thighs tremble.
They pumped their fingers in and out, scissoring them occasionally to hit that sensitive spot deeper inside, all while their mouths worked your breasts relentlessly, sucking and nibbling until your skin flushed red from their attention.
The room filled with the wet sounds of their fingers thrusting into your soaking heat, your moans growing louder, body writhing between them as the tension built toward an inevitable peak.
The words tumbled from your lips in a breathless rush, your voice cracking with desperation as waves of pleasure crashed over you.
“Guys... I... Oh my god, don't stop!”
Your body tensed between them, muscles coiling tight as the dual thrust of their fingers drove you higher, their thumbs flicking relentlessly over your clit in perfect alternation. Steve's mouth pulled harder on your left nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive tip, while Bucky's tongue lashed at the right, sucking with a wet, insistent rhythm that matched the pump of his digit inside you.
The pressure built unbearably, your pussy clenching around their invading fingers, slick walls fluttering as the orgasm ripped through you like lightning.
You came hard, a sharp cry escaping your throat as your hips jerked upward, grinding against their hands. Juices flooded over their knuckles, soaking the sheets beneath you, and they didn't let up – fingers curling deeper to stroke that spongy spot inside, thumbs pressing firm circles on your throbbing clit to draw out every shuddering pulse.
Your vision blurred, toes curling into the mattress as ecstasy pulsed from your core outward, leaving your limbs trembling and weak. They rode the waves with you, their free hands roaming your sides, holding you steady through the aftershocks until the sensitivity peaked, your oversensitive nerves screaming for mercy.
A plaintive whimper slipped out, high and needy, your body arching away instinctively as the pleasure tipped into exquisite torment.
Only then did they ease back. Steve released your nipple with a soft pop, the cool air hitting the wet, reddened peak and making you shiver. Bucky followed suit, his lips leaving a glistening trail of saliva across your chest.
Slowly, they withdrew their fingers from your spasming pussy, the wet slide pulling a final gasp from you.
You watched through half-lidded eyes as they brought their digits to their mouths, Steve's blue gaze locking onto yours while he sucked his index clean, tongue swirling around it with deliberate hunger. Bucky mirrored him, licking his finger from base to tip, eyes dark and feral as he savored your taste, a low groan rumbling in his throat.
Exhaustion tugged at you, and you let your eyelids flutter shut, chest heaving as you caught your breath amid the lingering haze of bliss. The room smelled of sex – musk and sweat and your arousal hanging thick in the air.
After a moment, you forced the words out, voice husky and spent.
“There are condoms in the nightstand.”
Fabric rustled beside you, the soft snap of elastic bands as Steve shoved his boxers down and off. Curiosity – and fresh heat – stirred low in your belly, and you cracked your eyes open, gaze immediately drawn to the sight before you.
Steve's cock stood proud and thick, veins bulging along the length, the flushed head already beading with pre-cum. It bobbed slightly as he shifted, easily nine inches of rigid flesh curving upward from a nest of trimmed dark hair.
You bit your lower lip hard, a fresh ache blooming between your thighs at the sheer size of him, imagining how it would feel stretching you open.
He caught your stare, a slow, confident smile spreading across his face, dimples flashing in the dim light.
“Like what you see, doll?” he murmured, voice rough with want.
Without breaking eye contact, he rose to his knees on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, his erection jutting forward like an invitation. Emboldened, you pushed yourself up, turning to face him on all fours, knees sinking into the silk as your ass lifted instinctively. Your tongue darted out, flat and eager, hovering just inches from the tip of his cock, ready to taste the salt of him.
Behind you, Bucky moved with purpose.
You heard the crinkle of foil from the nightstand drawer, then the quick tear as he sheathed himself in latex, rolling the condom down his length with practiced ease. His left arm brushed your hip as he positioned himself at your rear, the heat of his body contrasting sharply with yours.
The blunt head of his cock nudged your soaked entrance, slick with your recent release, teasing the folds with shallow dips that parted you but didn't enter. He rocked forward just enough to glide the tip along your slit, bumping your still-sensitive clit on each pass, drawing a needy whine from your throat.
“Patience, sweetheart,” Bucky rasped, his free hand gripping your ass cheek, spreading you wider. “We're gonna fill you up just right.”
The promise hung heavy, his glans pressing firmer now, circling your hole in torturous circles that made your hips twitch back toward him, begging for more.
Steve shifted closer on his knees, the mattress compressing under his solid frame as he guided his thick cock toward your waiting mouth. The swollen head brushed your extended tongue, warm and velvety against the flat surface, a bead of pre-cum smearing salty across your taste buds.
You lapped at it tentatively, your tongue flicking upward in slow, deliberate strokes along the underside, tracing the prominent vein that pulsed with his heartbeat.
He shivered visibly, a low hiss escaping through clenched teeth, his abs tightening as the sensation shot straight to his core. His hand tangled gently in your hair, not pulling, just holding, fingers threading through the strands to anchor himself.
Behind you, Bucky gripped your hips with both hands and thrust forward with controlled force.
The broad head of his sheathed cock breached your entrance, stretching the slick ring of muscle just enough to sink the tip inside. Your pussy clenched around the intrusion, walls fluttering from your recent climax, and he swore under his breath, a rough fuck that rumbled deep in his chest.
The stretch burned sweetly, your body yielding to him inch by inch as he held still, letting you adjust to the girth filling your soaked heat.
Steve's eyes flicked to Bucky, curiosity and shared hunger darkening his gaze.
“So, what does she feel like?” he asked, voice gravelly, his cock twitching against your tongue as he awaited the answer.
Bucky exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into your skin as he savored the tight grip of your pussy hugging his tip.
“Even better than I imagined,” he admitted, the words laced with raw awe, his hips rocking minutely to nudge deeper without fully committing yet.
Seizing the momentary distraction, you parted your lips wider and drew the head of Steve's cock into your mouth, sealing around it with a soft suck. Your tongue swirled over the slit, coaxing more pre-cum onto your palate, the musky flavor flooding your senses.
Steve's focus snapped back to you instantly, his breath hitching as he stared down, pupils blown wide with lust.
The sight of your lips stretched around his shaft, cheeks hollowing slightly as you nursed on the tip, hit him like a punch – his cock jerked in your mouth, thickening further against your tongue. You could swear it drove him wild, the way his thighs tensed, muscles coiling as if he fought the urge to thrust deeper right then.
A guttural groan tore from his throat, his free hand fisting the sheets beside your knee, knuckles whitening.
“God, doll... just like that,” he rasped, voice breaking on the edge of control, his gaze locked on the erotic vision of you taking him in.
Bucky eased forward with agonizing patience, his hips rolling in a measured glide that buried the full length of his sheathed cock deep inside your pulsing core.
Inch by inch, he stretched you wide, the thick shaft dragging along your sensitive walls, filling every crevice until his pelvis pressed flush against your ass. The slow invasion sent sparks of pleasure radiating through your belly, your inner muscles clenching greedily around him, milking the heat of his body through the thin barrier.
He paused there, fully seated, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your shoulder as he savored the velvet grip enveloping him completely.
The sensation overwhelmed you, a deep, throbbing fullness that tore a muffled moan from your throat, the vibration humming straight down Steve's cock still nestled in your mouth. Steve whined sharply, a desperate sound that echoed in the dim room, his head dropping back on his broad shoulders, blond strands falling across his forehead.
His fingers tightened in your hair, not yanking but holding firm, as if anchoring himself against the wave of ecstasy your hum triggered.
The two men exchanged a heated glance over your body, a silent agreement passing between them as they set the pace. They moved in unison, deliberate and unhurried, drawing out each thrust and retreat like they intended to etch the moment into eternity.
Bucky pulled back first, almost withdrawing entirely before sliding home again in that same torturous slowness, his cock gliding through your slick folds with a wet, obscene sound. Steve mirrored him from the front, withdrawing from your lips just enough to let you taste the air before pushing forward, feeding more of his rigid length past your teeth.
The rhythm they imposed was excruciatingly languid, every motion designed to build the fire without letting it blaze, hips rocking in sync to keep you suspended on the edge of madness.
You had expected Bucky to tease relentlessly, to draw out whimpers with playful denial, but instead, he proved achingly gentle in his touch. His hands roamed your sides with feather-light strokes, thumbs circling the dip of your waist as he held you steady, his body molding to yours like a protective shield.
Yet his voice dipped into filthy territory, words spilling from his lips in a husky murmur against your ear.
“Fuck, you're so damn tight around me, sweetheart– squeezing like you never want me to leave this perfect little pussy,” he groaned, the praise laced with raw vulgarity that made your cheeks burn even as it stoked the heat between your thighs.
Each slow thrust punctuated his dirty confessions, his breath hot on your skin as he nuzzled your neck, tender kisses blending with the lewd rhythm.
Steve's approach contrasted sharply, his movements carrying a rougher edge that bordered on urgency. He gripped your jaw with one large hand, tilting your head to take him deeper, his hips snapping forward in short, insistent bucks that tested your limits without mercy.
The brusque shift of his cock in your mouth stretched your lips taut, saliva glistening along his shaft as he claimed more territory. But his words flowed like honeyed worship, soft and reverent amid the intensity.
“That's it, baby– God, your mouth feels like heaven, taking me so deep and sweet,” he praised, voice thick with awe, blue eyes locking onto yours whenever he could.
“Look at you, sucking me like you were made for it... so fucking good, doll, don't stop.” His free hand stroked your cheek almost reverently, thumb brushing away a stray tear of effort, the tenderness in his tone clashing deliciously with the firm way he fucked your face.
Trapped between them, your body became a conduit for their shared desire, every slow plunge from Bucky sending ripples up your spine that made you hollow your cheeks around Steve.
The room filled with the symphony of their low grunts and your stifled gasps, the air thick with the scent of sweat and arousal. Bucky's fingers traced lazy patterns on your hip, grounding you as he whispered more obscenities – “Gonna fill this up slow, make you feel every inch owning you” – while Steve's praises escalated, urging you on with breathless adoration.
The deliberate pace frayed your nerves, pleasure coiling tighter with each passing second, your hands clutching at the sheets as you surrendered to the exquisite torment they wove around you.
Steve's control shattered first, his body tensing like a coiled spring as the slow, deliberate rhythm pushed him over the edge. His fingers dug into your scalp, holding you steady as his cock throbbed wildly against your tongue, the first hot spurt of cum flooding your mouth in thick ropes.
You swallowed instinctively around him, the salty tang coating your throat while he groaned low and guttural, hips jerking forward in shallow pumps to empty himself completely.
“Fuck, yes– take it all, just like that,” he rasped, voice breaking on the words, his blue eyes squeezing shut in bliss.
Wave after wave pulsed from him, filling your senses until he finally stilled, chest heaving as he eased back, his softening length slipping free with a wet pop, a thin strand of saliva and seed connecting you for a lingering second before it broke.
With gentle hands, Steve pulled you upright, guiding your body to kneel on the rumpled sheets, your knees sinking more into the mattress.
He positioned you so your back pressed flush against Bucky's solid chest, the shift altering the angle of Bucky's cock buried deep in your pussy. The new tilt drove him even deeper, the head nudging a spot that sent electric jolts through your core, ripping a fresh moan from your lips as your walls fluttered around his girth.
Bucky's arms wrapped around your waist from behind, steadying you, his breath warm against your neck as he adjusted to the change, the fullness now pressing insistently against your front wall.
Steve closed the distance immediately, his naked form slotting against your front, the heat of his skin searing into yours.
He captured your mouth in a fierce kiss, lips crashing together with unrestrained hunger, his tongue delving deep to taste the remnants of himself on you. The kiss muffled your whimpers, his free hand roaming down your belly to find your swollen clit, fingers circling the sensitive nub with feather-soft pressure that built the pressure coiling inside you.
Bucky, sensing the escalation, quickened his pace just a fraction, his hips snapping forward in firmer, more insistent strokes that made his cock drag through your slick channel with audible slaps.
Each thrust from behind rocked you into Steve's touch, the dual assault of gentle rubs and deepening penetration fraying your composure thread by thread.
The combined sensations overwhelmed you, pleasure cresting like a tidal wave as Steve's fingers worked your clit in steady, teasing swirls, Bucky's cock pistoning with growing urgency.
Your body arched between them, muscles locking as orgasm ripped through you, your pussy clamping down hard on Bucky in rhythmic spasms. You cried out into Steve's mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss, waves of ecstasy pulsing from your core outward, soaking Bucky's shaft and the condom encasing it.
Your thighs trembled, nails scraping at Steve's shoulders as you rode the high, every nerve alight with shattering release.
Bucky lasted only moments longer, the vise-like grip of your climax pulling him under. He buried himself to the hilt with a strangled curse, his body shuddering against your back as he came, cock twitching deep inside you, filling the latex with his load.
“Shit, that's it– milking me dry,” he growled, voice rough with satisfaction, his hands gripping your hips to hold you impaled on him through the aftershocks. Steve broke the kiss to murmur encouragements against your jaw, his fingers slowing to a soothing stroke as you all caught your breath, bodies entangled in a sweaty, sated heap.
For a full minute, you remained locked together like that – kneeling in the aftermath, Steve's forehead resting against yours, Bucky's chin tucked over your shoulder, the three of you breathing in sync amid the quiet hum of the penthouse.
The air hung heavy with the musk of sex, your skin slick and flushed.
Finally, Bucky withdrew with a reluctant groan, his cock sliding free from your tender folds, leaving you achingly empty. He peeled off the condom carefully, tying it off before tossing it into a nearby wastebasket, then returned to the bed, pulling you down with him.
The room felt quieter after – like the city beyond your windows had finally decided to hush for you.
You all collapsed onto the sheets in a tangle of limbs, Steve on one side, Bucky on the other, your head pillowed on Bucky's chest while Steve draped an arm across your waist. Their warmth enveloped you, hearts pounding in unison as the intensity ebbed into languid contentment, fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin in the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
For a while, you let yourself drift in that warmth, letting your breathing find the same slow rhythm as theirs. Bucky’s chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, steady as a metronome. Steve’s hand rested at your hip, heavy and sure, his thumb moving in absent little arcs like he couldn’t help himself.
It was safe here. It felt safe.
Which was exactly why the fear had room to creep back in.
You swallowed, throat suddenly tight again, and shifted just enough to look up at them. Bucky’s arm tightened around your shoulders automatically, protective even in sleep-softness. Steve’s head lifted from the pillow, eyes half-lidded, his expression still warm in that way that made you feel like you belonged.
You hesitated, and Steve noticed it instantly.
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
Bucky’s fingers stilled against your arm, then resumed, slower. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna start checking emails,” he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion.
You huffed a breath that tried to be a laugh. “No. I just…”
You trailed off, unsure how to step into it without breaking whatever fragile peace you’d built tonight. The bedside lamp cast honeyed light across Steve’s face, caught the pale lines of his lashes. Bucky’s hair was a mess, his jaw shadowed, his mouth soft for once.
They looked too content. Too real.
And you were terrified of what tomorrow would do to it.
You pressed your palm lightly to Steve’s forearm where it lay across you, needing the contact like proof. “I’m still… stressed,” you admitted, the words coming out smaller than you wanted. “About what’s coming. The handover. The announcement. The fact that everything is going to change.”
Steve’s arm tightened, just a fraction. “Hey,” he said, gentle. “We’re still here.”
“I know.” Your voice trembled anyway. “But that’s the thing. If I’m stepping into that role, I–” You swallowed. “I don’t know what this is supposed to look like. For us.”
Bucky’s chest vibrated with a low hum that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so tired. “This,” he said, shifting his head slightly so he could look down at you, “looks pretty good to me.”
You gave him a look that was half exasperation, half pleading. “Bucky.”
His mouth twitched. “What? I’m serious.”
Steve’s fingers slid up and down your side, slow and grounding. “Tell us what you mean,” he said softly.
You took a breath, then another, trying to make your heart stop sprinting. “I mean…” You stared at the shadowed ceiling for a second like the answer might be written there. “How do you want me to handle it? Us. With everything that’s going to happen.”
Neither of them interrupted. They just waited, patient in a way you still didn’t feel you deserved.
You pushed forward anyway, because you needed to know.
“How do we… qualify this?” you asked, voice quiet but firm enough not to disappear. “What are we to each other? What do we call each other?”
Bucky’s fingers paused again, then resumed their idle patterns – this time slower, almost thoughtful. Steve’s face softened so completely it made something inside you ache.
For a beat, neither of them spoke, and the silence wasn’t heavy. It was careful. Like they were both choosing words that wouldn’t scare you.
Bucky broke it first, as usual.
“You’re really asking us to fill out a form right now?” he murmured, but his tone was gentle, not mocking.
Steve exhaled a quiet laugh. “Be nice.”
“I am being nice,” Bucky protested, then he looked down at you and the humor fell away, leaving only sincerity. “Okay,” he said, lower. “Okay. You want labels.”
You nodded once. “I want… clarity. Before other people decide it for us.”
Steve’s gaze sharpened at that, understanding exactly what you meant – press, boardrooms, rumors, the way your life would be audited by strangers.
“Okay,” Steve said again, like he was steadying you with the word. “That’s fair.”
He shifted closer, propping himself on an elbow so he could really see you. His hand slid from your waist to your ribs, thumb pressing lightly there as if he could soothe the tension out of your body.
“We don’t have to make this complicated,” he said softly. “We can take it one day at a time.”
Your chest tightened. “But people will ask.”
Steve’s expression didn’t harden, but it did sharpen with quiet certainty. “Then we answer on our terms.”
Bucky’s arm tightened around you. “Yeah,” he added, voice rough. “And if anyone doesn’t like our terms, they can choke on it.”
You snorted, despite yourself.
Steve shot Bucky a look. Bucky only shrugged, unapologetic.
You tried to smile, but the anxiety kept pressing. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re… trapped in this,” you admitted. “Or like you have to hide. Or like it’s suddenly your problem because it’s my life.”
Bucky’s hand slid up your arm and squeezed gently. “We already got dragged into your life months ago,” he said, and there was a softness under the bluntness. “You don’t get to pretend this is brand new.”
Steve nodded, eyes warm. “You’re allowed to need us,” he murmured.
The words made your throat burn.
You blinked quickly, refusing to cry again. “I just don’t know what to call you,” you whispered. “What to call… us.”
Bucky tilted his head, thinking. “You can call me whenever you want,” he said, and the grin he tried to give you was lazy but didn’t quite land because he was still too sincere under it.
“Bucky,” Steve warned, affectionate.
“What?” Bucky muttered. “It was funny.”
“It was,” you admitted, and the laugh that escaped you was real this time – small, but real.
Steve’s gaze softened further. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering there as if he was imprinting it. “Look at me,” he said quietly.
You did.
His eyes were calm, steady, honest. No performance. No brightness for cameras. Just Steve.
“We like you,” he said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “We care about you. And we’re not going to suddenly stop because there’s a title attached to your name.”
Bucky made a low, agreeing sound. “If anything,” he added, “it just explains why you’ve been acting like you were about to get sentenced to prison.”
You rolled your eyes, but your chest loosened a fraction. “It feels like that.”
Steve’s thumb stroked your ribs, slow and soothing. “Then we’ll make sure it doesn’t,” he said.
Bucky shifted, propping himself up a little too, so you were no longer tucked against him without seeing his face. He looked at you with that intense, almost fierce honesty he saved for moments that mattered.
“You want a label?” he asked. “Here’s one. You’re ours.”
Your breath caught.
Steve’s expression didn’t change in surprise. If anything, he looked like he’d been thinking the same thing and was only choosing gentler phrasing.
Bucky’s jaw tightened as if he was daring you to argue. “And we’re yours,” he added, quieter. “If you want that.”
The vulnerability in that last part made your eyes sting.
Steve leaned closer, his voice soft but firm. “We don’t have to announce anything,” he said. “We don’t have to give the world a definition. But between us?”
He glanced at Bucky, and for once there was no tension in the look – just agreement.
“Between us,” Steve continued, “we’re together.”
The word settled in your chest like something warm and heavy, like it belonged there.
Together.
You swallowed hard. “Together,” you repeated.
Bucky huffed as if that was the only acceptable answer. “Good.”
You shifted slightly, curling your fingers into Steve’s sleeve where his arm rested across you. “Okay,” you said, voice shaking again, but this time with relief. “So… if someone asks?”
Steve’s mouth tilted. “Then you can say we’re with you,” he replied.
Bucky’s brows lifted. “Or you can say we’re your boyfriends,” he offered, too casual for how closely he watched your reaction.
Steve made a face. “Boyfriends,” he repeated, like the word was unfamiliar on his tongue.
Bucky smirked. “What? It’s accurate.”
Steve looked down at you, eyes soft. “Is that what you want to call us?”
Your heart stuttered. You stared at them – at Steve’s gentle steadiness, at Bucky’s fierce warmth – and felt something uncoil in you, slowly, like a knot finally loosening.
“Yes,” you whispered. “I think… yes.”
Bucky’s grin turned genuine, bright in the lamplight. Steve’s expression softened into something almost relieved.
“Good,” Steve murmured, and kissed your temple.
Bucky leaned down and pressed a kiss to your hair, surprisingly gentle. “Then that’s settled.”
You let out a long breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. The city still glittered beyond the windows, the future still waited with sharp edges and bright lights and people who would ask too many questions.
But for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were facing it alone.
Steve’s arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. Bucky’s hand resumed its slow, absent tracing along your shoulder.
“Tomorrow,” you whispered, “I have to go in. There’s a meeting.”
Steve hummed, calm. “Okay.”
Bucky’s voice was immediate. “We’re coming with you.”
You blinked and lifted your head. “What?”
Bucky looked offended. “You think we’re gonna let you walk into that alone after today?”
Steve’s mouth curved softly. “We can’t sit in the meeting,” he said, practical even now, “but we can take you there. We can wait. We can be close.”
The warmth in your chest flared again, sharp and overwhelming. “You don’t have to.”
Steve’s gaze held yours. “We want to.”
Bucky’s hand pressed into your shoulder, grounding. “Let us,” he said simply.
You nodded, a small motion that felt like surrender in the best way. “Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”
Steve smiled, soft and certain. “That’s my girl.”
Bucky snorted. “Our.”
Steve shot him a look. Bucky only grinned.
You laughed quietly, the sound dissolving the last of your tightness. You settled back into them, letting their warmth hold you steady, letting your eyes drift closed as their hands kept tracing gentle patterns like a promise.
For the first time in days, sleep didn’t feel like something you had to earn.
Summary: Bucky steps in on a harmless conversation in a bar. He stakes his claim. Like a gentleman.
Trigger Warnings: Drinking in a bar? Idk.
Author’s Note: Possessive Bucky. But more like a gentleman than a caveman. I also edited this short before my second coffee, so I'm sorry if I missed anything.
Masterlist
The bar was already packed by the time you and Bucky walked in, the air thick with heat, music, and the smell of beer. He’d been in a rare mood all night, relaxed, a little smug even, one arm draped loosely around your shoulders as you found a spot by the wall.
You offered to grab the drinks, and after a reluctant glance toward the bar, he finally nodded. “Stay where I can see you, doll,” he’d said, like it was half joke, half an order.
You’d rolled your eyes, but now, standing wedged between strangers while waiting for the bartender, you couldn’t help thinking about the way his gaze lingered on you before you left his side.
“Long line, huh?”
The voice came from your left. You turned to find a man standing closer than necessary in the crowded space. His smile was easy, practiced.
“Yup,” you said politely, shifting your weight, and keeping your eyes averted.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” he continued, leaning just enough that you caught the faint tang of whiskey on his breath. “You here alone?”
Before you could answer, you felt a ripple in the air, a shift in the energy around you.
“She’s not.”
Bucky’s voice cut through the noise like a blade.
His metal hand slid around your waist, cool through the fabric from where it rested at your side. He positioned himself so close that his chest brushed your back every time you breathed.
The man’s gaze flicked to him. “Just talking, man.”
Bucky’s eyes were ice. “Then you’ve done enough talking.”
The guy huffed a short laugh, but it didn’t carry much weight. “Relax. I didn’t mean anything.”
Bucky tilted his head slightly, his tone still calm but laced with something sharper. “Yeah, you did. And now you can mean it somewhere else.”
The man’s smirk faltered. He glanced at you like maybe he expected you to intervene, but you just smiled up at Bucky, all your attention on your boyfriend. With one last muttered word, he disappeared into the crowd.
Bucky's jaw was tight, and his gaze followed the man until he was well out of sight.
“You know,” you said, keeping your voice light, “I can handle myself.”
“I know,” he replied without looking at you. “Doesn’t mean I like watching someone else try their luck.”
You raised a brow. “Was that you staking your claim?”
His eyes finally met yours, and while there was heat simmering there, you also saw the stubborn certainty you’d come to know so well. “I don’t have to stake it. You’re already mine.”
You felt your cheeks warm at the way he said it, low, sure, like it was an undeniable fact. He must’ve noticed, because his thumb began tracing slow, deliberate circles over your hip.
“Still,” you teased, “seemed like you were making a point.”
“Maybe I was.” He leaned down just enough that his lips hovered near your ear, his voice dropping. “Maybe I wanted him to know what happens when someone forgets their manners.”
The drinks arrived, and he paid for them before you could reach for your wallet. His hand stayed at your waist as he guided you back through the crowd, the subtle pressure of his grip making it clear you weren’t going anywhere without him.
And he did it like a gentleman. He was steady, sure, and protective in a way that told everyone watching you weren’t just claimed, you were cherished.
When you reached your table, he set the glasses down, then pulled you toward him until you were tucked against his side again. His arm looped around you, his fingers resting possessively on your hip.
“You know,” you murmured, “people are gonna think you’re jealous.”
“I am,” he said easily, no hint of shame in his voice. “You’re my doll. I don’t share.”
You let out a quiet laugh. “Not very modern of you.”
“Don’t care.” His gaze softened just enough to take the edge off his words. “I spent too many years without you. Now that I have you, I’m not letting anyone get ideas. Ever.”
The music thumped on around you, but for a moment, all you heard was the steady certainty in his voice. His hand tightened fractionally on your hip, like he needed the reassurance of holding you close.
“Bucky?” you asked after a beat.
“Yeah, doll?”
“You don’t… worry I might look at someone else?”
His lips twitched into a faint smile. “I don’t worry about you. I worry about everyone else.” He tipped his head toward the bar. “Guys like him? They don’t know how to treat someone like you. They don’t know what you’ve been through, what you need. But I do.”
You swallowed, caught off guard by the depth in his tone.
“And,” he added, leaning closer until his breath was warm against your ear, “I know exactly how to keep you.”
It sounded like a delicious promise.
Later, when you both stepped out into the cool night air, he kept his hand firmly clasped in yours. Not gripping or dragging, just holding, like he was making sure the world saw exactly who you belonged with.
And maybe, you thought as you looked up at him, you didn’t mind the reminder.
There's 21 of you on this "all Bucky" list, and I'm low-key overwhelmed by all the support! 💕
('';) On a mission gone sideways, Sam, Bucky, and you rescue a box of puppies — and somehow, the chaos brings unexpected warmth, comfort, and maybe even love
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The mission was supposed to be simple. In and out, no complications.
At least, that’s what Sam had promised.
You should have known better.
The three of you—Sam, Bucky, and you—were supposed to sweep an old Hydra storage facility tucked away in a quiet European village. Intelligence said there might be weapons left behind, or data Hydra hadn’t cleared out when they abandoned it. But after two hours of searching, all you had was dust, empty crates, and Bucky muttering under his breath about wasted time.
Until you heard it.
A sound, faint at first—so soft you almost thought you imagined it. A whimper.
You froze mid-step, holding up a hand. “Wait. Did you guys hear that?”
Sam frowned, glancing around. “Hear what? All I hear is Barnes complaining.”
Bucky glared. “I wasn’t—”
There it was again. Higher-pitched this time. A chorus of tiny yips.
Your heart squeezed. “That’s… that’s not a weapon. That’s a puppy.”
Bucky sighed, exasperated. “No, it’s probably a raccoon. Or some kind of—”
But when you pushed open the door to a small side room, there it was: a cardboard box. And inside? Four wriggling, squeaky, absolutely adorable puppies.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, kneeling down. They were tiny—maybe six weeks old, their fur patchy in places but their tails wagging furiously. One tried to climb out of the box and toppled right into your lap.
Sam let out a low whistle. “Well. That’s not what I expected to find.”
Bucky stared like he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. “This is a mission site, not a pet store.”
“Yeah, and these guys are hungry,” you shot back, stroking the little escape artist in your lap. The puppy immediately tried to chew your zipper. “Who just leaves them here?”
Sam crouched down, softer now. “Looks like someone dumped them. Poor things.”
The smallest puppy barked at him, stubby tail wagging, and Sam’s whole expression melted. “Okay, fine. He’s cute.”
Bucky crossed his arms. “We can’t take them with us. They’re loud. They’ll be a distraction.”
The second puppy barked right at him like it understood the insult. You snorted. “Looks like they disagree with you.”
Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is ridiculous.”
But twenty minutes later, ridiculous or not, you were walking out of the facility with Sam carrying the box, you carrying one particularly stubborn pup in your arms, and Bucky trailing behind, grumbling.
The quinjet was chaos.
You’d tried to set the puppies up with a blanket and a bowl of water, but they had other plans. One fell asleep on the pilot seat (Sam panicked when he almost sat on it). Another tried to chew through the seatbelt. The smallest decided Bucky’s metal arm was its new favorite toy, gnawing at the vibranium with tiny milk teeth.
Bucky just stared at it. “Why me?”
“Because he knows you’re the soft one,” you teased, nudging his shoulder.
“I am not—” The puppy yawned and licked his hand. Bucky froze. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t move it away.
Sam smirked. “Oh yeah. You’re definitely the soft one.”
The ride home was filled with puppy squeaks, your laughter, and Sam recording Bucky’s reluctant bonding for blackmail.
Back at the compound, it only got worse.
Natasha raised an eyebrow when she saw you walk in with the box. “Please tell me this is not a new mission recruit.”
Tony groaned. “Are you kidding me? You brought home puppies? This is not a daycare!”
But then one climbed out and waddled straight to him, pawing at his shoe. Tony sighed dramatically, but when he thought no one was looking, he picked it up.
By the end of the night, everyone had a favorite. Natasha claimed the feisty one. Wanda cuddled the shyest. Sam kept insisting he wasn’t attached but always had one following him. And Bucky?
You found him sitting on the couch with the smallest curled up in his lap, snoring softly. He was stroking its fur absentmindedly, his expression unusually peaceful.
“Soft one,” you whispered from the doorway.
He shot you a look, but it lacked heat. “Don’t start.”
You just grinned.
Weeks passed, and the compound turned into puppy paradise. Training schedules were adjusted for feeding times. Puppy-proofing became a full-team effort. You laughed more in those weeks than you had in months.
And Bucky? For all his protests, he was the worst offender. He built them a playpen. He researched the best food. He even let one nap on his chest during team briefings.
You couldn’t help but notice how gentle he was—how his whole face softened when he thought no one was watching. And how often that “no one” included you.
One night, you were sprawled on the couch, utterly exhausted. The puppies had been wild all day, and you’d finally gotten them to sleep in a pile of blankets. One, though—the smallest, your favorite—had wriggled out and nestled into your arms. You stroked its tiny head, eyelids drooping.
You didn’t realize you’d drifted off until you woke to warmth. A weight around your shoulders. A steady heartbeat under your cheek.
Bucky.
He was sitting beside you, the pup curled between you both, his arm draped protectively around you. He wasn’t asleep—he was watching you, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them.
You blinked groggily. “You stayed.”
“Someone had to make sure you didn’t drop him,” he murmured, voice low.
The little pup snuffled in its sleep, and you smiled. “You like this, don’t you? Pretending you don’t care, but really…”
Bucky didn’t answer right away. His hand shifted, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Maybe I don’t mind it as much as I thought.”
Your chest warmed. You leaned into him, the comfort of his arm and the puppy between you making the world feel lighter than it had in years.
And as you drifted back to sleep, you heard him whisper—so soft you almost missed it—
“Maybe I don’t mind you, either.”
The mission that started with weapons ended with wagging tails, puppy kisses, and something new blossoming between you and Bucky. Something soft. Something safe.
pairing: bucky barnes x stark!reader (Y/N)
word count: ~4k
summary: Y/N Stark was taken by Hydra at nine years old and experimented on — now she's back, powered, confident, and moving into Avengers Tower with a past no one quite understands. She shares a floor with Bucky Barnes, the quiet super soldier who trains her, teases her, and looks at her like she’s more than just a ghost from her father’s past. There’s no angst — just slow burn tension, found family, super speed reveals, rooftop heart-to-hearts, spicy training montages, and one very unforgettable Stark party.
warnings: canon-typical violence, spicy content (18+), mentions of past trauma (Hydra), suggestive language, emotional vulnerability, fluff, smut (clearly marked), soft!bucky, strong!Y/N, comfort
a/n: this one is for the girlies who love the classic avengers dynamic, protective men with metal arms, and casual girls with quiet strength. this is a no-angst zone <3
timeline: post-Ultron AU, everyone lives, everyone’s hot.
The Avengers had faced world-ending threats. Aliens. Armies. Interdimensional rips in time.
But somehow, nothing had ever shut them up quite like Tony Stark saying the words:
“She’s my daughter.”
It wasn’t a punchline.
He stood in the center of the common room, coffee in hand, jaw set just a little too tight.
“She was taken when she was nine. Hydra,” he said. “They used her to get to me. And I didn’t even know.”
The silence in the room was sharp. Uncomfortable.
“I found her six months ago. It took this long to… get her out. Fully. Legally. Safely. And now she’s coming here.”
“To live?” Steve asked gently.
“To stay,” Tony said. “If she wants to.”
Before anyone could process that, the elevator doors chimed.
And then—
She stepped in.
Y/N Stark didn’t walk into the room like someone being reintroduced to a world that forgot her. She walked in like she already knew everyone was looking and didn’t mind one bit.
Faded jeans. Converse with ink scribbled on the rubber. A cropped navy hoodie with “Stark Industries” printed in lowercase across the chest. Her duffel was slung over one shoulder, a beat-up set of wireless headphones hanging from her neck.
The first thing she said?
“So this is what happens when you ghost your dad for eleven years. He gets famous, builds a robot army, and moves in with Captain America.”
Sam cracked a smile.
Tony exhaled. “You’re late.”
“I’m not late,” she said, stepping further into the room. “You just started early.”
Then she stopped in front of him, dropped her bag to the floor, and looked him in the eyes.
Tony looked back.
A moment passed.
Then he opened his arms.
“Come here, kid.”
She didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second.
She walked right into him and let his arms close around her shoulders like they’d done this a hundred times before—even though they hadn’t. He held her like he wasn’t sure he’d ever get another chance. She didn’t cry. She didn’t freeze. She just leaned in and rested her chin against his shoulder and said, “You owe me like ten birthdays.”
“I owe you everything,” he muttered back.
When they pulled apart, Tony turned to the rest of the team like he was seeing them for the first time. “Everyone, this is Y/N. She’s funny, smarter than me, probably stronger than me, and knows how to pick a lock with a paperclip. Be nice.”
Thor was the first to approach, all broad shoulders and unshakeable friendliness. “You are much smaller than I expected.”
“And you’re taller,” she replied, “but only vertically.”
Thor blinked. Then let out a booming laugh. “I like her!”
“Same,” said Natasha, giving her an approving once-over. “You talk like him, but less annoying.”
“Give it time.”
Steve smiled, offering his hand. “Welcome to the Tower.”
Y/N took it. “Thanks. It’s a bit cleaner than Hydra’s decor.”
Silence.
She didn’t flinch. “Sorry. Was that too soon?”
“No,” Wanda said softly. “Not too soon. Just honest.”
Y/N gave her a real smile at that.
It wasn’t long before the group fell into easy conversation—Tony explaining her powers vaguely, Sam asking if she could fly (she couldn’t), and Bruce appearing from the lab just long enough to give her an awkward wave and say, “Glad you’re here.”
Only Bucky didn’t say anything.
He stood a little off to the side, arms crossed. Watching.
Y/N met his gaze once. Didn’t look away.
He didn’t either.
Later That Day – Floor 23
Y/N followed her dad through a private elevator with “Stark Access Only” engraved into the panel.
“I built this floor for you a while back,” Tony said, unlocking the door. “Before I even found you again. Just… in case.”
Y/N stepped inside. The suite was wide and open, warm wood floors and oversized windows spilling afternoon light across the couch and bookshelves. One hallway led to a bedroom. Another led to a second door.
“Who’s in there?” she asked.
Tony scratched the back of his neck. “Technically… your neighbor.”
“Technically?”
“You’re sharing the floor with Barnes.”
She turned to face him.
“You’re telling me that after eleven years in a Hydra lab, you’re putting me next door to the Winter Soldier?”
Tony held up both hands. “He’s different now.”
“So am I.”
“That’s why I think it might work.”
She stared at him.
“I’m not saying you have to like him,” Tony added. “But I trust you. And honestly? I think he could use someone who isn’t afraid of him.”
As if summoned by awkward timing, the other suite’s door opened.
Bucky Barnes stepped out. Hoodie. Sweats. Barefoot. He looked like someone who’d just woken up from a nightmare and found out he still had to be awake.
Y/N didn’t move.
Neither did he.
Tony gave them both a quick wave. “Alright. I’m gonna go back to the lab and pretend this isn’t the weirdest thing I’ve ever set up. Play nice, you two.”
The door closed behind him.
Y/N shifted her weight, casual but alert. “So… we’re roommates. That’s hilarious.”
Bucky crossed his arms. “Not roommates. Same floor. Two doors. Big difference.”
“Noted,” she said, stepping past him. “I call the good window.”
He said nothing. Just followed her with his eyes as she hauled her bag toward the bedroom.
When she opened the door and saw the soft lighting, the clean bed, the empty bookshelves—her chest ached in a way she didn’t show.
From behind her, Bucky said quietly, “You need help?”
She turned, eyebrow raised. “With what? Lifting emotional baggage?”
His lips twitched. Just barely.
“I’m good,” she added. “But thanks.”
And she meant it.
Y/N woke up to the muffled hum of the city far below, filtered through the massive windows of her new room. The sunlight spilled softly across the floor, illuminating the little mess she’d made unpacking. Her jeans were draped over a chair, the duffel bag left unzipped near the bed, and a half-empty bottle of water was perched on the nightstand next to an old Stark Industries baseball cap.
She was still adjusting to how… normal it felt.
That is, until the quiet ping from the intercom reminded her she wasn’t alone here.
“Good morning, Miss Stark. JARVIS is online and awaiting instructions.”
Y/N grinned, swinging her legs over the bed. “Hey, J. How long have you been waiting?”
“Since you last disconnected at approximately 3:42 a.m.”
She rolled her eyes. “Night owl, remember? Anyway, bring up my playlist and put on something chill. And maybe order some breakfast? You know, human things.”
“As you wish.”
For the first time in a long time, Y/N felt like she could breathe. She liked it. Not just the tech, the luxury, or even her dad’s presence. But the quiet acceptance of a place that didn’t feel like a cage.
Later that morning, after a breakfast JARVIS insisted was “balanced and Instagram-worthy,” she headed out of her room to explore.
She bumped right into Bucky Barnes in the hallway, arms full of random boxes—some labeled “Fragile,” others just scribbled “Y/N’s Stuff.”
“You again,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
He shrugged. “Thought you might want help.”
“Please.”
He smirked, setting the boxes down. “I’m kidding. Thought you’d say no.”
“I’m good,” she insisted, but he could see through it.
The truth was, she didn’t like asking for help. Hydra had taught her independence was survival. But here? She was learning to lower her walls.
Together, they moved the boxes into her room, and he stayed long enough to assemble a chair and hook up her gaming console.
“Don’t think I won’t destroy you at ‘Street Fighter,’” she warned.
He laughed softly, a sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m counting on it.”
That evening, the team gathered in the common room for their usual downtime. Steve was telling a story about the old days, and Thor was rummaging through the snack cabinet in search of Pop-Tarts.
Y/N sat near the edge, quietly observing, when Sam nudged her.
“You’re kinda quiet for a Stark.”
She smirked. “I’m just… sizing you all up. You’re weird.”
“Fair.”
Natasha gave a knowing look. “You’ll fit right in.”
“Only if I can steal your stuff in the fridge,” Y/N quipped, earning a small smile from Nat.
Bucky caught her eye from across the room and raised an eyebrow.
She shot back a teasing grin.
The comfortable banter was a new feeling for her. Like this strange, found family was exactly where she belonged—even if she wasn’t ready to say it aloud yet.
One afternoon, the Avengers were hanging out on the Tower’s rooftop garden, trying to enjoy a rare break. Steve and Bucky were reminiscing about missions past, Tony was tinkering with a gadget, and Wanda was quietly meditating near the flowers.
Y/N leaned against the railing, scrolling on her phone.
Suddenly, Steve threw out a challenge.
“Alright. Who thinks they’re fast enough to beat me and Barnes in a race?”
Bucky smirked. “You’re on, Cap.”
Tony looked over from his workbench. “This is gonna be good.”
The team quickly gathered at the starting line—a strip of rooftop lined with potted plants and benches.
Y/N stood to the side, arms crossed, amused.
“Don’t leave her out,” Sam said. “She looks fast.”
Steve glanced at her. “You wanna try?”
Y/N shrugged with a grin. “Why not? I’m already here.”
The countdown started.
“Ready?”
“Set?”
“Go!”
Before anyone could blink, Y/N was gone.
A blur of movement that left Steve and Bucky staring, mouths slightly open.
She was halfway to the finish line before Steve and Bucky had even taken their first strides.
“Is she—?”
“Faster.”
Y/N crossed the finish line, slowing to a casual walk as if she’d just taken a stroll.
Tony whooped from the sidelines. “That’s my kid!”
Steve and Bucky trailed behind, breathing hard, eyes wide.
“I didn’t see that coming,” Steve admitted, shaking his head.
Bucky wiped his brow. “Yeah… she’s faster than either of us.”
Y/N grinned, brushing a lock of hair from her face.
“You guys okay back there?”
Sam laughed. “You just beat two supersoldiers like they were standing still.”
Y/N shrugged. “Guess I’m not just a Stark.”
Wanda approached, impressed. “That was incredible.”
Y/N shrugged again, but the smile was soft.
No one knew the full extent of her powers yet.
But maybe, just maybe, they were starting to.
Y/N was starting to realize that living in Avengers Tower wasn’t nearly as chaotic as she expected. Or maybe she was just getting used to the chaos.
Her mornings were still slow, with JARVIS gently nudging her awake by dimming the lights and playing her favorite soft tracks. The AI had developed a knack for reading her moods—if she was cranky, JARVIS lowered the volume; if she was restless, he’d suggest a walk on the roof.
“Hey, J,” she said one afternoon as she sat cross-legged on her bed, scrolling through mission reports on her tablet. “You ever get tired of being perfect?”
“I do not experience fatigue in the human sense,” JARVIS replied smoothly. “But I do enjoy your sarcasm. It keeps things interesting.”
Y/N smiled. “Well, don’t get used to it.”
Later that day, she found herself wandering into the common room just as Bucky was finishing up his morning workout. He looked up, hair damp and muscles still moving from exertion.
“Hey,” she greeted, dropping onto the couch a little too casually.
He gave a tired smile. “Hey.”
For a moment, neither said anything. Then Y/N reached into her bag and pulled out a half-eaten granola bar.
“Want half?” she offered.
Bucky raised an eyebrow but didn’t refuse. “Sure.”
They shared the bar in comfortable silence.
“You don’t talk much,” Y/N observed.
“Depends on the day.”
She nodded. “Me too. Hydra taught me a lot about silence.”
“Yeah?”
“Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps you alive.”
Bucky looked at her then, really looked. “You’re different than I thought.”
“Different good or different bad?”
He smiled, small and genuine. “Different good.”
That night, she joined the group in the kitchen. Wanda and Natasha were debating the merits of spicy food versus comfort food.
“Natasha can’t cook,” Wanda said, rolling her eyes.
“She burns water,” Natasha shot back.
Y/N laughed. “Sounds like you’re in good company.”
Wanda looked over at Y/N. “You’re fitting in fast.”
“Only because I’m sneaky,” Y/N teased. “And because you guys are actually decent.”
Tony popped his head in, holding a tray of cookies.
“Try these. I’m taking credit for all of them.”
Y/N took a bite. “Not bad, old man.”
The warmth of the kitchen, the laughter, the mess—it was the first time in a long time Y/N felt like she could be herself without armor.
Later, she caught Bucky in the hallway.
“Training again?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “You wanna join?”
Y/N smirked. “You trying to show off?”
“Maybe.”
“Challenge accepted.”
As they moved to the training room, Y/N felt something shift. She wasn’t just Tony Stark’s daughter anymore. She was Y/N. Stronger. Ready.
Tony Stark throwing a party was a bit like a fireworks display — bright, loud, and impossible to ignore. And when the occasion was his daughter finally stepping back into the world he’d built, well, you knew the Tower would be overflowing with Avengers, allies, and anyone with a good excuse to sneak in.
Y/N stepped out of her room on Floor 23, already wondering if she could survive a night surrounded by Tony’s “friends” — people she mostly knew by reputation or by what her father had described in rushed phone calls that were more apologies than explanations.
The music was loud, the kind of pulsing, electric mix that made the floor vibrate under her boots. She felt a familiar zing of nerves but also a strange warmth, like maybe this was the kind of chaos she could get used to.
Tony was in full dad mode, wearing sunglasses indoors, holding a drink, and running around making sure everyone had what they needed.
“Y/N!” he called from the kitchen. “You made it. Come meet the important people who matter.”
She smirked. “You mean the people who kept your tech from self-destructing?”
He laughed, waving her over.
The crowd was a mix of familiar faces and new ones. Steve was charming someone near the buffet, Thor was explaining something about Pop-Tarts to an increasingly confused Sam, and Natasha was… well, Natasha was leaning against the wall, looking unimpressed but secretly enjoying herself.
Bucky stood near the edge of the room, arms crossed, eyes on Y/N like she was a flame he couldn’t quite look away from.
Y/N caught his gaze and gave a small, playful raise of her eyebrow.
Tony nudged her. “Go on. Say hi.”
She stepped forward and bumped into Sam, who grinned. “Hey, Y/N. Heard about your superspeed.”
Y/N shrugged. “It’s a good party trick.”
Thor suddenly approached, holding a plate stacked high with Pop-Tarts. “You must try. They are delicious.”
Y/N took one, bit it, and made a face. “Too sweet. I’m more of a black coffee and sarcasm kind of girl.”
The night rolled on in a haze of laughter and storytelling. Y/N found herself drawn to the quieter corners, and somehow that always seemed to lead back to Bucky.
Finally, the music shifted. A slow, steady beat filled the room.
Tony clapped his hands. “Alright, everyone! Dance time. And yes, Y/N, you have to dance. No excuses.”
Bucky’s eyes found Y/N again.
He took a step forward.
Y/N smirked but didn’t move away.
“Dance with me?” he asked quietly.
The room seemed to blur.
She nodded.
They moved to the center of the floor, the noise fading into the background.
Bucky’s hand found hers — steady, sure.
Y/N let herself relax against him.
For the first time since she arrived, she wasn’t the daughter of a genius billionaire. She was just Y/N.
And Bucky? He was more than the Winter Soldier. He was something soft and real.
The music slowed, and so did their breathing.
No words needed.
Just the quiet certainty of a dance, a glance, and the start of something new.
The party had settled into a hum of laughter and scattered conversations when Y/N found herself standing in front of Bucky’s door.
She hesitated for a heartbeat.
Then knocked.
Bucky opened it, his usual guarded expression softening the moment she stepped inside.
The room was dimly lit, personal, with photos pinned to the wall and a guitar resting in the corner.
Y/N glanced around and then up at him.
“Nice place,” she said, kicking off her boots.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s home.”
They settled onto the couch, not quite touching but close enough that silence felt natural.
“I’m glad you asked me to dance,” Y/N said after a moment.
Bucky’s eyes met hers. “Me too.”
They talked—slow, easy conversation about things neither usually said out loud.
Her voice softened when she spoke about Hydra, about being gone for so long.
He shared quiet stories about his past, about finding purpose again.
No pressure. No grand declarations. Just two people finally letting their walls down.
When Y/N leaned her head on his shoulder, Bucky didn’t pull away.
For once, the night was theirs. Then he kissed her like he’d been waiting — like every missed glance, every sparring match, every smirk had been building to this. She kissed back like she’d been searching for something and just found it. There was no hesitation anymore.
His hands slid slowly, reverently, around her waist, drawing her in until she could feel his heartbeat against her own. Her fingers found the edges of his shirt, tugging it upward, and he let her. Their mouths never left each other as the fabric disappeared piece by piece. Her hands roamed over his chest, feeling the heat of him, the scar tissue, the muscle — and he let out a quiet groan against her neck that made her heart stutter.
She whispered his name and he froze, forehead pressed to hers. “Tell me to stop,” he rasped, voice strained.
“I won’t,” she breathed. “Don’t even think about it.”
And that was all it took. He kissed her again, harder this time, walking her back until she hit the mattress and fell into it with a soft thud. He followed, his body blanketing hers with warmth and tension and need. Every movement was deliberate, every touch a conversation. There was a tenderness in the way he peeled away her layers, kissing the skin he uncovered, trailing his lips along her collarbone, her shoulder, her chest — and when her shirt was gone, he just stared for a second, eyes soft and hungry all at once.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, barely a whisper.
She pulled him down by the necklace at his throat. “Then do something about it.”
They moved together like it had always been inevitable — months of tension unraveling all at once. He took his time, mapping her body with hands that had only known violence and now wanted to memorize softness. She arched into him, breath hitching, head thrown back, and the way he looked at her made her feel like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
When he finally pushed into her, slow and deep, she gasped his name. He kissed her temple, her jaw, her lips — every part of her he could reach — while they found a rhythm that felt like coming home. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t clumsy. It was honest, raw, and overwhelming in the best way. Her nails dragged across his back, his grip tightened on her thigh, and their bodies moved like they’d done this a hundred times in dreams.
And when she came undone beneath him, head buried in his shoulder, he wasn’t far behind, whispering her name like a prayer.
They lay tangled in the sheets afterward, chests heaving, slick with sweat and barely touching because it was too much and not enough.
He pulled her against him, pressing a kiss to her hair. “You okay?”
She looked up, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. “More than okay. You?”
He smiled — a real one, rare and warm. “Yeah. You ruined me.”
She laughed softly, burying her face in his chest. “Good.”
The next morning, the training room buzzed with energy.
Y/N was already warming up when Bucky walked in, a determined look on his face.
“Ready to get your ass kicked?” he teased.
“Oh, you’re on,” Y/N replied with a grin.
What followed was an intense, breathless hour of drills, sparring, and sprinting.
Bucky was relentless, pushing her to her limits.
Y/N matched him move for move, her powers giving her an edge, but Bucky’s experience kept her honest.
They laughed through the exhaustion, exchanged sharp jabs of sarcasm, and shared those fleeting glances that meant more than words.
At one point, Y/N surprised him by pulling off a move he hadn’t seen coming.
He shook his head, impressed. “Okay, Stark. You’re full of surprises.”
She smirked, wiping sweat from her brow. “You have no idea.”
By the end, they were both dripping, breathless, but the atmosphere was electric.
They’d tested boundaries—not just physical, but emotional.
And neither wanted to stop.
In the days that followed, Y/N’s presence became a new constant.
She joined Natasha and Wanda for late-night strategy talks, offering sharp insights and a steady voice.
With Steve and Sam, she ran drills and shared stories from her years in hiding, slowly earning their respect.
Tony hovered in the background, proud but trying not to smother.
JARVIS was her unofficial partner in crime, managing everything from playlist curation to subtle tech pranks.
Bucky found himself often at her side, whether it was cooking disasters in the kitchen (courtesy of Natasha’s famous inability to cook) or quiet walks on the rooftop.
During one particular evening, Y/N and Bucky caught Thor debating the merits of Pop-Tarts versus pancakes in the dining hall.
“Pancakes are fluffier,” Y/N argued, crossing her arms.
“But Pop-Tarts are eternal,” Thor insisted, brandishing a tart like a weapon.
Bucky chuckled. “I’ll take the fluff, thanks.”
The team laughed together, sharing moments that weren’t about missions or powers but about being a family.
Y/N realized that even after everything she’d been through, this—these people—were her home now.
Bucky Barnes wasn’t exactly the type to get excited about grocery shopping.
In fact, if it weren’t for you, he’d be more than content to order takeout or let Steve handle all the household chores.
But he couldn’t deny that there was something about these trips that made him feel a little more grounded. It was one of those small things that gave him a sense of normalcy, even if the world outside felt anything but.
You, on the other hand, loved it. Grocery shopping was your weekly adventure. The aisles were a playground, and every ingredient was a new opportunity for something delicious.
Your infectious smile and bright laughter echoed throughout the store, making Bucky’s heart ache in the best way.
He loved how your eyes lit up over the simplest things, how you saw the world through rose-colored glasses even when it wasn’t easy to.
Bucky was always a few steps behind you, the cart clutched tightly in his metal hand, rolling steadily as you scurried off to the next aisle. He was your quiet protector, keeping a safe distance but always there when you needed him.
You were in your element, picking out ingredients for the week’s meals, humming along to the music playing faintly over the store intercom.
He was used to seeing you happy, but there was something about the way you twirled in place as a song with an upbeat rhythm played, your feet moving in time with the music, your arms swinging loosely at your sides.
It wasn’t anything too flashy—just a little skip in your step, the way you tilted your head with a soft smile as if the music was all that mattered in the world.
And Bucky, though he tried to hide it, couldn’t stop the smile from tugging at his lips.
It wasn’t the first time you’d danced in public like that, but each time it felt like it was the first time, each time felt like he was seeing you for the first time, all bright and bubbly.
The contrast between your carefree spirit and his stoic presence was something he cherished. You balanced him out in ways he didn’t know were possible, pulling him into a world where he didn’t have to carry the weight of his past every single day.
You were the light in his life, and he wouldn’t change a thing.
As you twirled back around to grab a few cans from the shelf, Bucky’s gaze shifted briefly to the man standing a few feet away.
At first, he didn’t think much of it. But as the seconds ticked by, he noticed the way the man’s eyes were lingering—way too long—on you. His gaze was intense, almost predatory.
Bucky's jaw tightened. A low groan rumbled in his chest, and without even thinking about it, he subtly took a step forward, his body tense and protective. His eyes, cold and hard, locked onto the man’s.
It took the stranger a moment to realize he was being watched, and when he did, the color drained from his face. The man looked away quickly, retreating to another aisle as if the weight of Bucky’s stare had physically shoved him backward.
You were too caught up in picking out the perfect bag of carrots to notice what had just happened. Bucky couldn’t help but admire how unaware you were of how people looked at you.
He was used to being the one who was aware of everything—every potential threat, every movement in his peripheral vision—but you? You just lived in the moment, free and joyful, completely unaware of the way people stared or made assumptions.
He wouldn’t change that about you for the world.
“Bucky?” Your voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He blinked, his gaze softening as he met your eyes. “You okay?”
He gave a small nod, the corners of his lips lifting in a faint smile. “Yeah, just… making sure you're safe.”
You grinned at him, the brightness in your expression not dimming for a second. “Oh, I’m fine! Nothing to worry about.”
He didn’t respond, but the truth was, he couldn’t stop worrying about you. He couldn’t stop wanting to keep you safe from everything and everyone.
You deserved to live your life with that same carefree energy, knowing nothing could hurt you.
You reached up to grab a bottle of olive oil from the top shelf and glanced back at him, a mischievous glint in your eye. “So, we’re doing pasta tonight, right?”
He nodded again, pushing the cart forward as you led him to the next aisle, your hands full of jars and boxes.
You were already planning out the meal in your mind, chattering about the recipe like it was the most exciting thing in the world.
“Spaghetti, garlic bread, maybe a little salad?” you asked, your voice filled with that innocent excitement he loved so much.
“Sounds good,” Bucky replied, his attention once again diverted as he watched you carefully.
His eyes were always on you, always guarding you, and it was moments like this—simple moments—that made him feel like maybe he could give you something resembling normalcy.
And as you continued to fill the cart with ingredients, humming contentedly, he couldn’t help but feel a quiet satisfaction that you felt safe with him, that you trusted him to protect you without hesitation.
You were the best thing that had ever happened to him. And no matter what, he’d always make sure you knew that.
Later, as you both stood in line to pay, you nudged him with your elbow, grinning as the song playing over the intercom switched to something slow and romantic.
You looked up at him, teasing. “What do you think? Should we have a slow dance right here in the store?”
Bucky chuckled, a soft, amused sound that sent warmth through your chest. “I think people might start talking.”
“I don’t care,” you teased back, but the moment your eyes met his, something passed between the two of you—something deeper than just playfulness. There was a quiet understanding. “I love you, you know that?”
His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, everything felt right in the world. “I love you too, more than you’ll ever know.”
And maybe it was silly, dancing in the middle of the grocery store like that. But it didn’t matter. Because in that moment, it was just the two of you—and nothing else in the world could touch the happiness you shared.
a/n: I’m this close to ordering a Bucky body pillow y’all 😧💀
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (Avengers Doctor!Reader) SFW
Genre: Soft Slow-Burn, Flirting, Tension, Emotional Recovery, Hints of Romance
Summary: Being assigned to monitor Bucky Barnes’ recovery wasn’t supposed to affect you. But then again… you hadn’t seen the way he reattaches his arm.
Working with the Winter Soldier was supposed to be a career-defining moment.
You were the Avengers’ lead medical specialist—trusted to patch up wounds, assess injuries, and quietly observe from behind glass. You never expected to be placed on personal watch. But when James Buchanan Barnes was brought in, recovering from Hydra’s grip and his fractured past, everything changed.
It had been about a month now. You were tracking both his physical recovery and psychological stability, reporting closely to Steve and Natasha, and checking in daily. He was doing well—faster than expected. But there were still moments where his stare lingered too long on shadows, where his reactions flinched too sharply.
That’s why you were currently standing in your office above the training floor, watching him spar with Steve through the reinforced window.
He was fighting without his metal arm today—at your request.
You needed to see how he coped without it. Whether the muscle memory of the Winter Soldier kicked in… or if he was just a man defending himself. So far, he was holding his own. You made a note of it, fingers tapping at your tablet.
The match ended with Steve giving him a pat on the back. Bucky gave a breathless nod, walking over to the bench where his arm rested.
And then he did it.
In one fluid, practiced motion, Bucky grabbed the prosthetic by the bicep, swung it smoothly around his back, and locked it into place on his shoulder with a solid click.
Your knees went a little weak.
You had no business reacting like that, but the grace, the confidence in the motion—it did something. You swallowed thickly, heart skipping as you shifted your weight.
“You good, Doc?”
A voice behind you. You jumped.
Natasha stood leaning against your office doorway, arms crossed and smirking knowingly.
“I’m fine,” you said a little too fast, “I’m fine”
Nat’s eyes glinted. “Uh huh.” She looked through the glass toward the gym. “Might want to sit down next time. Just in case he really turns on the charm.”
You blinked at her, mouth slightly open.
With a teasing wink, she turned and walked away, leaving you pink-faced and flustered.
You looked back down to the gym—just in time to see Bucky glancing up at your window.
He caught your gaze and offered a little wave before toweling off and heading for the water dispenser.
You sighed and sank into your chair, rubbing your temples. Five minutes. That’s how long you had before he came upstairs for his post-session evaluation.
Spinning slowly in your chair, you pulled up his file and glanced at his photo.
You are a professional. You are not allowed to be affected by sharp jaws or broad shoulders or perfect goddamn eye contact.
Another sigh. You opened a new report and began typing your observations, noting stamina, coordination, emotional stability, restraint.
Just as you hit “Save,” a knock echoed on the door.
Right on schedule.
“Hey, Doc,” Bucky greeted as he stepped inside like he owned the place. He perched on the edge of your desk without waiting for permission, towel still around his neck, his dark hair damp with sweat.
“So,” he said, plucking a stress ball off your desk and giving it a squeeze, “I heard I’m more dangerous off the field than on it.”
You froze, blinking at your screen.
Your gaze flickered to him—only for a second—before returning to the monitor.
“And whom have you heard this from, Mr. Barnes?” you asked evenly.
He shrugged, still fiddling with the stress ball like it didn’t look like he was flexing on purpose. “Y’know. Words go around. Some redheads whisper things. And apparently… someone’s been a little distracted by my moves.”
Your brow arched. “Mr. Barnes, I’m concerned about your recovery, not your choreography. I should hope you understand I am strictly professional. Everything I do is for your health and safety.”
You stood, grabbing a stack of papers and aligning them neatly with a few taps on the desk before stapling them. A nice distraction.
But when you looked up, he was still staring at you with that maddeningly soft, amused expression.
“You sure you’re not secretly impressed, Doc?” he asked with a lazy smirk.
Your cheeks warmed. You turned quickly, walking over to the file cabinet.
“I see you’ve been making steady progress,” you said curtly, filing away the report. “Although I may have to keep you under observation longer if you keep imagining things. Hallucinations are rarely a sign of good mental health.”
You shut the drawer firmly and walked past him toward the door, trying to keep your voice level.
“Please excuse me, Mr. Barnes. I need caffeine.”
⸻
Coffee in hand, you returned ten minutes later, still trying to shake off the heat in your face. You pushed open your office door, half-prepping your next report in your head—until something shifted in the corner of your eye.
You flinched.
“Jesus Christ, Buck— Mr. Barnes,” you gasped, hand over your chest. “I thought you’d left. What are you still doing here?”
He didn’t turn. Still facing your wall calendar.
“Hey Doc,” he said casually, “you’re free Tuesday night, right?”
You raised a brow, stepping around him to place your coffee on your desk. “Why do you ask?”
He looked over his shoulder at you, and there it was again—that smile. Soft. Sweet. Completely unfair.
“I’ve got tickets to a new exhibition,” he said. “But I’m gonna look real lonely if I don’t have a date.”
You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “This isn’t the 1940s, Mr. Barnes. People go alone all the time.”
He spun around and walked toward you with quiet determination, like a man on a mission.
Before you could say a word, he gently—so gently—lifted your chin with his fingertips. His touch was barely there, but it was enough to stop time.
“One night,” he murmured. “I promise it’ll be worth it. I’ll make it worth your time.”
Your breath caught. You stared at him, trying to muster some kind of resistance. Anything.
But your heart was already pounding in your ears.
You cleared your throat and stepped away, brushing invisible lint off your sleeve.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” you said, focusing very intently on your coffee cup. “I’ll be attending for medical purposes, of course.”
You walked briskly back behind your desk. “If that’s all, Mr. Barnes, you may leave. I’m quite busy.”
He chuckled lowly, clearly enjoying himself. He made it to the door, hand on the handle, then glanced back with a grin that could only be described as smug.
“I’ll pick you up at 6:30.”
Then he slipped out, the door clicking shut behind him.
You sat in stunned silence.
And then leaned back slowly in your chair, hands over your face as your heart thudded against your ribs.
