UWU BABY

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[nj5nk]

bf

hashtag need dat

[femmephile]

all she did was help him with his wound and they had more chemistry and tension than she’s had with jeremiah. bonrad girlies we are winning this

[aquaticmercy]

We Keep Running Into Each Other

Summary : Bucky falls in love with a struggling journalist, but neither of them were ready for a relationship… until now. 

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Journalist!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Friends with benefits to Lovers. Suggestive content. Cursing. Little bit of angst, Hurt/Comfort, domestic!Bucky, TFATWS-Bucky Congressman!Bucky, bit of fluff!!!!

Word count : 16.8k

Note : This story starts around TFATWS and ends right before Thunderbolts. Enjoy!

The bookstore was quiet now. Most of the book club people had filtered out after an hour or so offering their usual waves and lukewarm opinions on the week’s pick. Tonight, it was The Bell Jar. Heavy, emotional, a little too on-the-nose for your current mental state. You stayed behind, your pen hovering over the last page as you pretended to reread a passage you’ve memorised three times already. In reality, you’re avoiding the blinking cursor on the empty Word document waiting on your laptop at home. Another missed pitch. Another editor ‘passing for now.’

“You’re not a fan,” said a voice from across the room.

You looked up to see James Buchanan Barnes, leaning against the doorframe like he’d been watching you for longer than you’re comfortable admitting. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed up just enough to reveal a hint of metal. You already knew it’s vibranium— you already knew a lot of things about him, but it was different seeing it up close, like it doesn’t belong to a man who once jumped out of planes and shattered skulls with his bare hands. “Not a fan of what?” you asked, raising a brow.

“The book.” He pushed off the doorframe. “You’ve been stuck on the same page for ten minutes. You look like you’re trying to pick a fight with Sylvia Plath.”

You snorted. “Maybe I am.”

He smirked, folding his arms. “She’d probably win.”

“She’d definitely win,” you say with a grin, snapping the book closed and tossing it on the table. “Depressed girls with typewriters are dangerous.”

You’d know, you were one. Still, Bucky watched you like he’s trying to see what parts of you are real, and what you’re faking.

You held his stare, refusing to shrink under it, and told him your name, because you might as well right?

He nodded. “I’m Bucky.”

You smiled faintly. “I know.”

His eyes narrowed for a second—but it wasn’t hostile.  You shoved your stuff into your bag. “I don’t mean like that. It’s just—” You shrugged. “I’m a journalist. Or I try to be. Comes with, you know… obsessively knowing things.”

He tilted his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “You do profiles?”

“Sometimes.” You hesitated. “Lately it’s more… copywriting for blogs that publish people’s hot takes on ethical non-monogamy and pistachio milk brands.”

That made him smile. Not much— just a brief lift at the corner of his mouth, but it counted, right?

“So,” he said, “what’s a smartass doing in a book club like this?”

You grinned. “Research.”

“For?”

“Human behavior,” you said casually. “Actually, you’d be a good topic to write about. You’d make a great tragic anti-hero. Real brooding appeal. It’d get clicks.”

He stepped closer now, helping you up from your seat. “You always this charming?”

“Only when I’m avoiding work.”

“How’s that going?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Silence stretched for a second too long. Then, he asked, “Are you free?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “There’s a bar a few blocks over. Good whiskey, if that’s your thing. Got crappy lighting”

You stared at him, at the scars barely hidden beneath his collar. The twitch in his jaw when you looked too long. You felt the heat building behind your chest—not quite attraction, not yet. But the potential to. 

“Alright,” you said. “But I’m warning you—I flirt when I drink.”

He opened the door for you without breaking eye contact. “Guess I’ll take my chances.”

—

He did say the lighting was gonna be crappy, but the bar was still darker than you expected. It had its charm, though, with brick walls and the kind of jazz playing in the background that made everything feel like it was happening in sepia. The bartender didn’t blink twice when Bucky walked in, which probably meant this wasn’t a new spot for him. He slid onto a stool, and you followed without thinking.

“Two whiskeys,” he said to the bartender, glancing at you, and you nodded.

“You come here often?” you said with a smirk, knowing full well how cliché it sounded, but you needed something to break the silence.

He snorted. “That’s my line.”

“I don’t believe you’ve ever used a line in your life.”

His eyes sparkled, then chuckled. “Not since 1943.”

You leaned your elbow on the bar. “What was it? ‘Say, doll, wanna share a malt and talk about the war effort?’”

“Close.” He gave you a dry but amused look. “Steve was shy when it came to girls, so I had to do the heavy lifting for the both of us.”

The drinks arrived. He slid one toward you. 

You took a sip. “You’re better at this than you think, you know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “At what?”

“Conversation,” you said, tapping the rim of your glass. “Making people feel like they’re not talking into a void.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but didn’t.

Instead, he asked, “What about you? You’re not shy, but you haven’t really said much about yourself.”

That made your lips twitch. “You think I’m not shy?”

“I think,” he said carefully, “you talk a lot to keep people from looking too close.”

You blinked. Not because he was wrong—he wasn’t—but because he’d hit the nail so cleanly after only one meeting, you almost spilled your drink.

“Jesus,” you muttered, leaning back, “You sound like my mother.”

He smiled, just a little. “Didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“I know.” You swirled the whiskey in your glass, staring down into the amber. “I just… don’t usually have people say that out loud. Most guys I meet don’t exactly want to know the why behind my sarcasm.”

“I do.”

“Well…” you shrugged. You probably shouldn’t trauma dump to a famous stranger, but you needed an outlet to talk to, so… might as well, right? “I’m a mess. I haven’t written a good piece in weeks. I’m broke, chronically tired, and emotionally constipated.”

“That supposed to scare me off?”

“Most people run from the second I talk or feel too much.”

“Most people,” he said, tilting his head, “aren’t me.”

You laughed under your breath, remembering his full name from an article you read a couple months ago. “Okay, James.”

He stiffened slightly. Not in anger, but the name hit a bruise.

“Sorry.” you corrected, “Bucky.”

“No, it’s fine,” he said. “Just weird, hearing it like that again from someone that isn’t my therapist or a supervillain. Feels… old.”

“Everything about you feels old,” you teased, nudging his boot with yours beneath the bar.

He laughed, and the conversation was easy from there.

You finished your drinks. You didn’t touch each other again, not yet, but your legs stayed close. You noticed the way his fingers drummed nervously on the edge of the bar and how he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

And when you both stood to leave, he walked you home.

—

Last night wasn’t a date. You told yourself that. Told your friends that. Told your reflection in the mirror that.

But then, you keep meeting between book club.

You ran into him outside your favourite grocery store four days later. You’d think the chances of Bucky Barnes needing kale and almond milk on a Tuesday afternoon were close to zero, but here you were.

Then you bumped into him again at the park. You were nursing a coffee and your latest rejection email on a bench. He was walking alone without a destination and no headphones on— like he didn’t know what to do with himself if he stopped moving too long. He sat down beside you, and that conversation lasted an hour and a half. 

And it happened again. At a cafe. And again. At the library. And Again. At the dentist’s office.

The sixth time, you exchanged numbers.

Then, you started texting. It was never anything dramatic. It was just… links to articles, quotes from books. “This reminded me of you” with no context— and it was a photo of the sky when it turned gold at sunset.

He started sitting next to you at book club after that.

He never said anything about it, never made a show of it— but every week, he claimed the chair to your left like it had always been his. Sometimes his thigh brushed yours. Sometimes your knees bumped and neither of you apologised.

Sometimes, you didn’t take notes at all. You just listened to the way he spoke when he actually cared about a character, or how his muscles tightened when someone made a flippant comment about trauma they didn’t understand.

Because of Bucky, book club became the highlight of your week (even if you did get bored sometimes and developed a whole cipher system with Bucky while everyone else was talking about Jane Eyre).

Then… he missed a session.

No text. No warning. He just didn’t show.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he owed you anything.

But your phone stayed within arm’s reach that night. And the night after.

And when the text finally came—after three days and too many imagined worst-case scenarios—you almost dropped your phone reading it.

sorry i missed book club things got messy and didn’t want to drag you into it

You typed a reply quickly.

Are you okay? Where are you?

He got back to you immediately.

safe now can I see you?

You tilted your head, considering your answer.

Yeah Where were you thinking? Bar?

Bucky didn’t respond after that.

—

You didn’t expect the knock.

You’d half expected him to disappear for good. Or to text you some vague “something came up” text that meant he was in mortal danger.

But thirty minutes after you last texted him, at 1:14 a.m., there he was— knocking against your window like he wasn’t standing four stories up on a Brooklyn fire escape.

You blinked and pushed the window open. “You’re insane.”

He gave a crooked shrug. “You said I could see you.”

He climbed in, but only halfway, just to glance around your apartment. His eyes landed on your laptop—open, half a draft blinking on the screen—and then on the half-eaten bag of trail mix on your desk.

“This is sad,” he teased.

“Don’t judge me. It’s freelance life.”

You stepped aside, but instead of going in, he sat down on the ledge of your fire escape again, like he’d done it a hundred times before. You sighed and ducked out the window to sit beside him.

Neither of you spoke right away.

You just sat shoulder to shoulder in the dark. It was cooler than it had been last week, and you noticed the way he rolled his shoulder like something was still sore.

“You okay?” you asked after a minute.

“No.”

You nodded. “Wanna talk about it?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then— “I saw that article you wrote. The one about the Flag Smashers.”

You braced yourself.

“You said they had a point.”

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Well,” he let out a deep breath, “I kind of missed book club because we’re going after them.”

You froze. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” His metal fists curled. “I mean—we’re not hunting them down like animals. Sam and I… we were trying to stop it from getting worse, from doing something they’d regret. It’s just—” he shook his head—“messy.”

You nodded slowly. “I get it.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I wasn’t defending what they did. But they’re angry. Displaced. It’s hard not to look at what the world’s become and think, God, someone has to break something to make people listen.”

He looked down. “That’s probably what Karli would say.”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “That’s what scared me.”

Bucky leaned against you, and you carefully put your head on your shoulders. He exhaled through his nose. “It’s not like I think she’s wrong. Just… I’ve done things I can’t take back. I know where that path ends.”

You scooted just a bit closer. He sounded like the weight of the world was draped over his shoulders like an old coat he couldn’t take off.

“I didn’t mean to dump all that,” he said, voice rough.

“Don’t worry about it.”

There was another bout of silence, and for a while, you basked in him

Then you turned to him, narrowing your eyes. “You’re tense as hell.”

He glanced at you. “What?”

“You’ve been rolling that shoulder for ten minutes.”

“I’m fine.”

You reached over before he could finish protesting, your hand finding the spot near his collarbone. He flinched— but didn’t stop you.

“Relax,” you whispered, fingers pressing gently into the muscle. “Jesus, it’s like a steel cable.”

He made a sound that was almost a laugh, almost a groan—and tilted his head just enough to give you better access.

“You keep this up,” he muttered, “and I’m going to start thinking you’re trying to seduce me.”

You smiled without looking at him. “If I was trying to seduce you, James, you’d already be in my bed.”

He let out a real laugh at that, but then he stopped abruptly.

You could feel the moment shift—like heat rising under a volcano.

His voice was quieter when he said it. “You ever think about it?”

Your fingers paused. “Think about what?”

“This.” He glanced at you. “Us. Kind of… doing something about the tension.”

Your hand slipped away from his shoulder carefully. “You mean sex?”

He met your gaze without flinching. “Yeah.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t move. “Yeah,” you said, just above a whisper. “Of course I have.”

He looked at you. “And?”

“And I think we’re both a mess.”

He didn’t argue. 

“You told me you missed your court-mandated therapy two weeks ago,” you spelled it out for him gently. “I’m averaging three articles a month. Four if I get lucky. I’m emotionally exhausted, financially unstable, and one wrong email away from moving back in with my family.”

He smiled, a little crooked and a little sad. “You think I don’t know I’m a mess?”

“No,” you shook your head, “I think you do. That’s the problem.”

You placed a hand on his metal arm and met his gaze. “Neither of us is in the headspace for a relationship.”

His teeth clenched, but he didn’t look away.  “But,” he said, his voice lower now, almost thoughtful, “One way or another… we should do something.”

Your heartbeat ticked up. “You’re serious?”

“I think about you all the damn time,” he said simply. “I think about how you talk. How you laugh. How you look when you get pissed off in book club and start flipping through your notes.”

“We’re not stable,” you reminded before he could spiral, even though you wanted to say you loved staring into his eyes and finding the ocean, even though you wanted to let him know you found him to be the only person you could breathe around. “We’re not dating material. We’re barely friend material.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

And you knew he did.

You knew because he carried every broken piece of himself like it was still dangerous. You knew because you did the same.

“So what then?” you asked. “What are we even talking about?”

He met your eyes. “Just sex.”

Your breath caught.

“I’m serious,” he said. “No pretending it’s anything else. No promises.”

You tilted your head. “And you think that’s gonna be enough?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I know I feel like I’m losing my mind half the week. And when I’m around you, I don’t.”

You swallowed hard. “Bucky—”

“I don’t mean it like some sappy shit,” he corrected himself. “I just mean — you’re easy to be around. You get it. The mess. The anger. The bad sleep. You don’t try to fix me.”

You were quiet.

“And when you touch me,” he added, “I feel like I’m still human.”

That nearly knocked the breath out of you.

You shouldn’t say things like that, you thought, because I’m already halfway in love with you.

You didn’t say it, though. 

Instead you said, “Okay.”

His brow lifted. “Okay?”

“Sex,” you said. “Just sex. When we’re both clear-headed and want it.”

His voice shifted—playful now, “Do we want it now?”

You looked at him, at the way the moonlight caught the angles of his face, the tension still hanging on his frame like armour, His eyes were warm, but his mind was probably still spinning.

You gave him a faint smile, “You’re not clear-headed right now.”

He glanced down at where your hand still rested on his, fingers splayed.

“No emotional triage sex,” you said again, quieter this time. “Remember?”

He caught your wrist — not hard, just enough to keep it with his hand for a second longer. His touch was careful, and it made your throat tighten. “Fine,” he murmured. “Then I’ll sit out here until I’m calm.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ll freeze.”

He smirked. “Worth it.”

“You’re such a guy.” You stood, brushing your hands off on your pajama pants. “I’ll be on the couch. Try not to catch hypothermia out here, old man.”

He gave you a mock glare as you slipped back through the window, leaving it cracked open behind you.

—

Twenty minutes passed.

You weren’t sure why you kept checking the clock. You’d pulled an old blanket over yourself, curled sideways on the couch having finished an article, one eye half-watching the blinking cursor on your laptop screen across the room. But your thoughts were back on the fire escape. On him.

You were about to get up—maybe to check, maybe to call him an idiot again—when you heard the scrape of boots on your floor. You looked up.

There he was, hoodie unzipped now, hair a little messy from the night air. 

He didn’t say anything. He just walked across the room, took off his shoes and sat beside you.

Then slowly — like checking for permission — he slid down, tucked his arm under your head, and pulled you in. His body curled behind yours, as he rested his cheek just barely against the back of your shoulder.

You didn’t move. You just let yourself be held.

And after a while, when your breathing slowed and your thoughts finally stopped chasing themselves — you felt his fingers slip gently over yours, and his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles.

So… no sex. But just comfort. Just him. You weren’t complaining at all.

—

A week later, he was late to book club. Which was no surprise for Bucky Barnes — but this time, you knew why.

He had just stepped off a plane from Riga hours earlier. Still, he made it — slipping into book club quietly, just past the first half hour, with a henley beneath his jacket and baseball cap shadowing his face.

You caught his eye as he dropped into the seat beside you. 

“Just got off the plane,” he whispered, breath warm in your ear, “didn’t want to miss it.”

You blinked, heart skipping a beat. “You flew all the way back for this?”

“No,” he said, a teasing edge under the weariness. “I flew back for you.”

You swallowed, heat blooming behind your cheeks.

The rest of the night blurred into a haze. Words floated like smoke; their meaning lost beneath the thumping of your heartbeat. His knee brushed yours beneath — annoyingly impossible to ignore.

When the last page was turned, the group dispersed, and the chairs scraped across the floor, you stood to face him. “You walking me home?”

His tired smile was all the answer you needed. “Always.”

—

The walk was silent. Not the awkward kind, but the charged kind that hummed under your skin and made every footstep feel like it echoed louder than it should. The streetlights overhead cast golden pools on the sidewalk, and every few steps, his arm would brush yours — too casual to be deliberate, too frequent to be accidental. You’d forgotten to bring a jacket, but you barely felt the chill.

“So,” you finally said, your voice quieter than usual. “Riga, huh?”

“Another mission.” Bucky huffed out a tired laugh. “Got back less than three hours ago.”

“And still came to book club to and I quote,” you teased, “‘See me?’”

His shoulder bumped yours. “Yeah.”

You looked over, and the half-smile on his face wasn’t teasing. It was tired, yes, and a little crooked, but sincere.

“I’m glad you came,” you said before you could stop yourself. You didn’t dress it up or tuck it behind a joke.

He didn’t look away. “Me too.”

You reached your building and stopped at the stoop, one hand gripping the railing absently. The city moved quietly behind you—- the hum of traffic a street over, the flicker of a neon sign across the way. His shadow pooled across yours. You turned toward him. “Do you want to—” You hesitated. You hadn’t planned to say it. It wasn’t a line. “Come in?”

There it was again — that flicker of surprise in his eyes.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took one step closer. You could smell the faint warmth of his skin, the soap still clinging to him. His voice dropped. “Yeah.”

You moved up the stairs ahead of him, heart hammering like it was trying to make itself known through your ribcage. You unlocked the door and stepped inside. He followed without a word.

You didn’t bother turning on the lights. The spill of the city through the windows was enough. Your apartment was small, familiar. 

You slipped off your shoes slowly, suddenly hyperaware of every motion, especially of his eyes on you.

When you straightened, he was still by the door. Hands in the pockets of his hoodie, watching you.

Neither of you moved.

“Do you want a drink?” you asked, quieter than you meant.

“No.”

You swallowed.

He took a step toward you, and you didn’t back away.

When he was close enough that you could feel his breath, you tilted your head up, eyes locking with his. There was something in his eyes that made your stomach twist — like he’d already imagined this moment a hundred times, and now he was here, he didn’t want to rush it.

“I’ve been thinking about last week,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “But I didn’t want to— I didn’t know if you still want…”

Your hands were already sliding up his chest, curling in the fabric of his shirt. “You’re thinking too much, Barnes.”

And then you kissed him.

Not shy, but slow at first — mouths brushing, — but then he groaned low in his throat, and kissed you back with years of tension behind it. His hands slid into your hair, fingers tightening and tugging gently. You gasped against his mouth, and his tongue slid against yours.

You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, his metal arm anchoring you to reality.

He broke away first, barely — his forehead pressed against yours, breathing heavy.

His mouth was still hovering over yours, breath warm and ragged, the sweat between you thick enough to drown in.

“That what you wanted?” he murmured, voice  dark.

You swallowed, fingers still twisted in his henley. “It’s a good start.”

The corner of his mouth twitched and then you kissed him again, harder this time.

There was no slow build now. His hands were everywhere — under your shirt, gripping your waist like he’d die if he let go. He tasted like salt and jet lag and something distinctly him, and you couldn’t get enough.

You turned and walked backward, tugging him with you, fingers sliding under his shirt, greedy and fast. He followed wordlessly, eyes locked on yours, hunger darkening his gaze.

Your knees hit the back of the couch, and you pulled him down with you. The couch creaked beneath the sudden, tangled rush of limbs, but you didn’t stop, didn’t care. You reached for the hem of his shirt, yanking it over his head in one fluid motion. His chest was scarred and beautiful, warm skin over muscle you wanted to memorise with your hands, your mouth. His dog tags clinked between you.

He leaned down again, his mouth brushing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone like he was searching for answers in your skin. Your back arched, offering more, needing more.

“Fuck,” he groaned into your neck. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“I think I do,” you whispered, dragging your nails lightly down his back. He shivered. His hips bucked forward against yours, and you loved the way he wasn’t holding back anymore.

Your shirt was gone next. Then the rest — clothes shed like molted skin, until there was nothing left between you but barely-touched want.

He looked at you for one breathless second — long enough for you to see it, just a flicker of awe, maybe even fear. Then his mouth was on yours again, and he was moving — slow at first, then deeper. You gasped into his mouth, body arching into him. “Bucky—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Just let go.”

So you did.

You moved together in a rhythm that was messy and perfect, frantic and slow, too much and not enough. Every sound you made — a gasp or a moan, his name on your lips — made him lose control a little more.

He cursed into your shoulder when you clenched around him, when your nails scraped his back, when your hips lifted to meet every thrust like you’d been waiting your whole life for this.

Your fingers threaded into his hair. And then — the moment hit, like fire swallowing oxygen. You shattered under him, his name a broken cry on your lips, and he followed right after, groaning into your neck as his body locked against yours.

For a long time, he had his hand in your hair, your leg still curled around his hip, both of you coming down with aftershock.

Then, you said it. The thing you’d both been hiding behind. “It’s just sex, right?”

You didn’t know if you meant it. Your voice was casual, but your heart was anything but. You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned up on one elbow, brushed some hair out of your eyes, and looked like he could see straight through the lie.

Then he smiled — that crooked Barnes smile that you never quite understood but adored anyway. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

—

It became a thing, because of course it did.

Every Thursday night — after book club, after someone gave a half-hearted review of whatever novel they'd half-read — Bucky would walk you home, or he’d invite you over to his, no matter how tired he was. No matter if Sam had him chasing leads across borders the day before. No matter if you’d argued in the middle of a group discussion over whether the protagonist was morally gray or just an asshole.

By the time you got to the door, it was already understood. You’d leave it cracked open behind you as you kicked off your shoes.

Some nights, you didn’t even speak. He’d press a kiss to the back of your neck while you stood by the kitchen counter. You’d melt before the water even hit your lips. Then the glasses would be forgotten.

Clothes disappeared between rooms. Sometimes in the hallway, sometimes the couch, occasionally — recklessly — the window. His hands on your thighs, your mouth on his shoulder, your fingers threading through his hair. Again and again.

It wasn’t gentle, not always. Not at first.

Some weeks, after missions, his hands would grip you a little harder. You knew what to do. You’d pull him onto you and let him use you until the tremors stopped. No emotional triage sex be damned.

You never asked what he’d seen. He never asked why you were typing furiously into 3 a.m. drafts you never submitted.

Other times, it was quiet. Like that fourth week — when you had cramps, and he still came by, and you told him “I’m not in the mood” and he said, “I didn’t come for sex,” and then climbed into bed with you fully clothed and let you curl into him like a furnace, letting the pain bleed out of your spine. He didn’t leave that night. 

Some Thursdays, you’d talk. Bodies tangled under sheets, your leg thrown across his thigh while you shared wine straight from the bottle. He asked you what you liked to read outside of the club. You asked if he ever watched the Voltron cartoons.

Once, you kissed him before he touched you — and it felt dangerously close to strings. He pretended not to notice. Later, as you straddled him on the couch, riding him with desperation, he gasped your name like it meant more than your body.

You pretended not to hear that, either.

It was just sex. Except it wasn’t.

He started keeping a toothbrush in your bathroom. You started texting him about non-sex things. Groceries. Headlines. Memes.

He never stayed past Friday morning. You never asked him to. But every Thursday night, he came back. Like clockwork.

—

This week, he texted you a few hours before book club.

can’t make it tonight. something came up. raincheck?

​​You stared at the message longer than you should have.

No explanation. No voice note. No dumb emoji that he didn’t know how to use. You didn’t respond right away.

You had news — big news — the kind you’d imagined telling him face-to-face, maybe over takeout on your couch, legs tangled under the blanket he claimed was too small for him. 

You… got a job offer six days ago. You accepted it five days ago. And this time, it wasn't an underpaid freelance gig or an op-ed that paid in exposure.

You’d landed an offer from The District Post, a rising political publication based in D.C., one of the few that still let its journalists write with teeth. You hadn’t told him you’d even applied. 

You were supposed to move next week.

And now, he wouldn’t even be here tonight, and you didn’t know if he’d have the time to see you before then.

Still, you typed out your reply.

Okay. Be safe.

That night, you skipped book club. You couldn’t sit in that room tonight, not with his usual empty chair beside you.

Instead, you poured a glass of cheap wine and tried to write — something about your neighborhood, a think piece you were rushing out before the move. But you couldn’t focus. The words didn’t sit right. Everything felt off.

Then you flipped on the TV.

And there they were.

The Live Breaking News banner flashed red across the screen. Chaos outside a GRC meeting in New York, emergency broadcasts, armed guards, panic. And then— Captain America.

His wings outstretched, the shield gleaming under spotlights. He dropped into frame like a meteor.Your breath caught.

And behind him— Bucky. Charging into frame, metal arm glinting, catching falling debris like it was nothing. Bruised, sweating, while people screamed around them. Cameras were everywhere.

You watched, transfixed, all while Sam gave the speech. "You have to do better. You’ve got to step up. Because if you don’t — the next Karli will."

You looked closer at the screen. Bucky stood off to the side, watching his best friend with pride. He wasn’t a soldier anymore, not like he used to be.

You didn’t realise you were crying until you blinked and tasted salt. You sat in silence long after the coverage ended, the glow of the screen flickering across your empty apartment.

Then your phone buzzed with a new email.

Subject: GRC PRESS PASS — URGENT APPROVAL From: [email protected] You are credentialed to cover the post-summit GRC press briefing in Manhattan. Captain Sam Wilson and Sergeant James Barnes will be present. Due to your proximity and recent work, you are our lead. Be there by 9:30 a.m.

You were being sent… because you were closest to the scene. Because somehow your strange, messy, not-a-relationship with Bucky had placed you at the epicenter of something bigger than both of you.

Tomorrow, you’d be there in a professional capacity — with your press badge, a recorder, and a deadline — and you’d have to ask questions like he wasn’t the man who kissed your neck and stole your pillows and never stayed past Friday morning.

You’d have to see him like the rest of the world did. And worse… he’d have to see you that way too.

As a reporter, and not the person who massaged the tension from his shoulders, who whispered against his skin, “just sex, right?”

You set the glass in your hand down and on the edge of your bed, and all you could think about was how his toothbrush was still in your bathroom.

You thought about throwing it out. You didn’t.

—

The press conference wasn’t supposed to be your moment.

You were just another journalist in a sea of microphones and recycled questions, trying to keep your hand steady while the world tilted just a little from everything that had just gone down with the Flag Smashers, with Karli, with Cap—Sam.

People around you were fawning over the new Captain America, swooning at his speech, trying to get quotes that would fit well in a tweet. Soundbites. Clicks. Validation. But not you.

You were tired of the bullshit, of the "how does it feel to have the shield again" questions lobbed toward Sam like a beach ball. Instead, you watched Bucky in his uniform that looked like a rushed fitting— his eyes filled with that haunted, half-there, half-wanting-to-leave-the-building-already look. 

And then he saw you in the crowd.

He blinked—once, twice—like the universe had glitched. His lips parted slightly, and his brow twitched like he wasn’t sure if you were real. You caught the moment his eyes dropped over your face, your mouth, the line of your collarbone visible just above your blouse. It was familiar territory.

You were trying your best to act like you hadn’t had his hand wrapped around your thigh eight nights ago while you bit down a moan in the crook of his neck. Still, you raised your hand.

And when they called on you, you didn’t hesitate.

“Mr. Barnes,” you called. “Do you think public perception of you has changed after this incident?”

The room froze around your voice. Even Sam glanced over.

Bucky stared at you like you’d sucker-punched him. Not because the question was aggressive—it wasn’t. It was…  professional.

But you knew him. You’d had your fingers on his pulse. You were the last person to run your hands through his hair while he came undone in a bed that still smelled like him.

He blinked again, a double-take this time. Like he didn’t quite trust that you were really there, asking that.

“I… don’t know,” he said finally, with a smile he could never help when he saw you. “I don’t… really care anymore.”

You nodded and scribbled something that wasn’t a word into your notebook, just to give your hands something to do.

The press conference moved on. Sam answered a question about international cooperation. A woman from the GRC said something diplomatic and vague, but you didn’t hear any of it.

Because Bucky Barnes was still watching you like he was peeling back every layer of distance, until only the truth of a week ago was left: your nails in his back, his breath against your skin, and the look on his face when he realised he didn’t want it to end.

When it was over, you didn’t wait around. You’d done your job. You’d asked your question.

You slipped out toward the back hallway, but he followed.

—

You were almost down the steps of the building when you heard your name followed with a "Wait—hey."

You turned.

And there he was, cutting through the crowd with that signature Bucky Barnes boyish smile he reserved for you like no one else existed. Which, for that split second, maybe they didn’t. 

His tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck, jacket slung over one shoulder, and his ridiculously blue eyes locked onto you.

He slowed down when he got closer, giving you a once-over that was anything but subtle.

And then, softly, almost to himself. “Wow.”

You smiled, shy all of a sudden. “Hi.”

He blinked, and it took him a second too long to respond. “I—wow. Look at you. Invited to press.”

“Bucky,” you said with a smile, feigning offense. “Are you saying a press pass means I’m finally a real journalist?”

That made him laugh, the sound low and rough. “I just…” he started, “I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

You tapped your badge, the lanyard swinging lightly against your chest. “Got a job.”

He leaned in to read it, his brow lifting. “The District Post? Isn’t that—”

“In D.C.,” you finished. “Yeah.”

His smile almost dropped, like you had pulled the floor out from under his thoughts. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, wow. That’s—shit, that’s huge. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” you said, lips tugging into a small smile.

His eyes fell to the sidewalk. “So… you’re moving?”

“Next week,” you confirmed.

“Oh,” he said again, but softer this time, like it hadn’t really sunk in until now.

You tilted your head, watching him. “What, you gonna miss me, Barnes?”

And he met your eyes again. “Yes,” he said without missing a beat. “Of course.”

Your heart did a stupid flip in your chest, traitor that it was.

You let the moment sit between you— the heat, the knowledge that whatever this was didn’t feel finished. That those nights weren't just some casual thing, no matter how both of you had tried to play it cool.

And maybe you were both cowards, not texting, not calling, not saying what it meant. But you refused to let it swallow you whole just yet. Instead, you grinned and crossed your arms.

“We still have a week,” you said suddenly, quieter.

He blinked. “What?”

You lifted your eyes to his. “Before I go. I still have a week.”

He gave you half-smile again, the one that always made your stomach flip.

“Well,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “Guess I should make it count then, huh?”

You raised a brow. “What, suddenly you’re sentimental?”

He brushed a knuckle against your wrist, tentative, like he was asking permission to feel again. “I…,” he started, “I just want to help you spend your last few days in New York. If that’s alright?"

You looked up at him. Let your voice drop, teasing again—because too much honesty all at once might break you both. “Depends,” you said. “You buying takeout?”

He grinned,  the tension in his shoulders finally loosening. “Only if you promise not to mock my taste in diners this time.”

“I make no promises.”

He laughed again, and sure, maybe there was still a thousand miles of uncertainty ahead. But for now, you still had a week.

—

The week was over before you knew it.

The morning sun spilled across the sidewalk as Bucky hauled two of your heavy suitcases up the subway and into the train station, the rest of your belongings already en route. He saw you fumble over your ticket but didn’t move, eyes flicking over to you like he was trying to commit the moment to memory.

“Ready?” he asked casually, like he wasn’t thinking about the fact you’d been in his bed less than twelve hours ago. You glanced at him, that familiar flicker of something between amusement and frustration rising. “Yeah. The train is in thirty minutes.”

He nodded, biting his lip like he was holding back a dozen things he wanted to say—and some he probably shouldn’t. You’re letting her go, he thought bitterly, you’re letting her leave without knowing how you really feel.

You had a real shot now — a steady job, a life starting to bloom beyond the chaos that followed him around like a shadow. He remembered the first time he saw the lanyard last week. The pride in your voice should have made him happy. And part of him was.

But another part—one he refused to admit—was drowning. 

She’s gonna meet someone out there, he thought, eyes flicking back to you, someone who can give her the kind of life I can’t right now.

He was jealous just thinking of some random guy touching you the way he did last night. He wanted to beg you to wait, to tell you he’d get there — someday. But he knew, It wouldn’t be fair. Not to you.

So instead, he kept quiet.

You caught his gaze, eyes narrowing. “You gonna say something or just stare at me till I leave?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I was gonna say... thanks.”

“For what?” You arched an eyebrow, crossing your arms.

“For this last week,” he said quietly. “For not making it weird. For just… letting it be.”

You laughed, but there was no real humour in it. “We’re not a thing, Bucky. Just friends.” 

Liar, you thought to yourself.

He chuckled, shaking his head like he was amused by your insistence. “Right. Friends.”

You didn’t say anything. You knew exactly what he meant.

As he handed you your suitcase, he stepped back toward you, closing the distance.

“You sure this is it?” His hand caught yours, fingers around your wrist.

You held his eyes, the heat sparking between you like a live wire. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m sure.”

He leaned in, hand sliding from your wrist up to cup your cheek “We’re just friends,” he whispered.

You nodded. “So,” you said, teasing, “this is just how friends say goodbye?”

Without another word, Bucky’s lips found yours—soft at first, then deeper. You kissed back, heart pounding, the world shrinking to the two of you right there on the sidewalk.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. “Text me when you get there,” he said, voice rough.

You nodded.

“I’ll miss you,” he admitted, quieter now.

You smiled, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Me too.”

And just like that, you were walking toward the train.

When Bucky got home, he read your piece on him and Sam, and pretended you were still there.

—

For a while, you and Bucky kept in touch like you said you would. Those first few weeks were filled with late-night texts and lonely phone calls — the kind that made the distance seem smaller, like you could almost reach through the screen and touch him on the other side. But life, as it tends to do, got in the way.

You both got busier — deadlines, news stories, and endless responsibilities pulling you in a thousand directions at once. The daily messages turned into weekly check-ins, and the weekly check-ins into texts that came sporadically. Before you knew it, you only texted every three months.

"Hey. Hope you’re good." "Hey. Still alive." “I think I’m gonna grow out my hair.”

You’d text a quick update. A joke. A picture of some mundane thing that made you think of the other. Nothing demanding — just enough to say, I'm still here.

You both knew it was a far cry from where you started. No more late-night talks about everything and nothing, no more teasing banter that stretched until sunrise.

But that was okay.

Because sometimes, that’s how life works.

—

A year slipped by like sand between your fingers.

Your work had become a grind — not in a bad way, just in that all-consuming way where your days blurred together in drafts and deadlines and a phone that never stopped buzzing. You still got the occasional “How are you?” text from Bucky. You answered most of the time. Sometimes it took a few days. Sometimes longer.

Then, one morning, while half-listening to a pitch meeting, a colleague offhandedly mentioned a sister company’s political beat — “Big story this week. James Barnes is running for congress. Wild, right?”

You nearly dropped your coffee.

“Barnes?” you asked, pretending it was nothing. Pretending your chest hadn’t just constricted.

“Yeah, Bucky Barnes. Brooklyn seat. He’s advocating for GRC reform, community policy — it’s a whole thing.”

Of course he was running for Congress. Of course.

It was so him —that need to make the world just a little bit better, though still unsure how? Of course he was trying everything. 

You sat on the news for a couple days. Thought about saying nothing. But one night, after too much caffeine and too little sleep, you caved.

[You, 2:41 AM] Saw the news. Congressman Barnes, huh? Good luck.

You didn’t expect a reply. Not right away. Maybe not ever. But then…

[Bucky, 3:05 AM] Thought I should try something stable.

You started keeping tabs. You watched the campaign videos when they came across your feed. Read a few articles. One photo — him at some community event, sleeves rolled up, squinting in the sun with that smile you remembered too well — made you stare a little too long before scrolling past.

It was weird. You weren’t in love. Right? Just... proud.

And maybe, just maybe, wondering what might happen if you ever crossed paths again.

—

A year after he started campaigning, he got voted in.

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes — Brooklyn’s own, sworn in with a navy suit, a firm handshake, and those same blue eyes you remembered from two years ago.

You didn’t text this time— just watched from a distance. Until the day of his first press conference.

You weren’t even assigned to it, not really. But when the opportunity opened to cover local legislative priorities, your badge was already around your neck and your recorder already in your bag. You told yourself it was just another assignment.

You didn’t expect him to notice you. Not right away, at least.

But the second he stepped up to the podium, eyes scanning the crowd of cameras and reporters, he did. He did a full double take when he saw you.

His hair was a little longer, his suit a little more expensive. But he remembered the way your skin felt under his palm.

Then… you raised your hand.

He called on you, because of course he did. He barely even looked at the press sheet. You stood.

"Congressman Barnes," you said, clearly, pretending your heart wasn’t beating out of your chest “You ran on transparency and reform — with the GRC and domestic policy both under scrutiny. Do you believe public perception of you, personally, has changed after your... past affiliations?"

His teeth clenched — but not in anger. It was like a memory trying to claw its way to the surface.

He let out a deep breath. "I think people will always see what they want to see. But I'm here to serve them, not convince them."

You didn’t flinch. “That’s a diplomatic answer.”

A flicker of a smile ghosted across his face. “You shouldn’t expect any less from me.”

God, he’s changed. You raised an eyebrow, letting the tension simmer. You wanted to say, Funny. Last time I saw you, you were definitely not behaving diplomatically.

But no, you just nodded and sat down.

He was dead silent for half a second too long. He chuckled under his breath, eyes cutting into yours like the rest of the room wasn’t even there.

He stumbled a little on the next question and cleared his throat twice. The comms director gave him a look like get it together.

—

The press conference ended with the usual flurry — interns chasing stories, photographers snapping the last few candids, aides ushering the Congressman toward scheduled handshakes and photo ops. But you… you moved slowly.

You weren’t supposed to linger, you had your quote. Your headline was already half-formed in your head. But still, you hovered, half-expecting — hoping — he’d break through the crowd, just for a second. And of course, he did.

“Hey.”

Bucky Barnes, up close in a tailored black suit that made him look was a sight to behold. But his voice was quiet, and his eyes were soft — the way only you knew how to read.

“Didn’t think I’d see you today,” he said, and he sounded winded like he’d just come off the Senate floor, not a press event.

“I cover federal now,” you said, lifting your press badge with a smirk. “So here I am.”

A long pause formed a chasm between you, bloated with everything you hadn’t said for almost two years. The nights. The slowly drifting apart. The texts that faded from “hey” to “hope you’re well.”

“I missed you,” he said quietly.

God. You swallowed. “We got busy.”

He nodded. “Yeah. You were out there doing your thing. And I was…” He looked down at his polished shoes, then back up, almost sheepishly. “Apparently running for Congress.”

You laughed under your breath. “How the hell did that happen?”

“Woke up one day and wanted to matter,” he said. “I guess… I wanted to do something. Like you.”

His voice cracked just a bit. The way it always did when he let the guard down. When he wasn’t the Winter Soldier, wasn’t a Congressman. Just Bucky.

“How do you feel?” you asked. “Off the record, of course.

“Felt like I was gonna throw up,” he admitted, eyes bright with the kind of joy that only came from honesty. “Until you asked that question.”

“Oh?” you asked, one brow lifting. “Didn’t mean to rattle you.”

“You didn’t.” He tilted his head. “Well. Maybe a little. But in a good way.”

You let another beat of silence fester before lowering your voice. “You know, the last time I saw you…”

“That night,” he finished, a little too fast, “I remember.”

You looked up at him. “And the morning after,” you said, “you dropped me at the station.”

“I did,” he said, softer now. “Kissed you like an idiot before you left. ‘Cause we were just friends, right?”

You smiled, biting your bottom lip. “Right.”

He took a step closer, invading your space just enough to let the muscle memory kick in.  “Was it ever really just that for you?” he asked, voice husky.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stepped a little closer, too. Close enough to smell the clean linen of his shirt and the warm spice of his cologne.

“Congressman Barnes,” you whispered. “You’re dangerously close to breaking professional boundaries.”

His eyes darkened, locked on your mouth, before his assistant called his name.

“Shit,” he said, reluctantly, “I’ve got a thing in ten minutes.”

“Good,” you said. “That means I can walk away before this gets messier than it already is.”

You turned, but his hand — his human hand — caught your wrist. “I meant what I said,” he told you. “I missed you. I missed this.”

“I missed you too,” you said, just above a whisper. “Even when I tried not to.”

He stepped back, though only barely. “You still trying?”

You didn’t answer. You just looked at him like you knew. Like only the two of you knew how it really ended — how it never really ended at all.

He let you go. “Dinner?”

“I’ll think about it.”

He smiled. “I’ll take that.”

As you walked away, your heart a livewire under your ribs, he watched you with a look that wasn’t fit for public office — but damn if it didn’t feel like the beginning of something. Again.

—

Your article dropped at 7:30 a.m. on a Monday.

By 8:15, it had already been passed between Capitol Hill interns like contraband. Screenshots on Slack. Circled paragraphs in group chats. Someone in Policy & Strategy made a spreadsheet of who was flayed the hardest.

The article was titled: “The New Faces of Power: An Overview of the Elected Democratic Representatives.”

Bucky Barnes — newly sworn-in Representative of New York’s 7th Congressional District — landed at #3 on that list.

He read it in full by 9:04 a.m., standing by the windows of his DC office, coffee gone cold in his hand. You hadn’t pulled your punches.

It was why you’d gone from freelancer with an uncertain voice to one of the youngest senior political analysts at your publication in just two years. You’d clawed your way up, built a reputation out of clever insight and fearless prose.

You didn't have time for flattery. You didn’t care if your subject wore medals or held office — if their platform wasn’t solid, you said it.

And now, you’d turned that lens on him.

James Buchanan Barnes steps into Congress with a legacy longer than most Representatives’ résumés. He’s got the kind of résumé that makes people feel things — safety, nostalgia, reverence. But policy isn’t about feeling. It’s about doing. And so far, Barnes might be more invested in image than action. Final Verdict: Symbolic. Possibly even performative. The jury’s still out.

Ouch.

And yet— Bucky let the words sink deep. Because you weren’t wrong. Not entirely.

And that’s what made it sting — and what made him respect the hell out of you. You’d known him in a way no one else had. You’d known his heart. You’d had your fingers on his ribs and your voice in his ear and still, you didn’t let that cloud your judgment.

You didn’t shrink from writing what needed to be written. And God, he missed you for it.

He hadn’t realised how much until now, until he saw your name again in bold, crisp font — right there, above an article that had already shaken the morning meetings of half the House aides.

But then he noticed something.

His heart picked up. No way.

It was ridiculous to think you’d—

But he sat down fast. Grabbed his phone. Opened the Notes app.

Under your name, he noticed a little key smash that looked like it had accidentally made it pass editing.

hes mw fcxxet

But he knew it wasn’t.

You and Bucky had developed a custom Alphabet replacement cipher, started out as a game three years ago. It was a book club dare between lovers, made of childhood tricks and spy movies. You’d laughed about it afterwards and curled up beside him, called it “your nerdy little secret,” and buried one in a crossword puzzle just for him the week after you’d left D.C.

He hadn’t thought you’d ever use it again.

But there it was. Carefully embedded in your very public article.

He decoded quickly, like muscle memory. Years apart hadn’t dulled it.

YES TO DINNER

He blinked.

He did it again, just to be sure.

You’d written a critical analysis that dissected his first month in office and still found room to slip him that?

Because that’s what it was always like with you: you could gut him and leave him breathless, and still leave the door open. Still whisper, come find me.

And oh, he wanted to.

Not just because you were brilliant, or beautiful, or impossible to look away from at press conferences. But because you saw him. Not the image. Not the mythology. Him.

And you never let him off the hook.

He’d text you — eventually. Or maybe he’d make a statement and bury his response somewhere in the transcript. Because he could play the game too.

But for now, he sat back in his chair, phone still in his hand, and smiled to himself.

Because you weren’t gone. You weren’t done.

You were still here — dropping ciphers just for him.

—

You almost missed the email.

It was buried under press releases and budget spreadsheets and one thousand lines of “per my last email.” Just another ping in your inbox at 2:03 p.m., from a congressional domain name.

Subject line: Response to Editorial – Representative Barnes

The name made your heart jump, but you didn’t let it show. Not at your desk, not around your colleagues, not when you’d trained yourself for years to be unreadable in a newsroom.

You clicked it open like.

The message was clinical on the surface.

Thank you for your recent editorial in The District Post. I appreciate the critical lens and the historical context your piece brought to the ongoing conversation about congressional transparency and symbolic governance. While I would, of course, offer a more nuanced response to some of your assessments, I recognize the value of this kind of scrutiny. In fact, I’d welcome a longer conversation. nwye mw ycxe rwt fcxxet Kind Regards, Rep. James B. Barnes 2318 Zpxqsmwx Vzpne XJ, Pvm. 7O slxsem rtcfph

Your fingers trembled just a little as you pulled up the decoder in your notes app. It felt like sharing a secret in a room full of people who would never understand.

You deciphered the string, slowly.

COME TO MINE FOR DINNER

And then, just beneath the signature:

2318 Langston Place NW, Apt. 7B Sunset. Friday.

You stared at the screen.

Your lips parted in something between a laugh and a silent what the fuck. You were sitting in the middle of a very serious, very professional office, and suddenly you were weightless.

Because he didn’t just say yes.

He invited you to his place like no time had passed. Like you hadn’t gone a whole year barely speaking. Like you hadn’t told yourself that those nights with him were heat-of-the-moment, never-again things.

You didn’t reply immediately. That would be too obvious. You minimized the window and tried to pretend you weren’t practically buzzing.

But your fingers drummed on the desk, your cheeks felt warm, and when someone walked past and said your name, you had to blink yourself back into reality.

He knew. That bastard. He knew exactly what kind of signal he’d sent.

—

​​The apartment was nicer than you expected. Not flashy, but cosy and huge, with wide windows and hardwood floors and a kitchen that smelled like rosemary and garlic and seared butter.

He opened the door in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled halfway, a dish towel tossed over one shoulder. His hair pulled back. 

“Wow,” you said before you could help it, your coat still halfway on. “You clean up.”

He grinned, boyish. “So do you.”

You stepped in. He didn’t hug you — not right away. Maybe neither of you were sure what this night was supposed to be.

But then he brushed your arm when he took your coat, and you both noticed.

You sat on the bar stool by the counter while he plated the steak — cooked perfectly, like he knew what he was doing. There were potatoes, charred asparagus. A bottle of red already breathing on the sideboard.

“This is domestic,” you teased. “Should I be worried?”

Bucky gave a huff of laughter. “Campaign staff made me take a cooking class. Said it would ‘humanize’ me.”

You snorted. “Did it?”

He passed you a plate, eyes flicking up. “You tell me.”

Dinner was slow. Not awkward, not rushed. Like the both of you had been saving this conversation in the backs of your minds, knowing it would happen eventually. The stories started pouring in — how you were promoted after your Ross exposé, how D.C. life was treating you.

He chuckled, chewed, leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “You’re still the same.”

You raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean—” He gestured, vague and fond. “Smart. Too good at what you do. Makes people nervous.”

“You?”

“Never,” he said. “You scare the hell outta me in the best way.”

The heat in your cheeks surprised you. He looked down, tongue tucked into his cheek. You nudged the topic somewhere safer, even if it stung a little.You told him how D.C. dating was a disaster — lobbyists who thought they were philosophers, bureaucrats who never turned off the PR charm. “I’ve been ghosted by men with press secretaries,” you said. “It’s bleak.”

He laughed, rubbing his jaw. “That’s rough.”

“And you?”

“New York dating’s a lotta noise,” he said. “Everyone’s either performative or trying to ‘fix’ me.”

“They know you’re now, like, if John Wick and C-Span had a baby, right? You’re not a rehab project.”

“Try telling them that.”

You sipped. “So we’re both un-dateable. Good to know.”

He laughed, a little too loud. “Yeah, no. I went on a couple dates last winter. It’s… weird. I had one woman ask me to sign her shirt.”

You raised your wine glass. “That’s… hot, actually.”

“I declined.”

You both laughed, and it felt… familiar.

Eventually, you leaned back, fork resting on your empty plate. “I saw Sam a couple months ago.”

Bucky tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It was right after the Ross thing. I was there when… you know, the president turned red,” you chuckled, though that wasn’t an amusing memory by any means. “The next day, he came by the Post, off the record. Just to… check in.”

His brow furrowed. He knew you and Sam had a professional relationship, to an extent, and he was grateful for it. If not him, at least someone he trusted looked out for you. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you said softly. “Shaken. But fine. I… visited Joaquin, too. Way too cheerful for someone who broke half the bones in his body, if you ask me.”

He chuckled, nodding.

You hesitated. “I… asked Sam how you were.”

His eyes lifted to yours.

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “He said you were good. Starting to settle.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Not true?”

He picked up his glass and swirled the wine.

“I’m not unhappy,” he said. “I just… don’t think I ever figured out where I really belong.”

You swallowed. 

And then, he asked, “You?”

You smiled. “I’m doing okay.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “That’s reductive.”

“Yes,” you agreed. “It is.”

He tilted his head, watching you like he used to.

Then he stood, took your plate, and moved toward the sink.

You sat there, letting it settle. Taking the scent of his soap and warm spices,

When he turned back, his voice was quieter. “I kept reading you, y’know. Even when we stopped talking.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You kept getting better. Meaner, sometimes. But better.” He smiled, almost proud. “I liked that you never held back.”

You bit your lip. 

He stepped closer, one hand still drying on the towel. “Still can’t believe you said yes.”

“To dinner?”

“To me.”

You looked up at him. “We’re just catching up, right?”

He leaned in. “Right.”

“As friends?” You said. 

“Whatever you say,” Bucky nodded, though he never looked convinced when he said that. 

But the way his eyes dropped to your lips — the way yours drifted to the hollow of his throat — it didn’t feel like just friends catching up.

—

Dinner was long gone. The wine was halfway finished, though neither moved to really touch it. 

You were both sitting on the fluffy cotton couch in his living room, the city humming outside the windows like it knew how rare this quiet was.

You had your legs curled under you, holding a cup of warm tea with both hands. Bucky sat on the opposite side, one arm lazily draped over the back of the couch, his eyes on you — not exactly subtle.

You were pretending not to notice.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence with a thoughtful tone. “D.C.’s nice. People have schedules. Rules. They hold doors open and write polite emails even when they’re telling you to go to hell.”

You smiled faintly. “Sounds about right.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” He chuckled once. “But… it’s not you.”

“Oh?” You arched an eyebrow as you looked at him over your glass. “What is me, then?”

His eyes lingered on your face. “Less structured. Messier. More… sporadic.”

You laughed, though you didn’t take it to heart. “Okay, rude.”

“No, not like that,” he said quickly, shaking his head, and way too sincere for his own good. “You just… don’t belong in a box. You think too fast. You don’t follow rules unless they’re worth following. You’re more… New York.”

The room felt warmer suddenly. You set your cup down gently on the coffee table. “I had a chance to leave, you know,” you said, tone lighter now, “The New York Times offered me more money.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Bigger platform. Fancy job title. But I said no.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “Because I have friends here. A community. I… love my job.” Then you added, eyes catching his, “And you. Now you’re here, too.”

Bucky’s ears went slightly pink, but he chose to focus on the former rather than the latter, “Do you love that your job includes tearing into your friend’s political motivations?”

You stilled slightly. “You read my latest?”

“Course I did,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question. “You called me ‘possibly performative.’ That was a fun day at the office.”

You shrugged. “Touché.”

“Still stings, though,” he added, quieter.

“I know,” you admitted. “But I said it because I’ve seen you doing your superhero stuff on the field. I know what you look like when you don’t have to ask permission to do the right thing. So forgive me if I think you’re better with your sleeves rolled up, and not behind a podium. Not editing policy drafts.”

Bucky’s teeth clenched slightly, though didn’t look away.

“I just…” you shrugged. “I wonder if this version of you—politician Bucky—is the one who actually is. Or if he’s just… pretending.”

He was silent for a long moment, deciphering your criticism. “I don’t know if I fit anywhere,” he said eventually. “But this?” He gestured vaguely to the apartment, the city, the suit. “This is the first time I’ve chosen something that didn’t involve a gun.”

You watched him carefully. “Why are you really here, Bucky?”

He hesitated. His voice, when it came, was firmer than you expected.

“Because I want to change things. Because I’ve seen what happens when the wrong people are in charge, and I’ve lost too many damn nights thinking about what I could’ve done if I’d mattered.”

Your throat tightened.

“And yeah,” he added. “There are a lot of people here for the wrong reasons. Power, money, legacy. Whatever. But every time I walk through those doors, I get to try. That counts for something, right?”

You smiled, soft and sad. “It does.”

“Besides, Sam and Joaquin are both here.” He leaned in slightly. “And yeah, you being here… doesn’t hurt.”

He held your eyes for a second too long. You looked down, unsure of what to say. 

“You still think I’m better off in the field?” he asked, flexing vibranium fingers. 

You nodded once. “I think that’s when you’re most you. Not when you’re buried in committees and handshakes and kissing babies.”

He didn’t argue.

“But,” you added, “if this is what you want—if this is who you’re becoming—then I won’t be the one to doubt it. I just want you to be sure.”

Bucky exhaled slowly. “I want to matter,” he said again. “And if I can’t fix all of it, at least I can stand in the way.”

Fuck, he was infuriatingly sincere, and all you could do was nod.

He watched you for a second, then said, casually, “There’s a state gala tomorrow.”

You looked up from the mug in your hands. “Is that code for ‘I’m vanishing into some secret operation and won’t return for 72 hours’?”

He gave a small smile. “It’s real. Suits and champagne and officials pretending they know what they’re doing.”

You made a face. “Sounds excruciating.”

“Oh, it is,” He tilted his head. “But if you really want to see me perform.” — he gave the word a faintly mocking twist — “you should come.”

You raised a brow. “What, you’re gonna give me a press invite?”

He shook his head once. “No,” he said, “I’m asking you to be my date.”

That statement hung there for longer than it should have.

You blinked. “That’s... bold.”

“Is it?” he asked, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I thought I was being subtle.”

“You’re about as subtle as a grenade.”

He smiled.

You leaned over, scooting closer. “Is this the kind of event where they serve caviar and pretend the world isn’t on fire?”

“Probably.”

“And you want me there? With my ‘less structured, more sporadic’ energy?”

“I’m counting on it,” he said slyly. “Otherwise I’ll just stand around pretending I support stupid tax policies and end up punching someone.”

You glanced at him. “So this is strategic.”

He looked at you and said, “It’s not just that.”

You didn’t answer right away— considering it for almost a full minute.

“Fine.” You finally said, “But I’m not wearing heels over three inches.”

He gave a huff of laughter. “Deal.”

“And if you make me have small talk with anyone who says ‘let’s circle back,’ I’m walking out.”

“I’ll chase you,” he said playfully.

You turned to look at him. “Will you?”

He just nodded.

After all, he wasn’t letting you go ever again.

—

The next night, you weren’t nervous. Not exactly. Just… hyper-aware.

You’d changed your outfit twice — okay, three times — before landing on something sleek and black. It had a clean neckline and strong silhouette. Subtle enough for D.C., but you in the bones of it. 

Your phone buzzed.

[Bucky, 6:53 PM] Outside.

You smoothed your dress once, checked your lipstick without really seeing your reflection, then grabbed your clutch and headed down.

The car waiting wasn’t flashy, but it was classy. When the door opened and you stepped out under the street light, he stepped out too — and froze.

His suit was black, his shirt was black. It looked tailored within an inch of its life with silver cufflinks and not a tie in sight. He had his collar open, and hair swept back in that lazy way that looked expensive and just a little reckless. It was like he’d gotten dressed while thinking about you.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “Wow,” Bucky said, voice quieter than usual. “Just—off the record?”

You tilted your head curiously. 

He let out a deep breath. “You look beautiful.”

You tried not to smile, though it failed.

“Flattery this early in the night might get into my head,” you warned, stepping toward him.

His lips quirked. “Good.”

You both stood there for half a second too long.

Finally, he opened the car door and held out his hand. You took it.

—

The doors clicked shut, the city noise fading. The air inside smelled like his cologne — subtle and clean, a little smoky underneath. There’s a driver, sure, but the glass is up. You’re alone, technically. 

Bucky shifted, resting his left arm casually on the center console, metal fingers tapping a rhythm against the leather. His other hand sat loose on his thigh. 

You glanced over. “So this is you ‘fitting in’?”

He grimaced slightly. “This is me trying not to pull a fire alarm to get out of going.”

You laughed. “And I’m the distraction from your self-sabotage?”

“No,” he said, and you could tell he meant it. “You’re the reason I showed up at all.”

Your breath caught just slightly, but you played it off with a wry smile, turning your head toward the window.

“So,” you said. “Is this where you do your best politician impression?”

He groaned. “God, please don’t make me do the voice.”

“Oh no, you have a voice?”

“You know I do.”

You mimicked him, overly formal: “‘The Congressman appreciates your concern and will take the matter under advisement—’”

He slumped dramatically. “Okay, now you’re just bullying me.”

You smiled. “You like it.”

He didn’t deny it.

—

The ballroom glittered with wealth and power — not chaotic like press rooms, where you’re most comfortable in. Everyone here wore their masks well with practiced smiles, firm handshakes, and champagne flutes held like accessories to an agenda.

You’d seen a hundred rooms like it, but never quite like this 

Bucky walked beside you like a man who’d rather be anywhere else, yet he’d learned how to make discomfort look intentional. His eyes were always moving — reading people, scanning for more information. 

And people noticed. 

Some recognised you immediately. You could see it in the way their eyes narrowed just slightly, or the pause between sip and smile. You weren’t supposed to be here. Not in this capacity — not as a plus-one in a dress instead of with a press badge and recorder in hand.

Which made your presence all the more interesting.

Bucky knew it, too.

He introduced you a few times. Politely, not as “a friend” — not as “press.” Just your name. Just enough to let people wonder, is she here for him or for the story?

You smiled graciously every time and sipped your champagne like you weren’t watching everything.

And then it happened.

You were standing near one of the tall tables, Bucky in conversation with two Congressmen and a Defense contractor whose face you recognised — old money and a reputation wrapped in plausible deniability. The topic had started light — committee reshuffling, midterm optics — but Bucky didn’t do small talk well, especially when he smelled bullshit.

“I’ve been looking into the appropriations numbers from the last round of GRC aid,” he said smoothly. “Funny how the oversight committee flagged three anomalies—two of them connected to firms your office vouched for.”

One of the men laughed nervously. “Now’s not the time, Barnes.”

“Why not?” Bucky asked, calmly. “Transparency’s a big part of your platform, right?”

One of them looked at you— and he definitely knew who you were.

“This isn’t the place,” the man said again.

Your eyebrows lifted.

Bucky turned his head slightly. “What, because she’s here?”

You took that as your cue.

You smiled wickedly and stepped forward just enough to make them uneasy.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said, voice like silk. “I’m off the clock. Everything’s off the record.” You sipped your drink. “I’m just a plus-one tonight,” you added, eyes dancing. Which is complete bullshit, of course, but it was very fun to pretend you weren’t clocking everything. 

They didn’t laugh. Bucky did.

He stood there beside you, watching them shift in their shoes, and take pleasure in it. Not because you were being antagonistic — you weren’t. You were smiling, polite, even charming. But the presence of a journalist with integrity alone made them sweat. 

That’s what he loved about bringing you here.

You didn’t have to say anything.

They still squirmed.

Not all of them, though.

Later in the evening, a young Senator from Illinois approached you both.

“I just wanted to say,” she said, “I appreciated your breakdown of the foreign security budget last quarter. Brutal, but honest.”

You smiled warmer, more genuine. “Thank you. I try not to hold back.”

“You shouldn’t.” The Senator looked at Bucky. “People like you make us better.”

That one stuck with you.

Because for all the ones who looked rattled — who saw your presence as a threat to their comfort — there were others who understood. Who didn’t fear the questions, who welcomed the pressure.

That when you realised Bucky brought you here not to show you off — but to set a tone.

He could’ve brought anyone.

But he brought the one person who made people nervous— as part of his… performance.

And as the night wore on — as the speeches droned and the clinking glasses dulled into background noise — he’d glance at you now and then with a small smile.

—

The ride back was quiet. Your shoes were off the second you got in the car. Bucky had loosened his collar even more, one hand draped lazily on the back of the seat, fingers just barely brushing your shoulder.

When the car stopped outside your place, you didn’t move right away.

He turned to you. “So.”

You looked at him. “So.”

“That wasn’t a complete disaster.”

“Mm,” you said, mock-considering. “You didn’t punch anyone. I didn’t blackmail anyone. That’s a win.”

Bucky snorted. “Low bar.”

You grinned. “Yup.”

He walked you to your door, jacket slung over one shoulder now, tie stuffed in his pocket. 

“Thanks for coming,” he said, “Really.”

You looked up at him, keys in hand.

“You mean for distracting your enemies and inciting mild panic among the morally bankrupt?”

He shrugged. “Exactly.”

You turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open halfway, then paused. You hesitated for one heartbeat

“Hey,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “You wanna come in?”

Bucky looked… surprise. “You sure?”

You shrugged casually. “Just don’t make it weird, Barnes.”

“I’m a hundred years old,” he laughed before gesturing to his driver that he was done for the night. “I make everything weird.” 

—

You kicked your shoes off the second you walked in, already sighing with relief. Bucky followed behind you, glancing around with a quiet smile.

“Wow,” he said, soft and sincere. “You’ve really made a life here.”

You turned, one foot curled under you as you leaned on the arm of the couch. “What, you thought I lived in a reporter-shaped room with a desk and no plumbing?”

“I dunno,” he teased. “I pictured you in a shoebox full of press clippings and takeout.”

You walked past him and opened a cabinet, tossing him a glass. “Close.”

He caught it easily and raised it in a little toast. “Seriously, though. It’s nice. It’s… you.”

That mattered, coming from him.

“I tried,” you said. “Stability’s weird, but I don’t hate it.”

You both sat on the couch, facing each other at first, wine in hand, posture still alert. But over the next twenty minutes, the tension melted slowly — minute by minute, like butter on warm toast.

You talked about the gala. About the senator who spilled champagne on her own shoes and tried to blame the caterer. About how politics made everything louder but not always clearer. About Sam. About your job.

At some point, you pulled your hair up into a messy knot and tossed your legs across his lap like nothing has changed. Bucky, to his credit, just adjusted. His hand stayed on your calf, and he didn’t move it.

You were laughing about something — a lobbyist who couldn’t even point out Russia in a map — when Bucky looked at you a little too long.

And suddenly he leaned forward.

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t a sweep-you-off-your-feet kind of trying-to-kiss-you.

It was slow, like he was giving you the chance to stop it.

And you did.

Gently, you put a hand on his chest and pulled back. 

He froze.

“Shit,” he said immediately, backing off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— I just—”

“No,” you cut in quickly. “No, Bucky. I want to.” You looked at him, heart thudding. “I really want to.”

That was true. God, it was true. You were dizzy from the way his breath had felt on your lips, the heat still buzzing where your hand had rested on his chest.

You watched his metal arm plates tighten, his teeth clenching, trying to understand.

“But if we do this again,” you continued, “it can’t be like it was before.”

“Friends with… occasional poor boundary control?” he offered, one corner of his mouth twitching in a sad smile. That charm has always softened the blow, even now.

You gave him a fond look. “Exactly.”

A beat of silence came back, but it wasn’t hard this time.

“So what do we do now?” he asked.

You shifted, taking your legs off his lap and tucking them under you as you leaned back on the arm of the couch. Bucky turned too, mirroring you, knees bumping yours. 

“We should sleep on it,” you said softly.

He raised an eyebrow, then repeated, “sleep on it?”

“Yeah.” You nudged his knee. “Not everything has to explode. We take a second. Let it breathe, y’know?”

“And if I’m already sure?” he asked.

Your heart gave you a small, reckless kick.

You looked at him still. “Then sleep on it anyway. Because I need to be sure, too. And if we want to try again—” You hesitated. “Let’s start properly,” you said, more certain now. “Not with wine and after-gala adrenaline.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment, studying you. Then he nodded. “Start again.”

“Yeah.”

He leaned his head back against the couch, eyes drifting to the ceiling like he was thinking something through. Then he smiled a tired, lopsided smile. “That sounds terrifying.”

You laughed. “Not as terrifying as pretending we’re still just friends.”

“Of course.”

The city hummed low through the window, the buzz of the TV flickering like white noise behind you both.

He stretched out a little, glancing over. “So… if we’re sleeping on it…”

You arched a brow. “You want to crash here?”

His eyes feigned innocence. “Purely in a start-over, emotionally-mature capacity.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased. “You gonna hold up your end of the truce?”

He gave you a look. “You trust me?”

“I trust me,” you joked, “You, on the other hand...”

“Hey,” he furrowed his eyebrows.

“Kidding.” Still, you got up and walked to the closet to grab a blanket, tossed him a throw pillow (which he barely caught). You didn’t say much, but there was something strangely gentle about the way you both moved around each other — no longer afraid of being too close, but careful all the same.

You showered while he showered in the guest room en-suite. You put on an oversized shirt and returned to the couch to find Bucky already lying down in a shirt some guys left at your place like, a year ago (it was a bit too small on him) — legs curled, arms crossed behind his head like he was trying not to take up space.

You didn’t hesitate, climbing in next to him.

“You always did take up the whole couch,” you muttered.

“Guess you’ll just have to climb over me,” he said innocently.

You narrowed your eyes. “I will smother you with this pillow.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

You rolled your eyes and settled in beside him, both of you a little awkward for a second — arms adjusting, legs figuring themselves out — until it just… worked.

His arm ended up around your shoulder. Your head ended up on his chest. Your knee bumped his thigh and stayed there. 

Eventually, you turned on something dumb on TV — a rerun of Friends or Seinfeld, neither of you really watching. You curled into him, one of his hands toyed absently with the ends of your hair.

And somewhere around 1:42 a.m., though you mentioned something about sleeping in your own bed and Bucky taking the guest bedroom — you both drifted off on the couch, your head against his shoulder. 

—

The next morning, you blinked awake, cocooned beneath your comforter, your cheek pressed into your pillow.

Your mind, at first, didn’t quite catch up. You were home, clearly. In your bed. 

But—

Wait.

You sat up.

The comforter slid off your shoulder, revealing your sleep shirt twisted sideways from the night before. You rubbed your eyes, squinting at the faint ache in your neck and…

No Bucky.

Your brows furrowed as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the hardwood floor. You walked down the hallway, and saw that the guest bedroom was empty.

Continuing into the living room, the couch was also empty.

The blanket was folded, pillow fluffed. Everything was neat like he’d never been there at all — except you knew he had. You remembered the warmth of his breath. You remembered falling asleep with his fingers lazily brushing the inside of your elbow.

So what the hell?

And then you noticed it.

A small, folded slip of paper on your coffee table.

Right where the wine glasses had been.

You picked it up, heart thudding with the sudden, irrational hope that it wasn’t goodbye. That he hadn’t walked out and decided this was all a mistake. That you hadn’t imagined the tenderness under all that restraint.

You unfolded the paper.

At first, it was just nonsense.

A familiar, ridiculous mix of letters.

Fcxxet mwywttwj xcqdm?

Your lips curved before you even touched your phone.

You pulled up the old cipher from your Notes app — You typed it in, letter by letter.

DINNER TOMORROW NIGHT?

You stared at it for a long moment, biting back a grin.

So... he’d carried you to bed.

You knew it. You could see it now — him gently scooping you up when you’d both dozed off on the couch, trying not to wake you, probably muttering something like you’re a lot heavier when you’re pretending to be asleep as he navigated the hallway in the dark. 

And then he left without a sound.

You stared down at the note again, fingers brushing over the paper.

You folded the note neatly, slipped it into the drawer beside your bed, and let yourself sink back into the mattress with a small, secret smile still playing at your lips as you got ready for work. 

—

Later that day, Bucky returned from his lunch break late — not intentionally, just Capitol Hill late, which meant five different people had stopped him to ask about pending subcommittees and another wanted to get a “quick quote” on infrastructure allocations (it was never quick).

His shoulders were tense. His tie was already undone by a half-inch, the top button of his collar loosening like it couldn’t breathe.

He stepped into his office and greeted his aide with a distracted nod.

“Anything urgent?”

“Just a note was dropped off for you,” he said, not looking up from his monitor. “Someone from the press.”

Bucky raised a brow.

The note sat innocently on his desk — folded in half, no letterhead, no envelope. Just a slip of paper.

He opened it.

Zem's qw rwt slsdc ptwlxf mde nwtxet mw hwlts. 8VY.

It took less than a second for the corner of his mouth to lift.

He didn’t need the cipher chart anymore. It was muscle memory. Every twist of the alphabet was familiar — like a shared language no one else could hear.

He decoded it line by line, letting the message unfold:

LET'S GO FOR SUSHI AROUND THE CORNER TO YOURS. 8PM.

He closed his eyes and let the smile spread fully now, crumpling the note gently in one hand as he leaned back in his chair.

His aide peered around the door. “Good news?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “Yeah. It’s really good news.”

—

The sushi place wasn’t fancy.

It was tucked in the corner, with lantern lighting and wooden booths that smelled like soy sauce and rice vinegar. The kind of place only locals knew — no website, no reservation system, just a handwritten menu by the door and a hostess who warmed up after you ordered the special.

Bucky hadn’t protested. In fact, when he saw the low ceilings, the tiny fish tank by the register, and the man behind the bar rolling perfect maki like a magician, he looked at you and said, “This is charming.”

You grinned. “I know.”

He held the door for you, a hand resting lightly on the small of your back, like it had always belonged there. You tried not to overthink it.

You both ordered too much. The waitress just nodded, unimpressed by your enthusiasm. You ended up with two miso soups, three types of rolls, a shared tempura plate, and a carafe of warm sake.

And for the first twenty minutes, you just talked.

Not flirted. 

Talked.

About terrible campaign ads. About how Bucky’s suit got stuck in the Capitol Hill coatroom for two days. About how your editor now thinks you're “the only one ruthless enough to handle political profiles and deal with it without crying.”

You made him laugh.

He draped an arm along the back of your chair and leaned in while you recounted a story about accidentally calling a senator ‘dude.’

“I mean,” Bucky said, hiding a grin, “still better than the guy calling ‘mom’ during a floor vote.”

You nearly spit your sake.

And something about this felt so normal.

Like this had always been the plan.

You left the restaurant full, Bucky’s hand brushing yours as you walked to the curb.

“This was good.”

You nodded. “It was.”

And then it became a habit.

Tuesdays became a day for sushi. Or Thai. Or that place with the weird tacos in Foggy Bottom you swore would give you food poisoning but kept going back to anyway.

Every Tuesday night — without fail — you had dinner.

Sometimes you argued about who’d pay. Sometimes you or Bucky would cook, and you teased him until he burned the garlic. Sometimes you ordered takeout and sat on the floor with wine and policy memos you pretended to ignore.

You saw him other days, too — but Tuesdays were yours.

Then came the coffees.

First, it was once a week. You brought him a cup to a hearing. He dropped one off at your office on a quiet Thursday. Then it became routine.

Twice a week.

Always black coffee with way too much sugar for him. A latte for you, but maybe iced, depending on your mood. He started keeping one of those silly reusable cups with your initials on it in his briefcase, just in case. You’d pretend not to notice, but you always did.

He sent you articles at 1am with comments like: this senator’s grammar is actually criminal.You texted him mid-press conference while you were in the crowd just to make him break — fix your tie, you look like you’re being held hostage.

And one night, while sitting across from him in a pizza booth with garlic dip on your wrist you realised this wasn’t your old book-club-then-sex habit. This was new. This was… stable.

—

A month or two passed before you even realised.

You’d just come back from dinner — Thai this time, spicy enough to make both of you sniffle over the last plate of drunken noodles. You still had the faintest smear of chili oil on your lips, and your stomach hurt from laughing when Bucky tried to order in Thai and accidentally asked the waiter if the rice was single.

Now, you were in his living room, kicking your shoes off while Bucky headed down the hall to the bathroom, calling over his shoulder, “Gimme two minutes—pick a movie or something. Remote’s on the coffee table.”

You called back, “Copy that, Barnes.”

Except… there was no remote on the coffee table.

You checked under a magazine, lifted a coaster. You beneath a throw pillow with a dramatic sigh.

Still nothing.

So, naturally, you glanced toward the media console. There were two drawers. 

You opened the top one.

No remote. Just a bunch of coasters and a spare charger.

Then the second.

At first, it looked like scraps of paper. Neat ones. Square, all the same size. All stacked and carefully folded. You reached for one without thinking.

Then you saw it.

C zwke hwl 

Your cipher.

The letters stared up at you, jumbled and unreadable at a glance. But your brain, so familiar with this dance now that you’ve regularly been using this to communicate, began decoding line by line.

I LOVE YOU

You blinked. What?

You took a second note.

C'y cx zwke jcmd hwl — I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU

You opened another.

C'y rpzzcxq cx zwke jcmd hwl — I'M FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOU

And another — the handwriting slanted, like he’d written it fast, maybe late at night.

C dpke oeex cx zwke jcmd hwl rwt p jdcze — I HAVE BEEN IN LOVE WITH YOU FOR A WHILE

There were dozens, tucked neatly, like they mattered. Like he wrote them down when he couldn’t say them aloud. Some looked older. Some more recent. Some were on scrap paper, one was on the back of a coffee receipt. They were all different. Some were hesitant. Some were certain. One had been rewritten three times with a slightly different phrasing each time.

But they all said the same thing, all had the same two words:

zwke — LOVE hwl — YOU

Again. And again.

And suddenly, you couldn’t breathe.

The remote was long forgotten. Your fingers shook just a little.

“Hey, sorry, took forever—” Bucky said from behind.

You snapped your head back. Bucky stood in the doorway, towel drying his hands, his hair slightly damp from where he must’ve splashed water on his face.

His eyes dropped to the drawer, to the paper in your hand.

And everything in him went still.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

You just looked at him, standing frozen in the doorway like he wasn’t sure whether to run or brace for impact. 

Your voice came in disbelief. “Bucky…” You held up one of the notes. “How long have you been scribbling these?”

He didn’t move. His eyes flicked from the paper to you, and back again.

Then, quietly, almost like it hurt to admit, he said, “Since I moved back here.” He took a deep breath. “But I… I didn’t want to mess it up. Not when we’d just started figuring out what this is.”

You took a step toward him. The room felt smaller now — but not claustrophobic. 

He swallowed. “I kept writing it down because saying it felt too… final, I guess. And you’d said to take our time. So I tried, but it’s always been right there. Right on the edge of—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You kissed him for the first time in years, and it was… different. 

The kind of kiss that didn’t ask a question or wait for permission — because it was the answer. The kind of kiss that felt like relief and release all the same, like finally.

Bucky froze for half a second, before you back like he’d been holding it in for years.

His hand cupped your cheeks, thumb brushing your jawline  like he couldn’t believe you were real. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, grounding yourself in the way he made when he finally let go.

When you pulled back — just barely — your noses brushed.

You kept your eyes closed for a moment before whispering, “Next time you feel like writing ‘I love you’ thirty-six times in a drawer, maybe just… try saying it once out loud.”

Bucky gave a huffed breath of a laugh. “Noted.”

His forehead was still pressed to yours, breath shallow between you. 

You opened your eyes slowly, and his were already there — dark, focused, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the flutter of your lashes, the way your fingers still curled into the front of his shirt like you needed him to stay real.

“I’m serious,” you whispered. “Just say it.”

He tilted his head slightly, lips brushing yours again, so close it was barely a kiss. “Okay,” almost restrained. “I love you.”

Your breath caught — not because you didn’t know it, but because hearing it was something else entirely.

This time, he kissed you first.

And this time, it was different — hungrier.

His arms were around you in a heartbeat, hands sliding along your back, gripping the fabric of your shirt. You pushed him back toward the couch, urgency curling in your belly as his mouth opened under yours — heat pouring in, your teeth catching his bottom lip just enough to draw a soft, involuntary moan. You barely made it to the couch. Your bodies hit the cushions in a tangle, knees and hands and breathless gasps, his hands framing your face before skimming down your sides. He tugged at the hem of your shirt, and you nodded, lifting your arms.

The shirt hit the floor behind you.

Bucky leaned back slightly, eyes raking over your skin like it physically hurt him not to touch you. “God, I missed this,” he said.

You pulled him back in.

The way he kissed you now was different — unhurried, like he was relearning every inch of you. His mouth trailed along your jaw, your throat, teeth raking the curve of your shoulder as your fingers found the hem of his shirt and pushed it up, palms flattening against his chest.

He hissed when your nails dragged lightly down his ribs.

“Still ticklish?” you teased, breathless.

“Only when you do that,” he growled into your skin.

You felt his metal hand curl behind your knee, pulling your leg up around his waist as his hips pressed into yours — a sigh slipping from you before you could stop it.

You gasped as his mouth found your chest, lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses over your skin. He made a sound when you arched beneath him. You felt the drag of his stubble, the roll of his hips, the way he was holding back for your sake.

“Bucky,” you whispered against his ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Don’t.”

He slowed down, only for a second. 

“Don’t hold back.”

And then he didn’t.

—

The room was quiet except for your breathing.

You were lying in the dip of the couch, half-covered by a throw blanket you barely remembered tugging over yourselves. Bucky’s body was curled around you, metal arm slung protective over your waist.

You could still feel him everywhere.

Not just physically — though that, too: the ache between your thighs, the kiss-bruised curve of your mouth, the sweet sting of stubble burns on your inner thighs. But it felt as if he’d pressed himself into your bloodstream, rewired the rhythm of your pulse.

You’d thought you remembered what it felt like to be with him.

You had not.

This time hadn’t been frantic or impulsive like it used to be — not fueled by adrenaline or blurred by loneliness. This time had been devastatingly focused, like he wanted to undo every careless moment you’d ever shared before. And he had. Every touch had felt deliberate — like he’d waited years just to relearn how to love you with his hands and his mouth and his whole damn body.

And you had let him.

Your head rested on his chest now, rising and falling with each breath he took. His human hand gently combed through your hair.

Eventually, his voice came. “Does this mess things up?” he asked, voice careful now. “For us? Our jobs?”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see him. 

His brow was furrowed — not in guilt, but in genuine concern, mostly because he knew how hard you’ve had to work to get to this point in your career. 

“Honestly?” you said, fingers brushing across his chest, tracing the faint line of an old scar near his ribs. “It complicates things. But that doesn’t mean it ruins them.”

He searched your face for a beat. “You sure?”

“No,” you said plainly. “But I am going to stop writing about you— only because I don’t sleep with my sources… anymore.”

His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. 

“You always were the reckless one,” he said softly.

“Says the guy with a cybernetic arm and a seat in Congress,” you shot back.

He laughed again.

You glanced at the coffee table, you saw your phone light up and you were suddenly very aware of the time— 2:47 a.m.

“We should go to bed,” you said after a minute, not moving.

He made an amused sound. “Now you want to be responsible?”

You tilted your head. “If we don’t go to sleep soon, we’re going to do that again. And then I’m going to be too tired to write in the morning, and you’re going to miss your 10 a.m. subcommittee meeting, and then the Ethics Committee will suddenly care about optics for the first time in history.”

He let out a low groan. “God, that meeting’s going to be brutal.”

“Mmhm. And I’m going to get yelled at for not turning in my op-ed on legislative gridlock, which is ironic considering I just—” you gestured vaguely between your bodies, “—got very thoroughly unstuck.”

He laughed before pushing a trans of loose hair behind your ears, “You really think we can do this? With all the politics, the press, the oversight committees?”

You reached up and cupped his face, thumb brushing along the edge of his cheekbone. “I think we’ve both done harder things than loving each other.”

He looked like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

“Fuck, please say that again,” he said.

You smiled. “I love you, James.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, then nodded. “Okay,” he said softly. “Okay.”

You kissed him one more time. “We’ll figure it out,” you said.

And you meant it.

Because it wasn’t just adrenaline anymore. Or loneliness. Or lust.

For now, you just had to get him into bed so both of you could get at least five hours of sleep.

-end.

Request Guidelines

Masterlist

I wonder if I should make a part two where reader is one of the journalists in the press conference that Val arranged in the end of Thunderbolts because she has been covering her impeachment, and her reaction to her boyfriend being in the lineup? and then maybe explore their relationship when their newfound stability is challenged?

Cipher decoder: 

Plain text: abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz

Cipher text: ponferqdcbazyxwvutsmlkjihg

[youngjaelook]

Fix

note – super random and late post. this is just angst on angst on angst. gif not mine. enjoy.

There is beauty in the way Taeyong moans her name while he’s pounding into you. His hair falls so perfectly as he finishes inside of you, his touch immediately leaving the skin of your hips once he’s done.

This routine, the one where he’s drunk and broken over someone who isn’t you, knocking at your door, wanting a body to fuck.

Your door is always open for him. Your body will always be his to have. Your heart will always be there for him to break.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers into the crook of your neck. It makes your head spin, but you know he doesn’t mean it. You know it’s meant for someone else.

Taeyong’s fingers reach to trace the outline of your parted lips, hazel eyes watching you so carefully like he was scared that if he blinked, you’d be gone forever. And that’s what made you stay, what allowed you to let him fuck with your emotions every time he came over.

“I love –“ his phone rings and you know who it is, he knows who it is.

His warmth leaves you when he reaches over to night stand to grab his vibrating phone. On most nights, you watch silently with a heavy heart as he gets dressed to go back home to her.

But you wanted tonight to be different.

“Are you seriously going back to her?” Your voice small, but firm nonetheless.

He pauses, shirt hanging off his arms as if he hesitated to even go. You wished he would just climb back in your unmade bed, hold you and stay until morning comes.

Taeyong shakes his head and slips on his shirt, gulping as he avoided your glassy eyes, too afraid he might say the wrong thing and hurt the both of you. Though, it’s too late for that.

You’re already hurt, beyond that actually.

When he doesn’t answer your question, your emotions get the best of you and you’re spilling secrets you’re not supposed to share with him.

“She doesn’t love you, we both know that.” That drives a knife deep into his heart. But he keeps a strong façade, lips pressed in a straight line, emotin unreadable and fists balled.

You keep the sheets close to your naked chest. “When will this end, Taeyong-ah? When will you wake up and realize that she’s just using you?”

Taeyong snaps. “When will you realize that I’m just doing the same to you?”

There’s a silence that follows; a silence that never seemed to lift. You stare blankly at him, while he keeps his gaze steady on the floor.

“Look at me and tell me that again.” Your voice breaks in the middle of your sentence, but your glare never once wavers.

Taeyong musters all the courage he had left in him to look at you, to flex his tongue and say it twice, “You’re just a temporary fix. I tell you I love you, but we both very well know that I don’t. I’m going back home to the person I love and that’s not you, and that will never be you.”

There is beauty in pain. And in that moment, despite your broken heart and spinning head, Taeyong looked beautiful in the moonlight; hair unkept, purple littering the side of his jaw and lips bitten and pink.

Just the sight of him was enough to destroy you.

“Don’t call me after this,” you whisper quietly. “Please.”

Everything was so fucked up, from the way he fucked you into oblivion, to the way he left without another word. “It’s so sad to know that she will never love you the way I do.”

[cheolshu]

im soft 😭

[softxhao]

NCT U memeboard for anon

[firebettercallnct]

credits go to owners

[h1ndery-deactivated20200103]

jaehyun | poetic beauty

[mydogjustfarted]

JIN BBY

[youngjaelook]

Stars in Your Eyes

author’s note  — i know i dont post as much anymore and i haven’t been taking any requests atm so im so sorrryyy. i think i might go on a hiatus for a bit just to clear my head and stuff. but for now, enjoy this little angsty piece heheehe. thank uuuu for ur support and loveee! also side note, jaehyun and yugyeom aren’t idols in this fic. hope you like this! :) #UNEDITED!

summary  —  Jungkook looks at you and he now realizes why the stars fascinate him so much, why he’s so absolutely enamored by them, and it’s because when he looks into your eyes, see the way your lips curl into a blinding smile, he realizes you have the whole damn sky in your eyes.

warnings   — angst & implied smut (but it’s literally so mild lmao)

word count  — 2.4K

Jungkook thought he'd see the day of you walking down the aisle, dressed in white silk, sporting your brightest smile, hands full with purple chrysanthemums and pink roses wrapped in a satin ribbon. Jungkook thinks he might cry, but he holds himself back, not wanting to embarrass himself or you.

Both your eyes meet and Jungkook suddenly feels thirteen, scrawny and short before you. He's dressed in loose jeans and shirt that's too faded to even be considered blue. Memories of his adolescences were never his fondest memories. But with you by his side day by day, he doesn't mind recalling those times.

You made everything better; the sun shone brighter, the grass felt softer underneath his bare feet, his heart fluttered every time you looked his way. Jungkook wishes he could stay like this forever; young and smitten.

He smiles to himself as he reminisces the touch of your fingertips against the flushed skin of his cheeks. Your touch fades and you're both fifteen, and drifting apart.

Jungkook moves to Seoul and you barely hear from him, get any word from him. He haunts the back of your mind as you walk down the hallways of your school, the lights appearing much more dim than they used to, the once vibrant flowers by the meadow lose their color even when the spring comes. You lose a part of yourself when Jungkook doesn't return your calls, doesn't reply to your messages.

Jungkook is nineteen, hunched over the seat by the balcony, eyes watching in awe at the californian skyline. Nothing about California — hell, nothing about Seoul felt like home. No matter how scintillating the city lights are, or how warm the wind might blow, he is never satisfied — he's realized that ever since he had left Busan, ever since he had left you.

The next time you meet Jungkook is when he turns twenty at a pub in Gangnam. You note the difference in his appearance, broader shoulders, thicker thighs. He's taller now, more tanned than before, perhaps it was because he had been spending most of his time in the States, but still as beautiful as ever, if not, more. His eyes practically light up like a god damn Christmas tree at the sight of you.

He hugs you that night, and all your resentment and bitterness you had stored for him all washes away with the feeling of his warm body pressed against yours, with a bottle, or two, of Soju and then everything feels alright, everything starts to feel like home.

Jungkook doesn't stop talking to you, never takes his eyes off of you and even when he's away promoting an album, or some clothing brand, you can always hear his voice whispering, laughing, calling your name in your ear.

You spend your days walking down the street with him; you go bowling on occasion and on most days, you share a cup of hot chocolate in that hole in the wall cafe just a few blocks from where your new apartment.

You feel like a kid when he pinches your pink cheeks, when you run your hand through his tresses of brown hair, when he tells you about stars and why they fascinate him. He looks at you and he now realizes why they fascinate him so much, why he's so absolutely enamored by them, and it's because when he looks into your eyes, see the way your lips curl into a blinding smile, he realizes you have the whole damn sky in your eyes.

By the age of twenty-four, when you're fresh out of college, when Jungkook thinks that finally, you can be his without anything getting in his way, you meet Jaehyun.

Jaehyun is kind, exciting and a little too kind for this world. Jungkook wants to drown himself in gasoline, feel it burning his lungs as he finally slips away from this hell he calls reality.

The first time Jungkook meets Jaehyun is when Jaehyun's head is in between your legs. The sight is enough to set a blue flame in Jungkook's chest, but he's too busy turning his heel around and mumbling out apologies he doesn't mean to even bother confronting his feelings. He walks out of your apartment and into the December air, heart shattering piece by piece inside of him as he tries to forget you, erase any sort of memory he had shared with you — he just wants to stop loving you is all. But he can't, he will never stop and he's sure that you might be the death of him.

Jungkook doesn't pick up any of your calls, doesn't respond to your texts and doesn't even answer the fucking door when you knock. You know he's inside, you know he knows you're there. You can tell by the obnoxious volume of his pretentious collection of 80′s sad songs that plays on his stereo, that only gets louder each time you rap your fist against the wood. You suddenly feel fifteen, lost and abandoned, and yet Jungkook is only barely a few feet away, the door being the only thing in your way. His back pressed against the door as he listens to you plead and cry for him to at least tell you that he's alive.

Jungkook cries himself to sleep forty-one days straight. He thinks he should receive some sort of Guinness world record or something.

He wonders why he does this to you, why he pushes you away and expects you to come running into his arms. He knows it's stupid, but a part of him believes that this plan is fool proof and that you will indeed come running back to him. But it doesn't happen.

Six months go by and it's all just radio silence.

You hear from Yugyeom that Jungkook's doing alright, that his band is putting out a new album and he's seeing someone pretty. You want to deny the way your heart clenches when Yugyeom mentions the possibility of Jungkook dating, though for some reason you can't find it in you. So you stay silent, only nodding and smiling as if your heart wasn't aching and on the brink of breaking. "That's good."

Jungkook kisses his date goodbye, but he doesn't get butterflies. He tries to concentrate on her dress, red and body-con, hugging every crevice of each curve, making her look so overwhelmingly tempting. But Jungkook can't even dare look her in her eyes, can't utter the words she wants to hear.

"I love you," she tells him with a flutter of her thick lashes.

Jungkook just wants to be twenty-two and holding your hand, running down the street, listening to songs that make him want to dance with you.

"I have to go," he tells her with an apologetic look on his face. "goodnight."

Jungkook gets in his car and drives. He drives to nowhere in particular, passing by familiar buildings that start to blur into buildings he's never even seen before. He's lost, but he'd rather much be lost than to stay in Seoul, miserable and haunted by the ghost of unrequited love.

You don't know where you are, all you know is that you fucked up badly and Jaehyun was probably far, far away. You can't help the tears that pour over the brim of your eyes, free falling down your face as you shiver in the cold. It wasn't Jaehyun's fault to begin with, it was mainly yours, and yes this is you swallowing your pride and admitting that you were wrong.

You had gotten into a fight in Jaehyun's parents’ home and you had stormed off in an attempt to cool off, and probably just for dramatic purposes, but whatever — point is, you were lost and it was below 10 degrees out here and Jaehyun doesn't know where you are.

"Stupid! So fucking stupid —"

"Are you lost?"

Jungkook thinks his eyes are deceiving him at first when you turn around and meet his gaze. Then, he knows it's you just by the way you also freeze in your place, the way your glassy eyes widen at the sight of him. He's too distracted by your pink cheeks, your pretty eyes to even notice the tears rolling down your face.

He swallows thickly. "Why are you crying?"

You want to smile because for some reason, the sound of his voice, even the mere sight of him brings you comfort, wraps you in a cashmere blanket and tells you that everything will be okay.

"I —" you can't find the words, too shaken up by this encounter, too awe struck by him, Jungkook, your best friend since you were five and wearing red overalls.

"Is it because you're lost?" He asks.

You simply nod.

Jungkook offers you a smile. "It's okay," he says. "I'm lost too."

You find a small coffee shop near by and coincidentally it's open until six in the morning. You feel like you might regret tonight, might regret letting Jungkook in again, but you're willing to take your chances. You're willing to risk everything and anything for him, you muse.

Jungkook wishes that was the case when he tells you he loves you at half past two am.

You don't know what to say or do, but stare in disbelief and horror. "What?"

Suddenly, Jungkook is offended; he's angry, heartbroken, embarrassed, the list goes on and he starts to wish he had never met you because he knows, he knows so fucking well, what you're going to say. "No! You can't!"

That's how you both found yourselves screaming at each other outside of a quiet coffee shop at three in the morning, sharing secrets you weren't supposed to share, throwing insults you don't mean, doing things you weren't supposed to do.

Jungkook kisses you in the heat of the moment and if you were as impulsive as you said you were, you would have kissed him harder, cherished the way his lips molded oh so beautifully against yours. But you weren't that kind of person, you had Jaehyun. You pushed Jungkook away and didn't dare look him in the eye.

Jungkook chants his apologies like a pagan worshiping their god. You know he doesn't mean it, you know he doesn't regret it and that, if given the chance, he'd do it again. You love Jungkook, maybe more than a friend, but you can't — "Why do you hold back?"

You are appauled.

"Why do you pretend like you don't feel the same way too? I have been fucking in love with you since we were kids! I have loved for so long, I have waited for so long and why, why! Why do you make this so hard for the both of us?" He sobbed.

You don't what to say, ashamed. You're crying harder now and you feel colder when he turns his heel, and walks way. "Jungkook please!"

"Look at you! You're out here, in the fucking cold, in the middle of fucking nowhere! That 'loving' boyfriend of yours hasn't showed up and it's nearly half past three!" He moves closer and he's getting too close, you have to back away to avoid your noses bumping, but it's unavoidable when he gives you no escape with his hands pressed against the small of his back, holding you flushed against his chest.

"Jungkook —"

"Jaehyun may love you, but I actually know how to love you the way you deserve to be loved. Give me a chance, please. I love you,"

Jungkook is insecure because of your silence. It makes him retract his arms away from you, makes him take a few steps back and sigh. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Please just let me process all of this, Kook. I feel so overwhelmed right now. I can't, I don't — fuck!" You stammer and struggle to find the right words because your head is swimming with all these emotions and thoughts you never even knew he had in the first place.

Jungkook nods. "Do you uhm, do you want a ride home?"

You shake your head, declining his offer. "Jaehyun will come."

Jungkook wants to scoff, roll his eyes maybe. But instead, only tears slip down his cheeks as his shoulders slump in defeat. "Okay." He stands there for a minute or two, just staring at you, admiring the sight of you as if it was the last time he'd ever get to see you and something is telling him that it might. "Please take care. I uh," he gulps. "I love you."

You hold back your own tears. "I love you too, Kook." And then Jungkook disappears as he rounds the corner, and you think he might be gone forever.

As Jungkook sits in his car, head pressed against the wheel, he thinks Jaehyun won't come.

But Jaehyun does come, dressed in all black, tears in his eyes as he gathers you in his arms. "Please don't leave me like that," he whispers into the crook of your neck, unable to restrain himself from crying hysterically and it's when you kiss his lips and taste the saltiness of his tears, you know what, or more specifically, who you want.

Jungkook watches as you start to near the altar, eyes glowing and smile as bright as ever.

Jungkook thinks he could never love someone this much, but then he looks at you and definitely knows that it's possible. Jungkook has known and loved you since he was small and vulnerable, he knows every flaw, every detail of your whole being and he has chosen to accept and love you as you are. He will always be there for you, when the sun loses it's glow, or when the grass pricks under your skin, or when you fail to love yourself. He will be there to pick up the pieces, to love and cherish you until you learn to do it yourself.

You meet Jungkook's gaze and he smiles at you despite his tears. You want to giggle and tell him not to cry, a part of you wants to hug with as well.

Jungkook watches as you walk past him, the faint scent of jasmine wafting his nose and he feels at home. He watches as your father gives you away to Jaehyun. He watches as you exchange vows. He watches as you and Jaehyun share your first kiss as a married couple. He watches with a mended heart because he knows that, even if Jaehyun may not know how to love you the way Jungkook can, he will learn how overtime.

Jaehyun turns to you and looks at you like you have the whole damn sky in your eyes, Jungkook knows you're in safe hands.

He will always love you, even when you will never be his.

[mylovertaehyung-deactivated2022]

ethereal

[lostyukhei-deactivated20181117]

yukhei: i don’t understand why everyone’s staring at me

jungwoo: maybe it’s cause you’re wearing a suit that has nct lightsticks hanging out from it and you’re holding a sign says “i am nct dream, nct dream is me”

yukhei: nah that’s not it-

[zibermuda]

↳ what the fuuuuuuck

[ptglq]

hongseok

[youngjaelook]

Old Friends

author’s note  — i should really upload more zzzz anyways, hope u like this youngjae fluff. its been collecting dust in my drafts lmao. please send me your requests! thank uuuuu <3 #UNEDITED

summary — Youngjae isn’t very good with falling in love. But after an encounter with an old friend, it might not be as hard as he thought. 

warnings — mild angst, & sorta fluffy

word count — 3K

Youngjae doesn't know how to love with all his heart. With him, it's usually just red roses and half-assed apologies, followed by make-up sex, that’s not very enjoyable, and awkward cuddles.

In short, Youngjae is shit at love.

Either that, or he's never found someone he's felt an actual connection with — that's what his Jaebum-hyung always tells him, while Yugyeom, on the other hand, just straight up tells him to never settle down and stay a bachelor for the rest of his days. “It’s not that bad, Youngjae-hyung.” The younger boy always insists. 

Discussions like these, discussions about Youngjae's love life, never end well. By the time, Bambam has chimed in with his own suggestions, Jaebum has his jaw jutted out and is ready to lunge at Yugyeom.

Youngjae thinks love is a waste of time, a waste of energy and effort.

"Why bother anymore?" Is the first thing he says after he downs his third — actually no, it's his ninth — shot of the night.

Jinyoung simply bats his eyes at the younger member, and crosses his arms. "Why bother — okay, you know what Youngjae, I think you need to start realizing that you're an adult now, and I highly recommend you start taking your love life more seriously."

Youngjae grunts and turns to Mark. "Is it too late to order another round?"

Mark chuckles. He pities Youngjae, not because he hasn't found himself a proper girlfriend yet, but because of his bandmates' bitching over his love life.

Truthfully, he thinks all their whining and nagging is a pain in the ass.

"We both know you're already smashed right now, Youngjae-ah, you won’t last another round so let’s not push it tonight." Mark says, prompting Youngjae to slump in his seat and moan in annoyance.

From across the table, in his drunken haze, Jackson jolts upwards and has his finger pointed to the ceiling as if he had an idea. Youngjae could practically see the light-bulb go off in Jackson's head.

"I have an idea!" He grins, devilishly.

Jinyoung rolls his eyes, and tugs Jackson to sit back down, although Jaebum starts to protest. "Wait no  — hear him out first. Drunk Jackson always has the best ideas."

Youngjae can't help but agree. He recalls one time, not too long ago actually, Jackson had come into the studio, slightly intoxicated, though he insisted that he was just tipsy, in the middle of recording, to which Jinyoung reprimanded him because it was quote, "super unprofessional." which is true — but still.

Jackson, while drunk, had come up with a genius rap verse for one of their new song and even helped out with the hook.

Inebriated Jackson is a genius, as Bambam likes to put it.

Jinyoung begrudgingly allows Jackson to continue.

"What if," he starts. "what if we all suggest one person each for Youngjae to meet? I mean, it doesn't have to be a date, just a simple introduction is all and whoever piques Mr.Choi's interest can go out with him."

Youngjae blinks twice at his hyung, while everyone else erupts with enthusiastic agreements, some of them patting Jackson on the back, a little too hard may I add.

Youngjae frowns. "Yah, and don't I get a say in this?"

Jackson grins. "Nope."

Youngjae can't help but feel like he's on some sort of drama, like he's the lead actor or something.

"Well, I'm off! I don't want to stick around to hear anymore of your scheming. My love life isn't one of those American reality shows like The Bachelor!"

Mark peers up from his drink and quirks an eyebrow. "Wait- you watch those?"

Youngjae flushes pink momentarily, before shaking his head. "That's not my point! My point is, I don't need you guys meddling with my life — my love life out of all things! I'm not in a rush, I can wait!"

With that, Youngjae shrugs on his coat and storms away from the table.

Jinyoung grumbles under his breath, then nudges Jackson's side. "See? Look what you've done."

“Youngjae, you can barely walk straight!” But Youngjae had already left.

Youngjae steps out into the cold, mumbling incoherently underneath his breath, and gazes down at his shoes as he walks with heavy steps back to his apartment.

He doesn't care if the weather's shitty, or that the air is too biting, he'll walk all, 30 minutes and 2 miles, back home because he needs to think, needs to blow off some steam.

He's too busy cursing out Jackson, and those shots of vodka he had downed earlier because his feet started to feel heavier and his head started to spin. "Fuck," He feels himself tumble and fall onto cold pavement.

He really is starting to regret not hitching a ride with his Mark-hyung.

You round the corner, and pause to gawk in shock at the barely conscious man on the concrete. "Are you alright?"

Youngjae looks irritated as he peers up at you.

"Do I look like I'm alright?" His voice sounds familiar to you, so does are his eyes — you think you've seen him somewhere, or at least heard of his voice. And like a bullet train at high speed, it, finally, hits you.

You gasp. "Choi Youngjae?"

Youngjae groans. "Yes, who's asking?"

Has it been really that long? Were you not recognizable enough for him? Or perhaps, he's drunk — okay, yeah he's definitely drunk.

You watch with wide eyes as he gags and vomits on the sidewalk. He's lucky no one, aside from yourself, is around to witness such a sight. You could practically see the headline on tomorrow’s tabloid — GOT7's Choi Youngjae can't handle his alcohol?

"Jesus Christ," you stumble to get to him.

You can't really do much, but just watch and run your hand up and down the expanse of his back — wow, Youngjae's gotten really fit since the last time you've seen him, you muse.

Youngjae retches one last time, and nearly falls face first into the puddle of bile on the floor, but you catch him just in time.

He rolls onto his back, though the ground is freezing. He blinks at the sky for a few times and looks over at you. "Holy shit!"

You wince.

Apparently, you've also forgotten how loud Youngjae could be.

"Y/N?" The way he says your name makes you feel giddy almost inside. You chuckle and offer him a small smile.

"The one and only," Youngjae grins back at you, teeth showing and eyes bright and almost blinding as he stares at you. "I can't believe you're in," hiccup "Seoul!" You poke his cheek and laugh in agreement. "And I can't believe this is how we meet again — in the middle of the street, while you puke your guts out." Youngjae doesn't even frown, instead he just smiles at you dumbly, fondly almost.

"Uhm, do you have anyone you can call to drop you home?" You asked.

Youngjae hums as he continues to stare at you, thinking your eyes look like the stars that hung above the two of you.

"Okay uh, try standing." Youngjae barely lifts a muscle so you quirk an eyebrow his way.

"Youngjae —"

He huffs. "I am trying! The worlds just — it's spinning and I think if I try to stand on my own, I might just puke."

You sigh helplessly to yourself, and nod. "Give me your phone."

Youngjae pretends he doesn't hear you because even if he's slightly incoherent, he knows you're going to call one of the boys to come pick him up, and he really, really does not want that right now.

"What?" You frown. "Youngjae, you can't just sleep on the side of the road."

"I would really appreciate it if you didn't call my band mates. If you truly are my friend, you'd let me sleep on the side walk tonight until morning comes, and I die from hypothermia." You let out a laugh, and the sound is enough to make Youngjae sober up a little — just a little.

A silence ensues, though it's neither awkward, nor comfortable.

It's just plain silence, then you speak.

"Alright, since I'm not just your friend, but your childhood best friend, I'm letting you crash on my couch tonight." Youngjae jolts upwards, suddenly feeling recharged and joyful at your suggestion. But once he sees your furrowed eyebrows and pressed lips, he slowly falls back down flat on his back.

You shake your head, and dust yourself off the ground and away from the pile of his vomit.

"I hope you can endure walking for at least 5 more minutes in the cold." You sigh.

Youngjae just smiles at you. "I can do anything with you when you're beside me."

It's like his words sends you back in time, when you had first met Youngjae in a pair of red overalls that were way too big for you at the time.

Youngjae is missing two front teeth as he grins at you, his smile is almost blinding, yet it's pleasant to look at and you find yourself chasing after Youngjae because you thought he'd make a good friend. And you weren't wrong.

Although Youngjae was not a perfect friend growing up, he was a great one — probably the best one you've ever had.

He was always consistent, gallant and sweet. In short, it was hard not to fall for someone like Choi Youngjae especially when high school had come around.

He was handsome, charming and extremely intelligent for someone his age. You and him were inseparable all throughout your school life, and then you were both faced with college.

You wanted to become a Architect; designing houses, planning floor plans was something you were passionate about, while Youngjae wanted to be more than just ordinary — he loved to be on stage, to sing and be cherished by many. So he became a trainee, and in the span of six months he had debuted.

He had left you behind.

The calls became less frequent, only texting each other if it was Christmas, or a birthday, never anything more than that.

And what once was an unbreakable friendship, had now become two estranged friends.

You wonder how you two had ended up like this. But it's too late to ponder your thoughts because you've already reached the front door of your apartment.

"Youngjae, you've got to stand properly — fuck! You've got to watch where you're stepping, Youngjae-ah." You hiss as you struggle to unlock the door, thanks to the throbbing in your left toe.

Youngjae smiles at you, sheepishly. "Sorry," he hiccups.

Your apartment is cozy, Youngjae muses. He's still tipsy, but he can still manage to appreciate the rustic theme that flows throughout the whole apartment.

Something catches his attention from the corner of his eye, and when he spots it, he smiles to himself. "I see you still have that crappy lamp I gave you on your sixteenth birthday."

The lamp sits perched on the table beside your couch, in all it's fucked up glory. Youngjae brought it as a present, but managed to drop it down the stairs before giving it to you with flushed cheeks.

Fucked up, or not — you'd still love it.

"Time to get you out of those clothes," Youngjae stares at you, clearly alarmed.

You laugh at his expression and shook your head. "Not like that, dumb ass! You reek of alcohol and vomit, and I won't allow you to sleep on my couch smelling like that — nope, no way. That couch cost me a lot."

Youngjae rolls his eyes, but follows you to your bedroom, anyways.

You rummage through drawers of clothes, that were certainly not yours, probably your ex boyfriend's. You manage to find him a pair of decent sweatpants, and a shirt that didn't stink of musk, or some sort of strong cologne. Instead, it smells of you — lavender and vanilla.

Youngjae has no shame, when he strips right in front of you. Perhaps, it was because he was drunk.

He slips into the clothes, and collapses onto your bed. As he lays there, he thinks your sheets are made of expensive Egyptian silk, when really you just got it from the flee market for only 10,000 won.

You sigh to yourself, when you see his breathing start to slow. You leave him like that, cuddled up against your smooth sheets and fluffy pillows, while you go get yourself ready for sleep.

You don't think of anything as you put on your sleeping clothes, which is nothing fancy by the way, just an old sweatshirt, a pair of cotton shorts and some fuzzy socks.

You're halfway through brushing your teeth, when you hear Youngjae groan for you. You spat the foam out of your mouth. "I'm coming, hold on!"

Once you've done your routine, you saunter into the bedroom, where Youngjae lays pouting on your bed. You think he's still drunk, but the sweet scent of your clothes pulls him out of his hazy state, and he suddenly feels sober, though he says nothing.

"You called for me?"

Youngjae frowns. "Sleep beside me tonight?"

You don't know how you can reject, when there's a pounding in your chest. "It's okay, I'll sleep on the couch tonight -" Youngjae doesn't budge. "I don't want to be alone. It's been so long," he gulps. "so long since I've gotten this close to you —" he blinks multiple times at you. "and I've just missed you."

You feel a twinge of anger poke at your heart.

You want to scream at him, maybe even throw him out of your apartment. But when you close your eyes, and hear his voice calling out for you, begging for you to stay with him, all that bitterness and rage dissipates.

You want to think Youngjae is still your friend after this, after you slip into the bed with him, after he wounds his arms around your torso, his skin hot against your own — and suddenly, you wished that in the morning he'd be more than just a friend to you.

"I'm sorry," he says into the dim room.

You're glad he can't see the blood that rushes to your cheeks, nor the tears that well in your eyes. "Sorry for what?"

Youngjae inahles sharply. "For letting you slip through my fingers, like you didn't matter," he swallows thickly. "like I didn't care."

You shut your eyes, hoping that if you'd open them again, you'd be all alone in your bed with no Youngjae beside you. But when you do, his arm is still thrown over your torso, and his breath is still fanning the back of your neck.

"Do you care?" You ponder.

He kisses the junction between your neck and shoulder. "I will always care."

Morning comes and Youngjae is still beside you, arms wrapped loosely around the expanse of your torso, his breathing slow and comforting. You don’t complain, not once, not even when his fingers brush up higher just beneath the swell of your chest. You hear him groan into your ear, then he pulls you closer to him, but pushes you away once he realizes he’s not alone. 

“Oh my god — “ He sits up straight, and you do the same. 

Youngjae blinks twice, thrice at you before a flash of realization runs across his lustrous eyes. “Y/N?” 

You chuckle. “Jesus Youngjae-ah, how much did you drink last night?” 

Youngjae swallows thickly, and shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter now. I can’t  — you’re really here, I thought last night was a dream or something.” He admits sheepishly. 

You smile softly at him. “Well, it wasn’t.” 

A silence falls between the two of you, while you stare at one another. As you gaze upon his features, you’ve realized that the moonlight last night didn’t do him justice. Under the soft glare of the morning sun, Youngjae looks so handsome, it makes your heart flutter and your words falter. 

Youngjae speaks first. 

“Do you,” he struggles to suppress the grin on his lips. “do you want to get breakfast with me? I know some place nice.” 

“Breakfast? It’s nearly 11.” You tease.

Youngjae catches on and chuckles. “Brunch then.” 

You don’t even hesitate. “Of course.” 

You can’t distinguish why in that moment you’re compelled to lean in and crush your lips against his, but you pull yourself back, though you can’t control the blood rushing to your cheeks when his eyes flicker back and forth between your eyes and your lips. 

“We’ve got to take a shower first.” You say. 

Youngjae snaps out of his trance and stutters. “R-right. I’ll go first.”

You burst out laughing and so does Youngjae. “Hurry up, Choi! I’m hungry.” You push him off your bed and his laughing never ceases. 

It doesn’t take him long to rush to the bathroom, and for you to hear the shower running. And as you go about your routine, making your cup of morning tea and cleaning up your coffee table, you hear a faint ringing coming from the bedroom. You’re searching for the source of the sound, and it takes you a few seconds to realize it’s coming from Youngjae’s jeans. 

“Yah Youngjae-ah, someone’s calling you!” You yell.

“Just answer it!” 

You swipe to answer, then press the phone against your ear. “Youngjae-ah! Where the fuck are you? Do you know everyone’s been worried sick about you! Jinyoung nearly died of a heart attack when you wouldn’t pick up his calls! Mark-hyung literally drove around for an hour looking for you —” In the midst of all the yelling and scolding, you shift awkwardly in your place. 

“I’m sorry, but Youngjae is in the shower at the moment.” 

Jaebum stop his ranting. 

“Oh uhm, sorry but who is this?” He asks. 

You clear your throat. “Y/N, Y-Youngjae’s  —” you stutter. “just an old friend of his.” 

On the other side of the line, Bambam pushes his hyung to put the phone of speaker because, and I quote, “what the hell is Youngjae-hyung doing with a girl at this time in the morning?”

Jaebum looks between Mark and Jinyoung. “Did Youngjae stay the night with you, or?” 

You flushed and gulped. “Yeah, he did.” 

“Oh,” Jaebum says. “Oh!”

You blush even harder. “No! Nothing uhm, nothing happened.” You hear faint snickering in the background of the other line. 

“Right.” Jaebum tries to control the mirth in his voice. 

“Okay, so uhm tell Youngjae to call me back after he’s done showering. Also, nice talking to you Y/N-ssi.” 

Once you exchange goodbyes, Jaebum turns to the rest of his bandmates and grins. “I think Youngjae didn’t need our help after all.” 

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