Valentine's Day Disaster
A one-shot. A funny fluffy one-shot.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Curvy! Widow! you
Word Count: 5.0k
Summary: Bucky's gonna shoot his shot with you this Valentine's Day. Yelena and John are going to make sure of it. Or is it doomed from the start?
Trigger Warnings: Curvy Reader (even though she's a Widow. w/e, don't think too hard); wilted flowers; lasagna failures; Yelena is a menace, John is worse; Bad characterization of John, but it's funny, so w/e; Sad Bucky for a bit, but Happy Ending!
Author’s Note: Happy Valentine's Day! ❤️ Also, I've been seeing a metric fuck-ton of Bucky Smut lately, so I'm giving you funny fluff. Maybe angst soon if I can figure which draft to edit.
Masterlist
The kitchen was already alive by the time Bucky walked in.Coffee hissed in the corner machine like it was exhaling steam from its bones. Footsteps thudded through the hallway just outside; Ava’s voice rising, sharp and indignant.
“Whoever keeps stealing my almond milk, I hope your bones turn to chalk!”
He didn't even register it. Bucky lingered by the refrigerator, one hand resting on the handle without pulling it open.
His eyes had found you. You were standing across the room, half-leaning against the counter, deep in conversation with Bob and Alexei. Your arms were crossed under your chest, which only pulled the fabric of your black compression tee a little tighter over the softness of your figure. Bucky’s throat went dry.
Same as always. That quiet, magnetic pull hit him low in the chest, hot and inconvenient. It had started the first time you’d walked into a sparring session with that cocky smirk and a Widow’s stance, and it hadn’t let up since. It felt like someone had slipped a wire behind his ribs, and it only ever tightened when you were near.
You laughed at something Alexei said, head tilted, voice just far enough away that he couldn’t hear the words, only the lilt of it. And damn if that sound didn’t hit him again. That laugh that made people lean in just to catch more of it. That ease you carried, like joy didn’t cost anything.
He reached blindly for a can of cold brew. He didn’t want it. Didn’t even like the stuff. But it gave his hand something to do other than clench.
“You could ask her, you know.”
The voice landed just behind him, low and casual, but it cut through him like a wire snap.
Bucky didn’t flinch. The old reflexes had dulled under the weight of years and missions and too many lives lived with his back to the wall. But he did close his eyes, slow and deliberate, like someone had tossed a brick at the back of his skull and he was giving himself a second to absorb the impact.
He exhaled quietly through his nose, then cracked the cold brew open with a sharp snap. He didn’t look over.
“Christ, Yelena,” he muttered, tone dry. “Do you have to sneak up on people?”
“Not people. Just you,” she said, shifting into view as she leaned her hip against the counter. Her arms were crossed and her smirk was fully loaded. “You brood better when ambushed.”
Bucky took a sip. The coffee was bitter. Sharp. Burned all the way down. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t spit it out either. Some things were easier to accept than change. Hell, maybe that was just muscle memory, too: drinking what you don’t want, feeling what you don’t act on.
“I’m not brooding,” he said, voice low.
Yelena raised a brow. “Sure. You always stand in communal kitchen at eight in the morning, staring longingly at people while holding coffee you do not like. Totally normal behavior.”
His jaw flexed but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the scratched rim of the aluminum can.
“Are you done?”
“No. Not even close,” she said, her voice tipping with mock innocence. She tilted her chin in your direction, where you still stood across the room, laughing with Alexei. “You gonna tell her?”
He said nothing. The silence stretched, heavy but familiar.
“Right,” Yelena continued, unbothered. “Of course not. Why risk it when you can suffer silent in corner? Very healthy strategy.”
“It’s not like that,” he said.
And it wasn’t, not really. It wasn’t about fear, he just knew better. He knew all the things he was and all the things he wasn’t. He knew the way his history walked into every room before he did. You deserved peace. Something easy.
“It is exactly like that,” Yelena replied, her voice sharp with amusement. “You act like looking at her too long will collapse timeline.”
He shot her a sidelong glance, dry. “You done now?”
“Almost,” she said, clearly enjoying herself. “She is still single, by the way. In case you were waiting on official mission report.”
His answer came before he could think better of it.
“I know.”
Yelena blinked. A flash of real surprise crossed her face before the grin returned, curling at the corners of her mouth like she’d just uncovered a classified file.
“So you have been paying attention.”
Bucky berated himself silently for the slip, but his silence spoke volumes.
“And,” she added, too casually, like tossing a grenade with the pin still in, “she likes you.”
That made him pause just enough for his grip to tighten minutely on the can. Something sharp and unsteady flickered low in his chest. It was almost like hope, but felt older and more brittle.
He didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on the table, the rim of the can, the way condensation had already started to bead on the metal.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” she said simply. “I am observant. And nosy. Lethal combo.”
“You think you know.”
“I know I know.” Her voice dropped just slightly, losing some of its teasing edge. “You really think she does not notice when you look at her like she is sunlight and you have lived underground for last decade?”
He stayed quiet, because the accuracy of her statement struck him. That’s exactly what it felt like. It wasn’t anything as simple as lust or even longing. It was a bone-deep ache of warmth, held just out of reach. He was a man half-frozen who didn’t dare step into the sun, afraid it would burn or disappear.
“You could try, you know,” Yelena said gently. “Something new. Like... hope.”
He looked at her then, neither annoyed nor amused. In fact, he felt just a little bit grateful for the encouragement in a quiet way he didn’t know how to say.
She winked. “Just a thought.”
Then she turned and left, disappearing down the hallway with the lazy swagger of someone who’d just finished her part of a mission and left him holding the mess.
Bucky stood there, the cold can sweating in his hand. The fridge still buzzed. Someone’s footsteps echoed in the corridor. The coffee still tasted like shit.
And then you looked up, like you’d felt the shift in the air.
Your eyes met his and you smiled, soft and easy.
He felt a fuse light somewhere deep in his chest again, low and stupid and warm… and maybe a little dangerous, too.
Maybe.
Maybe this year... he could try.
*****
It started with a simple goal: Don’t make a fool of yourself.
That was it. One rule, one manageable objective. For a brief, naïve moment, it had felt achievable and logical. Keep his head down, do something small and quiet that didn’t draw attention or require too many words. He’d survived wars, brainwashing, and government-sanctioned messes with worse odds than this.
But now Bucky sat in the Watchtower common room, shoulders tense, spine rigid, watching his dignity unravel under harsh fluorescent lighting. And that goal was already in tatters.
The room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and industrial cleaner, the furniture worn in from constant use. It was supposed to be a neutral space, a place to decompress. Instead, it felt like an interrogation room with couches.
Yelena Belova had unsurprisingly invited herself into his plans. She had a gift for sniffing out emotional vulnerability and poking at it until something happened. John Walker, on the other hand, had gotten involved by accident. Or maybe fate had a sick sense of humor. He’d overheard Bucky muttering to himself in the kitchen, latched onto the word Valentine, and declared himself part of “Operation Old Man Valentine” before Bucky could shut him down.
So here they were.
Yelena lounged on the couch across from him, tossing grapes into her mouth like popcorn at a movie. Walker sat beside her, sprawled out with confidence.
“So,” Yelena began, voice bright with impending disaster, “what is Big Plan?”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s a hit job.”
She shrugged, utterly unfazed. “It kind of is a hit job.”
John grinned, boots thudding onto the coffee table. “Yeah, you’re hitting her… with romance.”
Yelena’s face twisted in immediate disgust. “That was vile. Don’t ever say that again.”
John lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m just trying to help, Belova.”
“Try harder.”
Bucky let his head drop into his hands, fingers pressing into his temples. The familiar pressure grounded him and kept the spiral at bay. “This was a mistake,” he muttered.
“No,” Yelena said quickly, leaning forward now, all teasing replaced by focus. “No, do not do that. You like her. She likes you. You just need gesture. Something simple. Old-fashioned.” She smirked. “Like you.”
He shot her a sidelong look. “Thanks.”
“Wasn’t a compliment.”
He rolled his eyes and exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. The words felt heavier out loud, like admitting them gave them too much power. “I was thinking… maybe flowers. Nothing dramatic. Just… simple.”
John nodded immediately. “Flowers are solid. Real Valentine’s stuff.”
Yelena tilted her head, considering. “Hm. Safe. Maybe too safe.”
Bucky looked away, jaw tightening. Safe had kept him alive most of his life. Safe was familiar. Safe didn’t break things or people. But it also didn’t feel like enough, and that scared him more than he wanted to admit.
He sighed. This was what he got for trying.
Clearing his throat, he spoke more quietly, like the idea might bolt if he said it too loudly. “I thought maybe… I could cook something.”
Yelena froze mid-grape.
John’s eyebrows climbed.
“I can cook,” Bucky added, a little too quickly.
Yelena leaned forward, eyes narrowing with surgical precision. “Your fridge has one sad peanut butter jar and expired protein shakes. Cook what, exactly?”
He looked between them, expression flat, voice steady by force of will. “I can follow a recipe.”
“Debatable,” Yelena muttered.
He let out a slow breath, surprised he’d made it that far without bailing. Then, quieter still, like he was testing the words for landmines: “And then maybe… I ask her to be my valentine.”
They stared at him.
“That’s it?” John asked.
Bucky stiffened, shoulders squaring on instinct. “What do you mean, that’s it?”
Yelena picked up where John left off, relentless. “I mean, what are you going to say? You can not just throw lasagna at her and grunt.”
John snapped his fingers. “Do a poem. Girls love poetry.”
Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, come on,” John whined. “It doesn’t even have to rhyme.”
“I said no,” Bucky muttered, pushing to his feet before they could pile on. “I’m ordering flowers.”
“Make sure they are not weak,” Yelena called after him. “Nothing that says ‘please love me despite sad man energy.’”
He paused in the doorway, turning slowly. “That’s exactly the energy I have.”
Yelena smiled, unrepentant. “Yes. Hide that.”
He left to the sound of their laughter echoing behind him.
The next hour found Bucky hunched over his laptop at his desk in his room, scowling at an online flower shop like it had personally insulted his lineage.
There were too many options, too many colors, too many meanings he didn’t understand or trust. Red felt loud and demanding. White was sterile and funeral-adjacent (or wedding, which was somehow worse). Yellow meant friendship, apparently, which felt like the opposite of the point. Blue didn’t even look real.
He muttered to himself under his breath, fingers hovering over the trackpad like he was planning a breach.
“Okay. Classic roses,” he said quietly. “Safe. Red’s too much. White’s weird. Pink is…”
He stopped.
Soft.
Not weak, but gentle. Not flashy, but quiet. You’d notice pink roses because they were there, steady and warm. Kind of like—
You.
He stared at the screen longer than necessary, chest tight, pulse ticking loud in his ears. He clicked out of the page, then immediately reopened it and ordered the pink roses before he could overthink himself into paralysis.
After that, he bookmarked a lasagna recipe. From scratch.
It felt reckless. Stupid, even.
It also felt like the bravest thing he’d tried to do in a long time.
*****
Bucky woke up unreasonably early on Valentine’s Day.
He woke up with a tight chest and the sense that he’d already failed something important, even though nothing had technically happened yet. The digital clock on his nightstand glowed an accusing 5:12AM He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the building.
He knew sleep wasn’t happening again today.
So he got up, showered, and stood in front of the mirror longer than he wanted to admit. He’d combed his hair once. Then again. He shaved with careful, methodical strokes like it required absolute precision. He even sprayed cologne, one quick press, because that felt like the right amount of effort.
The scent bloomed around him, sharp and expensive and very wrong. It was too much, too intentional, and he stared at his reflection like it might tell him how to undo it.
“Great,” he muttered. “I smell like a midlife crisis.”
He cracked the windows open despite the cold, pacing the length of the room while the winter air crept in, cutting through the cloying scent. His vibrainium arm hummed faintly as he moved, a familiar counterpoint to the restless energy crawling under his skin.
On his dresser sat the flowers.
Or rather, what remained of them.
The pink roses had looked fine last night. They were soft, gentle, and hopeful. He’d placed them carefully in a glass vase, adjusted the stems, even Googled how much water they needed. He’d gone to bed thinking, Okay. This part is handled.
Now they looked like they’d spent the night in a bar fight and lost.
Bucky stopped short in front of the dresser and his stomach dropped. “No, no, no—” he murmured, leaning in closer.
The petals were curling inward, edges browned and brittle. The leaves drooped like they’d given up any semblance of effort. When he touched one bloom, a petal slid off and landed silently on the wood.
He stared at it, horrified. “Come on,” he groaned, carefully lifting the flowers out of the vase one by one. “I just bought you.”
They wilted further in his hands, pathetic and uncooperative. He’d handled explosives that were more stable than this.
From the doorway came a voice, entirely too awake.
“They are dead,” Yelena said cheerfully. “Like your dreams.”
He turned to find her leaning against the frame, sipping coffee like this was the highlight of her morning. Her hair was a mess, her chin-length locks tangled without care, and she was wearing socks with cartoon dogs on them, grinning, oblivious creatures who clearly had no romantic anxieties.
“Did you do something to them?” Bucky asked, narrowing his eyes.
She gasped, scandalized. “You think I would sabotage sad little romantic quest?”
“Yes.”
She considered that. “Okay, fair. But not this time.”
He looked back at the flowers, jaw tight.
“I can’t give her these,” he said quietly. “She’ll think I ripped them out of a trash bin.”
“True,” Yelena agreed immediately, already tapping away at her phone. “John knows a florist. I will send him.”
Bucky stiffened. “John—? No. Absolutely not. I don’t trust John to order coffee, let alone flowers.”
“You shouldn’t,” she said brightly. “But he is already on way.”
He stared at her, deadpan. “It’s eight in the morning.”
“I woke him at six,” she replied without a hint of remorse. “We are all hands on deck for you.”
Something warm and uncomfortable twisted in his chest. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just stood there with dead flowers in his hands and a knot of nerves tightening behind his ribs. Part of him wanted to tell her to stop, that this was ridiculous, that he didn’t need help.
Another part, quieter, older, and more honest, felt something dangerously close to gratitude.
He wasn’t used to people stepping in and caring enough to make it their problem. It made him uneasy in the way kindness always did, like he didn’t quite know where to put it or whether he deserved it.
“Thanks,” he muttered finally, the word rough and understated.
Yelena glanced at him over the rim of her cup, catching it anyway. Her smile softened a fraction.
“Don’t be sentimental,” she said. “It is alarming.”
He huffed a weak breath, shaking his head. The entire situation was utterly mortifying, but also, he now somehow less alone than he’d been when he woke up.
He set the ruined bouquet back on the dresser, bracing himself for whatever came next.
*****
Bucky stood in the kitchen, surrounded by absolute carnage.
It looked like a crime scene. One he’d intentionally caused.
Noodles clung to the counter like they’d tried to escape and failed. Sauce was splattered in places he didn’t remember reaching: up the backsplash, along the cabinet handles, streaked across the edge of the sink. Ricotta had achieved a level of mobility he hadn’t thought possible. It was on his pants, his elbow, and somehow the wall. He stared at it like it might explain itself.
The lasagna was supposed to bake at 375 degrees for forty-five minutes.
Instead, he’d managed to burn the cheesy top into something resembling roofing material, leave the center cold and semi-liquid, and, just to really commit, he set off the smoke alarm.
The kitchen still smelled faintly of char and regret.
“What the hell is that smell?”
Bucky didn’t turn around. John Walker walked in holding a bouquet the size of a small shrub.
It was not pink roses.
It was white lilies, too white and much too funeral-adjacent, and something green and plasticky that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. The whole thing was wrapped in crinkled gold foil, like it had been assembled in a panic.
Bucky stared at the bouquet. Then he stared at John.
“Did you rob a funeral,” he said flatly, voice stripped of all hope, “or was this an intentional choice?”
John beamed, clearly proud. “You’re welcome.”
“You had one job.”
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” John defended. “They were all out of pink. And red. And roses. I panicked.”
From behind him, Yelena peeked into the kitchen. Her expression shifted instantly.
“Oh no.”
Bucky dropped his forehead onto the countertop. The cool surface pressed against his skin, grounding him in the reality that this was, in fact, happening.
“Hey,” John said, frowning now. “This is salvageable.”
Bucky didn’t lift his head. “How.”
“I can help you write a card,” John offered, undeterred. “Roses are red, violets are—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Bucky muttered.
“…Fine.”
By 4PM, the lasagna, after multiple attempts, had been officially declared a health hazard. The smoke alarm had been silenced, but the shame of defeat lingered. Both flower arrangements sat wilted and accusatory in the trash. The card John had written (‘You make me feel like a Monday morning with purpose’) had been torn in half. Twice. Then crumpled, like it deserved.
Bucky sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
The common room was quiet now. Afternoon light slanted through the windows, catching dust in the air, time moving forward without waiting for him to get his shit together.
“I should just leave it,” he muttered. “Pretend today isn’t a thing.”
“No,” Yelena said immediately. She dropped onto the couch beside him and kicked her boots up on the coffee table like she owned the place. “You do not give up now. You want her. She wants you.”
He laughed softly, bitter and exhausted. “She’s not gonna want anything to do with me after this. I’ve managed to screw up every possible part of this day. I can’t cook. I can’t plan. I can’t even order flowers without it turning into a disaster.”
“You suck at planning Valentine’s Day,” Yelena corrected, elbowing him gently. “Which is different. You don’t need ridiculous performance. Be honest. Be you. Just… less panicky.”
He looked at her, doubt heavy in his chest. She shrugged, unbothered.
“She will say yes. I promise.”
“You’re really sure about that?”
“I was trained as child to read people,” she said dryly. “I know.”
He didn’t really believe her. Hope didn’t come easy to him, not after everything he’d been through. Hope was dangerous. It led to disappointment, to loss, and to the quiet confirmation that he should have known better.
Still, he didn’t get up and leave. Even as afternoon slipped toward evening. Even as the clock ticked forward with no backup plan, no gifts, no lasagna, and definitely no Valentine.
But by the time dusk settled in, heavy and blue against the windows, the weight of it pressed down on him hard.
Maybe this was the sign he should’ve listened to all along.
He was too old for this, too set in his ways, too quiet, and too scarred up on the inside and out. He carried too much history: names, faces, and things he couldn’t undo stacked high in his rearview. And the future? That was still a question mark: missions, job instability, a life that never stayed still long enough to promise anything.
You deserved someone easy. Someone who didn’t treat affection like unexploded ordnance.
Maybe he was better off not starting something he couldn’t finish.
He was just about ready to stand up, grab his jacket, and disappear into the cold. He could let this whole thing pass like a bad dream, when, at exactly 6:48PM, you walked into the common area.
He felt the shift before he saw you. His chest tightened, focus snapping sharp like a rifle sight locking in when you looked at him.
“Hey, Bucky,” you said casually, like you weren’t the axis his entire day had spun around. “Can you help me with something? Down in the armory?”
He blinked and then nodded, like his body remembered how to function before his brain caught up.
“Yeah,” he said. “’Course.”
He stood up, legs moving without thought, heart starting to beat a little harder.
You smiled and turned to lead the way.
And just like that, the night wasn’t over yet.
*****
You had rehearsed this in your head at least a hundred times, but none of those versions involved your hands shaking.
The walk to the armory was quiet. Not awkward or tense, but suspended, like the air itself was waiting to see what was going to happen. Your boots echoed softly against the concrete floor, the familiar corridors of the Watchtower stretching ahead in pale fluorescent light. You kept your shoulders loose, your expression casual, pretending you couldn’t feel Bucky Barnes following half a step behind you. And pretending your pulse wasn’t doing something embarrassing.
You liked him. You’d liked him for a while now, in that careful, private way you’d learned to guard. It wasn’t something you talked about. It wasn’t something you advertised. But it was there every time he walked into a room, quiet, steady, and impossible to ignore.
Your eyes had a habit of finding him before you meant them to. The broad line of his shoulders. The solid build of his chest beneath a worn T-shirt. The strength in his arms, metal and flesh, the easy power in the way he moved like he didn’t even realize how capable he was. And there was something softer, too, that he tried to hide. It was an old-fashioned gentleness that slipped through in small moments: the way he held doors, the way he listened more than he spoke, the way he remembered things other people forgot.
You didn’t know if he liked you back.
You hoped, of course. God, you hoped.
But hoping and knowing were two very different things.
Behind you, Bucky didn’t say a word. He just followed, patient and dependable, like he always was. You wondered if he could hear your heart beating out of your chest. You wondered if he noticed how carefully you were breathing.
When you reached the armory, you pressed your palm to the scanner and the heavy door hissed open. Cool air greeted you: metal and oil and the faint smell of cleaned weapons. The overhead lights flickered to life, bathing the room in a soft blue glow.
You stepped inside first and he followed. The door whispered shut behind him.
“Hey,” you said, turning to face him with what you hoped looked like confidence. “Don’t freak out.”
Immediately you regretted it. Great opener, you thought. Historically, that phrase has a perfect track record of calming people down.
Bucky’s brow creased just a little. “That usually means I should freak out.”
You chuckled nervously, “Maybe a little,” you admitted.
You crossed to your locker, fingers suddenly clumsy as you punched in the code. The metal door popped open and you reached inside, pulling out the long, slim leather sheath you’d hidden there last week.
Your stomach flipped.
You walked back to him, holding it carefully in both hands.
“Here,” you said, trying to sound steadier than you felt. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
He stared at it, and then at you.
“What?”
“Just… take it out.”
Slowly, almost cautiously, he unlatched the sheath and froze.
The blade caught the light all at once: Damascus steel, rippling with layered patterns like smoke trapped beneath glass. The handle was marbled red resin, deep and rich, swirled like wine and dark ink. Near the spine of the blade was a small, deliberate cutout of a tiny heart, subtle enough to be tasteful, obvious enough to mean something.
He didn’t speak.
He just looked at it.
“You got this,” he said finally, voice quiet, “for me?”
“Yeah.” You shifted your weight, suddenly shy. “I ordered it last month. I figured… you’re not really a chocolates-and-teddy-bears kind of guy.”
His eyes lifted to yours, and something in them softened.
“So I thought I’d get you something you’d actually like,” you continued. “Practical. Lethal. Romantic.”
And just like that the truth was sitting between you.
You swallowed. “I’ve kind of liked you for a while, Bucky,” you said, the words coming out softer than you planned. “So… I was wondering. Will you be my Valentine?”
For a moment, he just stared. His mouth opened, closed, and he let out a stunned laugh, really half-wheeze. “You…” he breathed. “You’re kidding me.”
Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no, no.
Heat rushed to your face so fast you thought you might actually pass out. Embarrassment crashed over you in one brutal wave.
He was laughing. He was actually laughing.
Yelena had been wrong. Spectacularly, catastrophically wrong. You’d misread everything: the glances, the kindness, the way he always seemed to drift closer to you in rooms full of people. You’d just handed him a knife like some lovesick idiot and asked him to be your Valentine like you were in middle school.
Cool. Great. Perfect.
You were going to have to leave the team. Change your name. Move to Romania. Take up goat farming. Something quiet and far away where you’d never have to look him in the eye again—
“No—hey, no,” Bucky said quickly, stepping closer, clearly seeing how ashen you’d become. “That’s not—I’m not laughing at you, I swear,” he went on, running a hand down his face like he couldn’t believe any of this was real. “I’ve been trying to ask you all day.”
Your brain stalled. “What?”
“I ordered flowers,” he said. “They died. I tried to make lasagna and almost burned the building down. John showed up with funeral lilies. Yelena’s been making fun of me for forty-eight hours straight. I’ve been trying to do this right and completely screwing it up.”
He looked down at the knife again, shaking his head in disbelief.
“And you show up with this.” Another small laugh, softer this time. “This is so much cooler than anything I had planned.”
Relief flooded through you so hard your knees went weak.
“You tried to make lasagna?” you asked, a smile breaking through despite yourself.
“From scratch,” he groaned. “Do you have any idea how hard béchamel sauce is?”
You stepped a little closer. “So… is that a yes?”
His gaze lifted to yours, and the uncertainty there faded into something warm and sure.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I want to be your Valentine. And I want you to be mine.”
Your breath caught. “You do?” you asked, suddenly shy all over again.
He nodded. His hand came up slowly, like he was giving you time to change your mind, until his palm cupped your cheek, warm, careful, and a little uncertain.
“Can I take you out?” he murmured. “On a real date. Soon. One that doesn’t end in smoke alarms or emergency flower missions. Just… me and you.”
You smiled. “Sounds perfect.”
Then his lips were descending toward yours.
At first it was soft, hesitant, almost cautious, like both of you were afraid to push too far. His lips brushed yours gently, testing, asking permission. You answered by leaning in, by letting your hand settle against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath your fingers.
The kiss deepened, slow and warm, all the quiet wanting between you finally given permission to breathe. You didn’t rush. He didn’t hurry. The two of you were just finding your way to something you’d been circling for months.
The armory lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere far above, life in the Watchtower went on, but down here, in the cool metal quiet, the world felt small and safe and entirely yours.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his smiling lips still brushing yours.
“…You really got me a Valentine’s knife.”
“Yup,” you grinned. “You gonna take it on missions and think of me when you use it?”
“Absolutely,” he said.
And kissed you again.
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