Reader who is terrified of men from a past trauma. Maybe she’s known to flinch when someone gets too close, doesn’t make eye contact, avoids being left alone in the same room…anything really
and Bucky yearning to be her safe place
Maybe he tries to love her softly, making sure no one ever gets too close or always announces his presence so he’s not sneaking up on her, speaks softly whenever she’s around, could leave little notes for her…He’s basically just screaming internally, I’m here nothing will happen
Thank you!
You don’t mean to freeze.
You don’t mean to flinch.
It just happens—like some dusty reflex wired into your ribs, snapping tight the second someone steps too close or a voice cuts too sharp or a shadow moves in the corner of a room.
Trauma is funny like that.
It stays even when you don’t want it to.
Most people on the team don’t know what to do with it—with you. They either pretend not to notice or they overcorrect, talking too loudly or too brightly or treating you like fragile glass.
But not Bucky.
Bucky… he treats you like something holy.
He always has.
He’s the one who clears his throat before he enters a room—not loud, never loud—just enough that you know it’s him. The one who makes sure his boots scrape the floor, announces his distance with gentle sound so you’re never startled. The one who angles his body away when he sees your shoulders lock, keeping a careful space between you even when every cell in his body aches to be close.
Because yes—he aches.
Yearns.
Burns quietly for you in ways he doesn’t let himself touch. Not when you flinch at proximity. Not when fear tightens your breath around men who move too fast, talk too deep, take up too much space.
So he makes himself small. Soft. Safe.
You notice—slowly, at first—that he never walks behind you.
He always moves to your side, or steps in front where you can see him.
You notice that when meetings get crowded, he subtly shifts his chair closer to yours—a shield made of muscle and intention—to block anyone from brushing too near.
You notice the notes too.
Left where he knows you’ll find them.
Back in twenty minutes—don’t worry, doll, it’s just me walking through that door later.
Didn’t want to startle you—I moved your files to the left side of your desk.
If you need someone in the room with you, just text me. No pressure, only if you want.
He signs them with a little doodle of a star.
He thinks you don’t know that’s supposed to make you smile.
And it does.
It really does.
But the hardest thing—the thing that twists warmth into something unsteady—is the way he talks to you.
Not like you’re broken.
Not like you’re fragile.
But like you’re someone deserving of tenderness. Like softness is your default setting, not something you have to earn.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he’ll murmur, voice low and unthreatening, like warm honey on toast.
“You okay if I sit here?” he asks every single time, even after months of you sharing the same couch in the common room.
“You doing alright?”
Not what’s wrong with you?
Not why can’t you just relax?
Just simple, present, grounding.
And you, you don’t know how to handle that.
Because you’re used to men who didn’t move softly.
Men whose footsteps meant danger instead of comfort.
Men who taught your body—your bones—to brace before your mind even caught up.
Yet Bucky…
Bucky never pushes.
Never rushes.
Never assumes.
It’s late one evening when something in you finally cracks open enough to let him see a sliver more.
You’re sitting alone in the common room, curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket clutched around your knees. The building groans—old pipes, shifting metal—and the sound spikes your heart rate instantly.
Before fear can swallow you whole, you hear a quiet knock against the doorframe.
“Hey,” Bucky says gently. “It’s just me.”
Just me.
As if he isn’t the only man you’ve ever met who has never set off your alarms.
“Mind if I come in?”
You shake your head before you can overthink it.
He enters slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind. He sits on the far end of the couch, angled so you don’t feel caged in, posture open and careful.
You exhale.
Long. Unsteady.
He notices instantly—of course he does—and his voice softens further.
“You okay?”
Your throat tightens. “Just… jumpy. The pipes made a sound and I—”
You swallow. “It’s stupid.”
His brows pull together. Not pity. Not frustration. Something gentler. Something protective.
“It’s not stupid,” he murmurs. “Your body learned to protect you. Nothing wrong with that.”
You look at him then—really look—and you’re startled by what’s there.
Not fear.
Not impatience.
Not discomfort.
Just yearning.
And something deeper. Something like devotion.
“Bucky…” you whisper, unsure what you’re apologizing for.
He shakes his head. “You don’t need to force yourself to trust me, you know. You take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
You blink, because no one’s ever said that to you. Not like that. Not with that certainty. That quiet vow tucked into every word.
Your fingers twist in the blanket. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.”
His breath catches—barely, but enough.
“Yeah?” he asks, voice roughened by something warm, something hopeful.
You nod.
“I feel… safe. With you.”
Bucky goes still.
Not frozen necessarily, just… still, like a man trying not to break apart from the inside.
His voice comes out low. Unsteady.
“You have no idea what that means to me, doll.”
You swallow. You can feel it creeping in—the warmth, the strange fluttering pull toward him. It feels dangerous in a way that isn’t fear. It feels like stepping into sunlight after years underground.
“Can I sit a little closer?” he asks quietly. “You don’t have to say yes.”
You hesitate—but not because you’re afraid.
You hesitate because you’ve never wanted closeness before.
You nod anyway.
He shifts only a few inches—nothing overwhelming—and he waits, watching your shoulders, your breathing, every sign that you’re okay.
And you are.
For once—you really are.
His voice is barely above a whisper.
“I’m here,” he murmurs. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you while I’m around. Ever.”
You don’t flinch.
You don’t look away.
You just breathe.
Steady. Soft. Safe.
And for the first time in a long, long time—
you let yourself believe him.
~P1Harmony Reaction to you getting comfortable arround them~
pairing: P1Harmony x reader
warnings: none really hahaha, some fluff, reader being herself, boys being supportive
disclaimer: not my pic!
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So this idea popped into my head and i immediately had to write it down! I hope you guys love iiitttt
Btw. burping, pooping, farting, having hairs and periods are completely normal! We may be women but we are also humans so if some toxic ass guy or girl has a problem with you being a human being....BURP INTO THEIR FACES
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✫Keeho✫
You sat cross-legged on the living room floor, the coffee table between you and Keeho completely conquered by fried chicken boxes, napkins, and two sweating cans of soda. The room smelled like grease and comfort. Keeho leaned back against the couch, one arm draped lazily over the cushion, the other hand already reaching for another piece like he had no intention of stopping anytime soon.
“This is elite,” he said, nodding at the chicken like it had personally earned his respect. “Whoever invented this deserves a medal.”
You laughed and took another sip of soda, the carbonation sharp and cold. You felt relaxed. Too relaxed, maybe. The kind of relaxed where your body stopped caring about timing or decorum.
It happened before you could stop it.
A loud, unmistakable burp escaped you, echoing just enough to make its presence known.
Everything froze.
Keeho’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth. His chewing slowed, then stopped entirely. His eyes widened just a little as he slowly turned his head to look at you, like his brain needed a second to reboot.
The room went quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge.
You met his stare, completely unfazed. You just shrugged, lips pressing together to keep from smiling.
For half a second, he looked genuinely stunned. Then his face cracked.
He laughed. Not a polite chuckle or a controlled laugh. He bent forward, shoulders shaking, one hand braced on his knee while the other still held the forgotten piece of chicken.
“Wow” he said between laughs. “That was one majestic Burp”
You grinned, wiping your fingers on a napkin. “Yeah.”
Keeho laughed even harder, tipping his head back this time. “I have never heard you burp before. Not once. Ever.”
“Well,” you said casually, grabbing another piece of chicken, “there’s a first time for everything.”
He stared at you with a wide smile, eyes bright with amusement. “I feel like I just unlocked a secret level.”
You chewed, swallowed, then looked at him with a playful glint in your eyes. “I had to make sure you were the right one,” you said. “Now I can be my true self.”
That set him off again.
“Oh my God,” he said, laughing so hard he had to set the chicken down. “So this whole time you were holding it in? For me?”
You nodded solemnly. “Great sacrifice.”
Keeho pressed a hand to his chest dramatically. “I’m honored. Truly.”
He looked at you again, really looked this time, like he was seeing something new and precious. Not shocking. Not embarrassing. Just real.
“You know,” he said, voice softer now, “this is actually kind of amazing.”
You raised an eyebrow. “The burp?”
“No,” he said. “The fact that you’re comfortable. Like… fully comfortable.”
You felt warmth spread through your chest. “You don’t think it’s gross?”
He scoffed. “Please. I live with five dudes. This is nothing.”
You laughed, leaning closer to him. He bumped his shoulder against yours, easy and familiar.
“Honestly,” he added, grabbing his soda again, “this makes me like you even more.”
“Oh yeah?” you teased. “You say that now.”
He smirked. “I mean it. No performance. No pretending to be perfect. Just fried chicken, soda, and accidental sound effects.”
You took another sip of soda, eyes locked on him. “Careful,” you said. “There might be more where that came from.”
Keeho grinned back, fearless. “Bring it on. I think I can handle the real you.”
The night went on with grease-stained fingers, shared laughter, and zero pressure to be anything other than exactly who you were.
✫Theo✫
The sports bar buzzed like a live wire. TVs lined the walls, all tuned to the same soccer match, the crowd rising and falling with every near miss. You and Theo sat shoulder to shoulder in a booth sticky with spilled beer and history, wings and fries littering the table like evidence of commitment.
Theo leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on the screen. His jaw tightened when his team fumbled an easy pass.
“Come on,” he muttered. “What was that?”
You laughed and took a sip of your beer, watching him more than the game. You liked this side of him. Focused. Passionate. Just a little dramatic.
Then his team missed an open shot.
Theo groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Ah, damn it. You have to take that shot. You can’t hesitate like that.”
That was your cue.
Something snapped loose in you, like a valve finally turning.
"Oh what the actual Fuck? Those Bastards couldn't even hit the goal when it's shoved into their hairy asses! For fucks sake!"
By the time you finished, the table behind you had gone quiet.
Theo had frozen mid-reach for his beer.
He stared at you, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, like he had just watched a plot twist he was not emotionally prepared for.
You turned to him, calm as ever, and lifted your empty bottle. “Do you want another beer?”
He blinked once. Then twice.
Then he chuckled, low and surprised, shaking his head as he leaned back against the booth. “Wow,” he said. “Okay. Where did all that filth come from?”
You laughed, shoulders relaxing now that it was out. “Years of watching bad games.”
Theo kept smiling, still processing. “You know,” he said slowly, “you’ve never talked like that in front of me. Not even once.”
You nodded. “I know.”
He tilted his head, studying you, curiosity bright in his eyes. “Why not?”
You shrugged, easy. “I wanted to see if you could manage me being myself.”
That did it.
Theo’s grin spread slow and genuine, like sunrise after a long night game. “Is that what this is?” he asked. “The unfiltered edition?”
“Pretty much,” you said. You glanced at him, suddenly a little more aware. “Is that a problem?”
Theo laughed, a real laugh, warm and full. He reached for his beer and took a long sip, eyes never leaving you. “A problem?” he repeated. “No. Not even close.”
You raised an eyebrow.
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to feel personal despite the noise around you. “I actually think it’s pretty hot.”
You laughed, surprised, heat creeping up your neck. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “I like that you care. I like that you’re passionate. And honestly? Hearing you go off like that made the game way more entertaining.”
On screen, the crowd roared again. Theo’s team finally scored.
He pumped his fist, then looked back at you, eyes sparkling. “See? Maybe they just needed your energy.”
You clinked your new beers together, smiling wide. “Anytime.”
The game went on, louder, messier, more fun than before. And for the first time, you didn’t hold anything back. Neither did he.
✫Jiung✫
You had already decided the world was not getting you today.
Your cramps were cruel, your patience was gone, and you had dressed accordingly. A huge shirt that might once have belonged to someone else hung off your shoulders. Your pants were equally oversized, soft and forgiving. Your hair did whatever it wanted, which was mostly defy gravity. You stood in your living room chewing on a snack you did not remember opening, eyes half-focused on a reality show playing on the TV.
Then the doorbell rang.
You froze.
No. Absolutely not.
It rang again.
Muttering curses under your breath, you shuffled to the door and yanked it open without thinking.
Jiung stood there with two bags of food in his hands and the softest smile on his face. The smile lasted exactly one second.
He froze.
His eyes flicked over you. The clothes. The hair. The chewing. The unmistakable aura of someone who was not prepared to be perceived.
You scowled at him. “What the fuck, Jiung? You can’t just show up like that.”
He blinked, then laughed quietly, clearly trying not to. “Well hello to you too.”
“I look like a dumpster fire,” you snapped, taking another aggressive bite of your snack. “You were supposed to text.”
“I did,” he said gently. “You didn’t answer.”
You groaned and stepped aside anyway. “Whatever. You’re already here. Come in before I change my mind.”
He stepped inside, eyes still warm, still amused, like none of this scared him off. He set the food bags down on the table carefully, like an offering, and you immediately felt a little less hostile.
Your reality show continued blaring in the background. Someone was dramatically accusing someone else of betrayal.
Jiung glanced at the screen, then back at you, grin widening. “Wow,” he said. “So this is your true self.”
You scoffed. “Absolutely not. This is my period self. Very important distinction.”
He laughed, shoulders shaking as he kicked his shoes off. “Ah. That explains the vibe.”
“The vibe?” you repeated. “I’m in pain, I’m bloated, and I will bite if provoked.”
“Noted,” he said, still smiling. “I brought food as a peace offering.”
You eyed the bags. “Good choice.”
He watched you shuffle back to the couch, curl up with zero grace, and immediately resume chewing like he had never interrupted you. Instead of judging, he sat beside you, close but not crowding, like he instinctively knew.
“You know,” he said after a moment, “I kind of like this.”
You paused mid-chew and looked at him. “You like… this?” You gestured vaguely at yourself. “Be specific.”
He nodded. “Yeah. This.”
You frowned. “That’s weird.”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “But it’s real. You’re not trying. You’re just existing.”
You looked away, suddenly shy. “I didn’t exactly plan for you to see me like this.”
He leaned closer, voice soft. “I know.”
Before you could respond, he cupped your face gently and kissed you. It was slow, careful, like he was grounding you instead of taking anything from you.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “It’s different,” he said honestly. “But you’re still the most beautiful person I know.”
Your eyes widened. “You’re serious?”
He smiled. “Completely.”
You huffed, leaning into him despite yourself. “You’re lucky you brought food.”
He laughed, wrapping an arm around you. “I came prepared.”
The reality show kept playing, the world stayed outside, and for the rest of the day, you let yourself be exactly as you were.
✫Intak✫
Intak was already in bed when you finished up in the bathroom, propped against the pillows with his phone discarded somewhere near his hip. The lamp cast a warm, lazy glow across the room. He kept glancing toward the door, anticipation written all over his face. You always wore something cute to bed. Soft pastel pajamas, matching sets, sometimes lingerie that made his brain short-circuit. He was fully expecting another one of those nights.
The door opened.
You shuffled in slowly, one hand holding your stomach, the other pushing the door closed behind you.
You wore one of his shirts, old and stretched and hanging almost to your thighs. Under it were a pair of clearly ancient boxer shorts, faded and soft and very loved. Your hair was loose and messy, your face relaxed in a way that said you had stopped performing for the day.
Intak blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“…Huh?” he said.
You groaned softly and rubbed your stomach. “My stomach is protesting against dinner,” you said. “Violently.”
He sat up a little, eyes flicking over you again like he needed to reprocess the image. “Where did you get those clothes?”
You shrugged and padded toward the bed. “Your drawer. I always wear this stuff to bed.”
He frowned, confused. “Always?”
You nodded like it was obvious and carefully climbed onto the mattress. “Yeah.”
He glanced at the shirt, then the boxers, then back at you. “But… what about your cute pajamas? And the lingerie?”
You chuckled, easing yourself down on your side. “Intak,” you said gently, “do you really think all women get dolled up just to sleep?”
He hesitated, then laughed a little, embarrassed. “I mean… kind of?”
You shook your head, smiling. “You're cute.”
You settled in beside him, tugging the blanket up. He shifted closer almost immediately, instincts winning, and wrapped an arm around you. His body relaxed against yours, like he fit there naturally no matter what you wore.
“You’re still pretty,” he said quietly, almost like he needed to say it out loud.
You glanced at him. “That was fast.”
“I mean it,” he insisted. “Just… different.”
You hummed, not arguing, and rested your head against his chest. After a moment, his hand started moving, gentle and warm, rubbing small circles over your stomach like he was trying to soothe it away.
You stiffened slightly. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.”
He froze instantly. “Oh. Sorry. Did it hurt?”
“No,” you said quickly. “It just makes things worse....like way worse”
He pulled his hand back immediately, a grin flashing across his face. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“You're very welcome,” you said with a smirk, relaxing again.
He adjusted his arm so it rested safely around your waist instead, careful now. “I guess I had this image in my head,” he admitted. “Like… you always being cute and put together.”
You snorted softly. “That sounds exhausting.”
“Yeah,” he said, smiling into your hair. “This looks way more comfortable.”
“It is.”
He squeezed you gently, cheek resting against the top of your head. “I kind of like knowing this version of you,” he said. “Feels… real.”
You closed your eyes, stomach still aching but heart warm. “Good,” you murmured. “Because this version shows up a lot.”
He laughed quietly. “Then I’ll be ready.”
The room settled into silence, soft and safe, the excitement replaced by something steadier. You fell asleep like that, wrapped in old clothes, gentle honesty, and the kind of closeness that did not need to impress.
✫Soul✫
Soul sat on the couch with one leg tucked under the other, the TV on but clearly not holding his attention. The room was quiet, lights low, the kind of evening that felt like it was waiting for something to settle into place. He glanced at the door every so often, calm but expectant.
When you finally joined him, you did not make a big entrance. You wore shorts and a tank top, simple and soft, skin warm from the day. Without saying much, you stepped closer and immediately cuddled up to him, curling against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He adjusted easily, slipping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in. His presence was steady, grounding. You rested your head against his chest, listening to his breathing slow as the moment softened.
After a while, his hand slid down from your arm and across your bare legs, absentminded at first. Then he paused.
His fingers brushed again, slower this time, and he let out a quiet chuckle.
You looked up at him. “What?”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes thoughtful but amused. “Your legs are fuzzy,” he said, not accusing, just observant.
You blinked once, then shrugged. “Yeah. I didn’t feel like shaving tonight.”
He smiled. Not wide. Just a small, genuine curve of his lips. He nodded like that explanation made perfect sense. “Okay.”
There was no awkwardness. No hesitation. He brushed his hand over your legs again, deliberately this time, like he was confirming something rather than avoiding it.
“I like it,” he said simply. “You feel good.”
The words landed softly but firmly, without exaggeration or teasing. Just truth, offered as it was.
Your chest warmed at his response, a quiet happiness blooming where insecurity could have been. You smiled, shifting closer, legs tangling with his without a second thought.
“Really?” you asked, even though his tone had already answered.
He nodded again. “Yeah.”
You leaned up and kissed him, gentle and unhurried. He met you halfway, lips warm, familiar. It was not rushed or intense. Just affectionate, like punctuation at the end of a comfortable sentence.
When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours for a moment, eyes half-lidded. His hand stayed where it was, relaxed and certain, like nothing about you needed adjusting.
You settled back into him, body loose, content. The TV continued playing something neither of you were really watching. Outside, the world moved on, loud and demanding, but in the quiet of the living room, you felt entirely at ease.
Soul’s arm tightened slightly around you, protective without being possessive. His thumb traced slow, thoughtless patterns against your skin, no judgment, no expectation.
You realized then how rare that feeling was. To be touched without needing to be polished. To be wanted without conditions.
You stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up together, fuzzy legs and all, the kind of closeness that did not need to announce itself. Just real, quiet, and good.
✫Jongseob✫
The doorbell rang just as Jongseob finished clearing space on the table. He glanced at the clock, then at you. “That was fast,” he said, standing up to grab the delivery.
When he came back, his steps slowed.
There were bags. A lot of bags.
He set them down one by one, eyes widening slightly as containers kept appearing. “Wait,” he said carefully. “I think they made a mistake.”
You leaned over from the couch, peeking inside, then shook your head proudly. “Nope. That’s on purpose.”
He looked at you again, eyebrows lifting. “You ordered all of this?”
You nodded. “I added a few things.”
“A few?” He gestured at the table, now fully covered. “This looks like food for four people.”
You smiled, completely unbothered. “I was hungry.”
Jongseob sat down slowly, still staring at the spread. “I can’t imagine you eating all of that.”
Something sparked in your eyes. “You can’t?”
He hesitated. “I mean… not really.”
You laughed, clearly amused. “Then I guess it’s a challenge.”
He watched as you opened containers with determination, arranging them like you had a plan. Rice, noodles, fried sides, extra sauces. You grabbed your chopsticks and started without ceremony.
At first, he ate normally, still glancing over at you every few seconds. Then he slowed. Then he stopped entirely.
You were focused. Comfortable. You ate quickly but not messily, clearly enjoying yourself, reaching for seconds without hesitation. The food disappeared at a steady, impressive pace.
Jongseob leaned back slightly, eyes wide now, mouth parted just a bit. He did not interrupt. He just watched.
By the time you finished the last container, he was in full disbelief.
You leaned back, satisfied, and let out a small laugh. “Okay. That was good.”
He stared at the empty table. Then at you.
“…I’m impressed,” he said honestly.
You laughed, wiping your hands. “You should be.”
He shook his head, still processing. “I’ve never seen you eat like that before.”
You nodded easily. “I know.”
He looked at you, curious rather than judgmental. “Why not?”
You leaned over and kissed his cheek, quick and affectionate. “Because I feel comfortable around you.”
The words settled between you, warm and sincere.
Jongseob smiled, something soft and pleased lighting his expression. “I’m glad,” he said. Then he paused, glanced at the cleared table, and added, “But I think I need to be more careful with my own food now.”
You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Too late. You saw the real thing.”
He chuckled, reaching for his drink. “Yeah,” he said. “And I kind of like it.”
You leaned closer, content, the room quiet again after the feast. There was no pressure to explain yourself further. No need to shrink or pretend.
He sat beside you, comfortable in the honesty, already adjusting to this new detail about you like it was always meant to fit.
And next time, he knew better than to underestimate your appetite.
The night doesn’t end at dessert. Jason walks you home, steady on the bike and softer than you expected. On the brownstone steps—under the glow of a streetlamp—you decide it’s time. One leap of faith, it’s not about danger or adrenaline, but choice. 💌 Romance, fluff, tender intimacy, slow burn payoff.
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For a second, you see something deeper flicker across his face. And then he’s the one changing the subject:
“So tell me—what’s one weird thing you’re secretly amazing at that I’d never guess?”
You think. Then smirk. “Bartending. I could still whip up a Colorado Bulldog with my eyes closed.”
Jason raises his brows. “That so? How’d you learn?”
“That’s actually how I met Ren,” you say. “We worked at a bar together. Classic post-college detour. Good money, good stories… maybe too much.” A pause. Then softer: “It’s also how I met Sophia’s dad. So eventually I left it behind.”
Jason nods once, no judgment in his eyes. Just listening.
Your turn. “Okay, Mr. Button-Up. Your secret skill?”
He smirks. “Russian.”
You blink. “Russian?”
“Mmhm. Picked it up young. Comes in handy.” He leans forward, voice slipping into something low and sharp as he rattles off a string of words that sound like velvet wrapped around steel. Then, in English, deadpan: “Rough translation: ‘You’re so beautiful it should be illegal.’”
You laugh, covering your face. “That’s terrible.”
“Terribly effective,” he corrects, smug.
The waiter drops off dessert with a polite smile and turns to collect the bread basket—only to pause when Jason slides it casually to his side of the table.
“Sir, I can—”
“Nope,” Jason interrupts smoothly, tucking a roll into his napkin like contraband. “Emergency rations.”
You glare across the table, mortified. “You’re unbelievable.”
Jason just smirks, breaking the roll clean in half and offering you the bigger piece. “See? Thoughtful as hell.”
The waiter stifles a laugh as he retreats.
Dessert is his idea, of course. A single slice of chocolate cake, one fork between you. Jason insists on stealing the biggest bites, smirking every time you swat his hand away. By the time the plate’s empty, you’re laughing so hard the couple across the aisle keeps staring.
And it hits you—how long it’s been since laughter felt this easy. Not forced at a work function, not nervous around someone who wanted too much too fast. Just safe. Just you, a fork, and a man who somehow knows exactly how to push your buttons without ever crossing a line.
For a second, you almost don’t recognize yourself. But the warmth in your chest says maybe this is who you’ve been trying to get back to all along.
Outside, the florist next door glows warm against the dark. Jason pauses, then steps inside. You follow, bewildered, as he points at a bucket of yellow daffodils.
Minutes later, he’s back on the sidewalk, flowers tucked carefully into the inner pocket of his jacket. He pats it once, satisfied.
“For you,” he says simply.
As you ride back to your place, the soft glow of the street lamps wash gold across both your faces as he drives you back to the brownstone. Neither of you rush.
At your stoop, you thank him again, smile lingering longer than either of you expect.
“Good night,” he says, voice lower than usual.
You glance at the streetlamp, nerves sparking. “Feels like perfect first-kiss lighting, doesn’t it?”
The words escape before you can take them back.
But instead of retreating, you lean in. A leap of faith.
Jason meets you halfway, the lingering scent of the flowers from the ride over clings to him. The kiss is warm, steady, unhurried—less about heat, more about meaning. The kind that feels like a beginning.
When you finally pull back, breath unsteady, his forehead rests lightly against yours.
“Worth the wait,” he murmurs.
You laugh, cheeks hot. “Go before I forget how to breathe.”
Jason’s grin is slow, certain. “See you soon.”
The door clicks shut behind you, the daffodils safe in his jacket pocket and your pulse racing like Gotham’s heartbeat.
Inside, the brownstone is still.
You lean back against the door, breath catching, fingertips pressed lightly to your lips. The daffodils rest on the side table, petals catching the faint glow of the hall light.
For the first time in years, the silence doesn’t feel heavy. It feels steady.
Your thoughts are steady as you whisper “God, no one’s ever kissed me like that—steady, sure, without taking.”
You close your eyes, exhale slow, and let yourself believe it—this could be the start of something real.
