Archive of Our Own ^beta

Many may call you lucky. Lucky to have met your boyfriend when you were kids with missing teeth. Lucky to have been with him for seven years and counting. Lucky to have parents who showered you with unconditional love growing up. Lucky to have a lucrative career doing what you absolutely love. Lucky to have saved enough for an apartment that you own in the city.

Call it luck. Call it privilege. You’ve long accepted that you are incredibly fortunate that the biggest hurdle you’ve faced — and persistently face — is writer’s block. It’s a damned concrete wall that can seem impossible to hammer through, but one that you always manage to break. Otherwise, your life has been pretty fine and dandy. You have it all.

Until you don’t.

Some may label you foolish for missing the signs. You’ve read every romance column known to women, familiarizing yourself with these so-called symptoms of a failing relationship. Looking at Max and the life you’ve built, you never thought to give any of them credence.

So what if he works countless late hours in the office, he’s continuing to build his parents’ legacy — of course, he would work hard. So what if he puts his phone face down when you enter the room, smiling up at you tight with a stiff crinkle in the corner of his eye that you brush off — he just wants all his focus on you. So what if he decides to get a separate credit card for his personal items — he doesn’t want to burden you with his spending.

You’re not naive by any means. Many have called you cynical, evidenced by the articles you write that often renounce simplistic forms of love, pure perspectives on life with no consideration of the horrors of the human mind.

It’s not that you’re naive. It’s that your edges, the ones that face him, have been smoothed over time. Chipped away and sanded until they are curves that he can hold onto, keeping a firm grip on you to free his other hand to reach for another.

When you first step past the threshold of your home, the last thing you expect is to hear voices. Max was supposed to be at work. Your heart lifts, the innocent thought that he had come home earlier to surprise you crossing your mind. It’s a consideration that does not last very long when a woman appears, skipping out into the living room which you have a clear line of sight into from the doorway.

A woman who looks very much like Max’s secretary. The one who always prepares you coffee when you stop by. The one who always simpers so sweetly at you, but lingers her sultry gaze a little too long on your boyfriend. The one Max told you not to worry about.

A woman who is in nothing but her bra and panties.

At first, she doesn’t see you, giggling carefree with her bare feet against your hardwood floors. Only when she does a twirl does she see you in your doorway. Only then does she do a double-take, stumbling over her own foot and nearly toppling over your very nice vase.

“Shit,” she squeaks out quietly, righting herself into an awkward stance.

The words die in your throat. While your mind could attempt to do the mental gymnastics of justifying why your boyfriend’s secretary would be practically nude in your place, you’re not granted the opportunity when the man of the hour comes running up to her, broad arms that you once called your home wrapping around her.

“Come back here,” he laughs, lips attaching to her delicate neck. The one adorned with a pearl necklace that you remember seeing him sneak into the apartment, but never reached your hands. “What are you—”

At least, you aren’t the only one caught off guard. It seems to be a three-way standoff the way everyone freezes where they stand. There is only a brief second of silence, you could hear a pin drop, before the chaos unfurls.

Safe to say, your beloved vase does not survive the five minutes it takes to chase the two of them out of your home. The vase ends up scattered across the hallway outside your door, lodged against his skin and maybe even hers. You’ll be the first to fully admit that you can’t fully recall what exactly transpired in the moments following the betrayal.

When all is said and done and you’re left in the aftermath of what just happened, two weeks before Christmas, all you can think is — ‘tis the fucking season.

—

By the time you roll to a stop in front of your parents’ upstate home, you’ve comfortably settled into the third stage of grief. Ire flows through your veins the entire drive up, blood rushing to your foot for you to floor the accelerator the entirety of the three-hour ride over. The music that blasts through your speakers is deafening. It’s angry, it’s hurt. It’s a reflection of you.

While you had been numb when you first called your parents to request permission, asking to use their home under the guise of a quiet place to focus on work with your pressing deadlines, that paralysis has quickly subsided into fire that sears through your entire being. Despite the early December chill, all you feel is hot.

Flames enveloping your heart in pure, unbridled white-hot anger. How dare he. Seven years. Seven of the best years of your life. Seven years shredded into nothing in five minutes. Five fucking minutes. He couldn’t have even bothered sitting you down, telling him that he was no longer interested in you, that he no longer loved you. He couldn’t even bother extending the courtesy of breaking up with you.

Hell, he couldn’t have even bothered booking a goddamn hotel room like any other cheater out there. He took her — the woman he promised you never needed to worry about — to your home. Your safe space. The one you purchased with your hard-earned work.

Your fingers itch with the urge to dial up his number, to give him a piece of your mind that certainly will last a lot longer than five fucking minutes. But you bite back that impulse because it’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.

He already tainted every single piece of your home by bringing her there. All the good — the whispered kisses under the covers, the tangling of your legs on the couch with the television purring quietly in the background, the clanging of pots and pans for your dinner dates — is gone. Memories stained with permanent ink. When you imagine your pristine apartment, all you can see are the spots — the marks that can never be erased. Smudges over the flawless house you’ve built.

For a while, you sit behind the wheel, knuckles tight where you grip. The tears are warm in your eyes, you will them away, but they stick. They roll down fast, soft lines down your face that can’t seem to disappear, no matter how many times you wipe them.

For a moment, you think you’ve regressed in your grief — the guilt seeping back in through the cracks of your wrath. The self-blame question in the margins of your mind has only partially formed when a knock on your window jolts you back to reality.

Quickly swiping away the wet streaks on your face, you squeeze your eyes shut and force your face to be brave. You plaster on a shaky smile before you unlock your car and slide out.

“Marta, it’s been too long.”

Marta is a four-foot-nine lady who’s been working here since you were two running around in nothing but your diapers. She mostly keeps the house clean, but she has had to occassionally wear a few hats, including babysitting you when you’re being a bigger brat than usual.

Her thick arms swathe you in a warm embrace, one that you didn’t know you desperately needed until your own limbs return the affection. She doesn’t say anything about your swollen eyes or your sniffly nose. Instead, she holds you at arm’s length and smiles softly. “Dear, it’s been much too long. You haven’t been here in years. The last time I saw you, you were off to start your first year in the city.”

Remorse slinks around you again, hovering close by. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s been busy. Life, I mean. I haven’t really had the chance to come back here.”

“No matter,” she tuts quietly with a pat on your shoulder. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well. You look healthy at least. Probably could use my squash soup, you used to love that.”

“I still do,” you grin back.

Marta takes you on a tour of the home, refreshing your memory of where things are stored and the renovations your parents have done on certain rooms, including turning your bedroom into a home gym. The two of you spend an hour or so catching up, her lighting up with every piece of your life that you share with her. By the time she bids her farewell, the sun is slowly sinking over the horizon.

The rush from the day has slowly given way to weariness that weighs heavy on your eyelids. You barely register her words when she tells you that your parents have hired a full-time caretaker for the property who lives just down the road. You barely remember drifting towards the living room couch and stretching out, letting sleep swallow you.

When you come back to, the room is bathed in a gradient of purple and orange. The sun peeks shyly over the horizon as you stretch your exhausted, aching arms long into the air with a groan. Your phone lights up to indicate that it’s barely six, which means you’ve slept more than you have this past week alone.

You tug the throw blanket around your shoulders, fabric dragging by your feet as you step across the creaky, cool floors into the kitchen. You reach for a fresh glass and fill it with tap, tipping the crisp water down your throat to quench your parched throat.

Sleep hadn’t been kind to you. Even — especially — with your eyes closed, all you can see is the betrayal that plagues you. The scenes shift throughout the night — your home, his office, a restaurant that you used to frequent with Max. Each one once a memory of the good you had, now soiled with her face replacing yours. It’s her hand he’s holding. It’s her eyes he’s looking into.

You’re standing in the fringes of these moments, like an outsider watching through a window.

Your head pulses with an ache that doesn’t seem to cease. Instead, you try to distract yourself by fussing with the kettle to make some tea, hoping that the caffeine would ease your drowsy mind. While you wait for the kettle to whistle, your hand automatically reaches for your phone, your first instinct is to scroll through the news notifications.

A wedding in Brooklyn. Another stupid comment from the president. An alien invasion in Metropolis.

You can’t tell if some higher power above finds destroying the world you live in to be the ultimate cosmic joke. This is why you don’t like writing about real news; it’s too depressing. At least you find interest in the topics you write, even if they aren’t always the most critical things the world needs. 

You’re halfway through this article from The Daily Planet that you’re convinced is another outlet similar to The Onion when you spot movement in your periphery. The blood-curdling scream leaves your lips when you see the dark figure standing by your kitchen.

Said figure then steps into the streaks of gold the sunrise paints across your floors. Slowly, his face is illuminated — it’s his broad chest that you notice first, hidden beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. Your eyes then shift to his equally broad shoulders, covered by a plaid button-down that hangs loose over his middle, tight around his biceps. Then his bearded jaw comes to life before the slope of his nose and finally his bright blues.

While you aren’t a particular fan of home invasions, maybe there is something to the way this man looks ridiculously handsome. Ridiculously, effortlessly handsome. He doesn’t even seem fazed when you lunge for a knife, pointing it in his direction. In fact, he looks rather amused.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Never knew you had such a potty mouth.”

A scowl descends on your face. “Never answered my question.”

“I’m Bucky,” he says simply. When you don’t put your weapon down, he sighs. “Marta didn’t tell you? I work here. Been helping your parents with construction, renovation, and plumbing, along with some other odd tasks.”

Bucky? “What kind of name is Bucky?”

His lips curl again, amusement deepening the dimple in his cheek. His eyes twinkle with mischief, like he’s about to respond with a ridiculously stupid line. Your annoyance burrows deeper into your heart as you tighten your grasp around the knife.

“You gonna put the knife down or are you gonna keep acting up?”

There’s something in his voice, the curl of his syllables, the drop in pitch of his tone. It almost makes you want to listen. Almost. Your hand falters for a second, he notices. His smile stretches again.

“What? I gotta show you my state ID?” He chuckles, reaching into his pocket and pulling out and jingling the keys in his hands. “Telling you that I have keys to the place. I didn’t realize you were coming so soon. Thought it would be a couple of days. Upstairs toilet has been acting up so I was going to take a look before you came.”

Pinching your lips, you slowly lower the knife. You slip it back into the block but keep your eyes on him the entire time. “Alright, I’ll bite.”

“Bet you do,” he mutters under his breath, low enough that you nearly miss it. But the morning is quiet, a far cry from the constant cacophony of sirens and honks in the city. For a second he pauses, his curious eyes appraising you silently. They analyze you carefully from the top of your head to where your toes are curled into the tiles.

Then they fly back up to meet yours. You make the mistake of letting a gasp escape. You didn’t think it was possible but he grins even wider. He looks even more handsome with that smile. “What?” You snap, crossing your arms over your chest, covering yourself up further.

“Nothing,” he huffs a laugh, “just look cute in the morning.”

Your heart stutters against your ribcage. He doesn’t even wait before he tromps up the stairs, footsteps disappearing along with the ghost of his voice caressing your ear.

The way your heart skips is new. You’ve been with Max for so long that you forget the thrill of the flirting game. The little comments. The teasing looks. You tell yourself that it’s because you’re freshly heartbroken. It’s not because Bucky is alluring in the way Max never was. Rough bumps rather than smooth surfaces. You’ve slipped on that slope before; maybe it’s time to try something different.

—

For the most part, you keep to yourself. Bucky putters around and outside the house doing all sorts of things. Sometimes he’s carrying a toolbox, other times a sledgehammer. There are instances when he walks around with nothing at all. But through it all, he’s always fucking stripping.

He would come into the house with at least two layers. Over the course of the day, he would peel off his shirt and drape it over the kitchen chair. Then, when he’s under the sink plugging away, he tugs his t-shirt over his head. By the time you look up for the second time that hour, he’s already exposed in front of you.

It’s not easy to ignore, not when you see the way his abs flex with every move. Or how he grunts every time he does something a little hard. Or the attractive furrow of his brows when he can’t figure something out.

You’ve been sitting on this desk by the window for the better part of the day, but your eyes have wandered more than a handful of times to him. It’s enough times to make it embarrassing when he catches your gaze straying to him one too many times. When his lips tip up with that stupid twinkle in his eyes. That’s when you duck your head back down behind your laptop screen.

At some point in the afternoon, Bucky does come up to you. He opens his mouth and, before he can say anything, your stomach rumbles. Loud.

Shit.

It’s worse when you see him clearly resisting a laugh, his teeth catching his bottom lip, his eyes shining with mirth. It looks even brighter in the light — closer to a baby blue than cerulean.

“What?” You glower at him when he doesn’t say anything.

“You wanna go out and eat?” The question catches you by surprise, obvious when the creases on your forehead melt into your raised brows.

Bucky shoves his hands into his jeans, his naked chest still open in front of you. You almost want to look at the mirror and write whore on it with how closely you’re tracing the lines on his stomach. Maybe it’s time to write a piece on attractive parts of a man that aren’t sexual. Like the clavicles. His are quite attractive.

“There’s no food in the house. Your parents cleared it all out when they left on their cruise,” Bucky clarifies, hand reaching up to scratch the back of his ear. For the first time since you met him, he looks almost… awkward. It’s satisfying.

“Right, that would make sense,” you say, equally as awkward. “Where were you thinking?”

“I needed to go into town to pick up some supplies, need it to fix up that toilet upstairs. There’s a bistro there with decent sandwiches — nothing crazy like you city folks are used to but it’s food.”

As if on cue, your stomach protests again. Loudly. Bucky doesn’t hold back his laugh this time. Heat crawls up your neck as you scrape your chair back. “Fine. Let me get changed first.”

“Why?” Bucky looks at you, eyes falling to your clothes before coming back up.

He can’t be serious. You’re in frumpy, wrinkled pajamas that cover your toes. “I can’t tell if you have shit taste in clothes or if you’re just being nice.”

Thankfully, Bucky only smiles at you and lets you know that he’ll wait outside. When you finally step out in a much more appropriate sweater and jeans, Bucky’s leaning against a pickup truck, arms crossed over his chest. He seems to be deep in thought, eyes laser-focused, face devoid of emotion. His gaze is on the dirt in front of him. He only looks up when the front door slams shut a little too loud.

The sharpness in his eyes chips away when they land on you. You’re not entirely sure what to make of that change and choose to tuck it away in a box of questions for another time.

The drive into town is relatively quiet, Bucky has some radio station playing music with static that he hums along to. You choose the safer route of looking out the window to the wide expanse of forests and farmland. Your mind slides slowly back to why you’re here in the first place, a dangerous territory you would rather avoid.

“How long are you staying?”

You jerk around to face him. “Oh, um, I haven’t really figured that out yet. Maybe Christmas? New Year’s? Who knows?”

He’s quiet for a beat then continues, “Why’d you decide to come up? Figured you’d want to spend the holidays with friends — your boyfriend — in the city, especially with your parents gone.”

You know what he’s doing. He’s testing the waters, wading his fingers in slowly to see if anything will bite. So you sigh. “You don’t have to beat around the bush. I haven’t told my parents yet but I found my boyfriend with his practically-naked secretary in my apartment. Packed up my bags same day and wound up here within five hours.”

An expletive leaves his lips. “That’s… shit.”

You can’t help the bark of a laugh that comes out of your mouth. “One way of putting it. It’s pretty shit, especially when I gave him seven years of my fucking life.” Now that the floodgates have been opened, all your words come pouring out. They spill out in questions about whether you’re good enough, whether you did something wrong to deserve this, to push him to that point. They stream out in expressions of irritation, a combination of how dare he with that motherfucker with a sprinkling of who the fuck does he think he is.

By the time you run out of phrases to curse out your ex, Bucky is pulling up to a parking spot in this quaint town. It’s the kind of small town you see in movies where people greet each other walking down the sidewalk, where the flowers are always yellow, and the skies are clear. It’s the complete opposite of the storm brewing inside of you.

That is when you realize what you’ve just done. Embarrassment swiftly spreads across your entire body, rippling in goosebumps. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” He asks, sincerity coating the single syllable.

“I said too much. You didn’t want to know all that.”

Bucky shrugs. “Didn’t mind it. Helpful context. Plus, think you needed that.”

You do feel a little lighter, a little less tense. You’ve had nowhere to channel all your thoughts and energy since yesterday evening, worsened by the fact that you haven’t eaten a single bite since lunch. For the first time since you left your house, you’re able to take a breath without your lungs quivering. It’s steady. Your heartbeat even.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

Another huff of a laugh. He rubs your head, an affectionate gesture for a guy you’ve just met this morning, but you don’t mind it. There’s a familiarity to his touch that you lean into. He seems surprised but smiles. “No need to thank me. Let’s get some food in you.”

Lunch with Bucky is an experience, mainly because, by the end of it, you’re convinced he’s some sort of celebrity in town. No fewer than five people stop by to say hello and coo about how nice Bucky is. The waitress comes by with a slice of pie on the house. The chef knows the way Bucky likes his burger by heart. You get plenty of you’re so lucky’s that you blanch at, much to Bucky’s entertainment. If you didn’t know any better, he planted these extras and you’re waiting for someone to jump out and say you’ve been punked.

“Did I accidentally walk into a cult and you’re the high priest or something?” You ask when you finally leave the restaurant, a paper bag in Bucky’s hand of extra dishes the chef had whipped out for him.

His lips shift into a smirk. “Now why would you say that?” You’re not going to give him the satisfaction so you clamp your mouth shut and look away. Bucky touches your head again, and you do swat it off this time. “I have to go to the hardware store for the things. Did you want to join me or explore?”

The face you involuntarily make is apparently answer enough.

“Alright, grump. Give me your phone, we’ll trade numbers. Meet you back here in an hour?”

“It takes you an hour to pick up supplies for a toilet?”

Bucky shakes his head as he returns your phone. “A lot of questions. Might start charging you for answers.”

Before you can say anything else, he’s already stalking down the street. You’re left standing there, wondering what in the world you’re going to do to kill an hour. So you just start walking, your feet taking you down corners, twists, and turns. You wander around a farmer’s market for a while and end up with two bags of fresh produce to hopefully last you the week. Without fail, each stall owner points out that we haven’t seen you around here before, welcome to town!

It’s slightly unnerving but perhaps you aren’t used to eastern hospitality. Usually, when someone acts nice in the city, they probably want something from you. You try not to let your cynicism show and merely say I’m only in town for a little bit.

You’re making your way back towards the car when a bookstore not too far away from where you’re parked catches your eye. The titles are a little worn, but they look like they’re taken care of. There are a few classics that you’ve been meaning to read, time that you invested in your boyfriend now freed up for you to regain your literacy. You stack a few copies in your hand, only stopping when you can no longer balance them with your grocery bags.

When you go to put the bags down, you catch a fascinating sight.

Bucky is walking towards you but he doesn’t seem to have noticed you yet. On his journey, he suddenly stops, turns to look inside a store then goes in. Your eyebrow raises in question which is quickly answered when the door swings open and an old lady walks out, chattering excitedly at Bucky who is now carrying three additional bags. He packs them away inside her trunk and she pinches his cheek, which he winces at.

Then he continues walking only to pause again when he hears a group of kids bickering in front of a shop. He talks to them for a moment, the sheepish looks on three of their faces growing before they mumble apologies and run off. The one kid remaining thanks him profusely, lighting up in a smile that could power a city.

His final pause was when he spotted a dog sitting patiently on the sidewalk. He crouches down and gives the dog a few good rubs, lips moving in a murmur you can’t hear from the distance. The dog rolls over to show its belly which Bucky provides equal attention to.

Finally, he stops in front of his car and looks around. That’s when his eyes catch you and a slow smile spreads across his lips. He struts over to you — yes, strut because the way he walks makes him look like a model.

“Find anything interesting?” He teases, nodding to the pile in your hand.

You purse your lips. “Yes, a few. I’ll go pay and be right out.”

Bucky plucks the stack from your hand, flipping through them with an easy smile and putting away the ones he says are in your parents’ library. Only two remain. Instead of handing them back to you, he peeks his head inside the bookstore. “Mr. Moore, put them on my tab, will you?”

Mr. Moore is fast to agree and wave him off.

“You have a tab here?”

“Yes, I’m surprisingly literate.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you scowl.

“Mr. Moore only takes cash and he’s nice enough to let me keep a tab in case I don’t bring enough cash.”

Oh. When Bucky senses you aren’t going to ask follow-up questions, he picks up your bags from the floor and tucks the books between his arm and his waist.

“I can carry them myself, you know.”

“I know.”

You don’t need to look at him to know he’s smiling again. Damned flirt. Bucky opens the door for you again, waits for you to slide in and hook your seatbelt, before he drops off the items in the trunk and goes over to his side. 

When you prepare dinner that evening, a risotto recipe you found online and somehow manage not to destroy, you find yourself quietly stirring the mixture. It’s not as if you’re thinking about your breakup again or the fact that you have just lost seven years of your life to a man who couldn’t keep in his pants and had the gall to lie to you about it. You’re only feeling a little… listless.

For that reason, you are thankful that Bucky is still tinkering around upstairs. You haven’t gone to check on him once but you assume he isn’t destroying your mother’s precious porcelain tiles. The noise is comforting. It’s a relief to know that you’re not alone in this expansive, overwhelming space. You’re not engulfed in deafening silence that rings all too sharp in your ears.

As you switch off the stove, you hear Bucky land on the final step downstairs. Typical man — no help in the kitchen but arrives when the food is ready. His voice carries into the room as you keep your back turned towards him. “Toilet upstairs should be good to go. I’m going to head out for the day.”

That has you freezing. Muscles involuntarily spasming. You’re not entirely sure why you lock up. It’s not as if you know this man, as if you want him to stay. Because why would you want him to stay? Again, you don’t know this man.

Slowly, you turn, shifting your gaze away from him and onto the flowers dotting the wall. “I made too much for dinner. Followed a recipe with multiple servings. Did you want some?”

Bucky observes you for a second, silent as he searches your face. You can see his eyes moving from your periphery but you refuse to meet them. Then he breathes out, “Sure. That would be nice.”

“Wash your hands,” you automatically say, wincing when your habit comes out. Your now ex-boyfriend had the terrible habit of coming in from god knows where and putting his hands on everything in your spotless home.

The man before you doesn’t seem to take offense; in fact, he looks humored. “I was going to. Scout’s honor.”

Dinner passes relatively peacefully. Between the tang of lemon on your tongue and the mushrooms melting in your mouth, Bucky peppers you with surface-level questions. What do you do for work? How’s life in the city? What are you working on these days? You hate to admit it but you are grateful that you’re not entirely alone here.

You have a feeling that Bucky understands that too. He keeps the conversation flowing, not a moment of silence for you to overthink your current circumstances. Even as the two of you are working through the dishes side by side, Bucky makes you laugh over some of the things your parents have done in the house, their kooky requests that he has had to draw the line on. Your heart feels a little lighter once more.

But as the night dwindles down and the crickets begin to chirp outside your window, Bucky moves slower, like he’s delaying his departure. When you look at him from across the room, he seems hesitant for a second then asks.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

His question catches you off guard, your grip on the sink faltering. “Uh, have we met?”

Bucky tilts his head, like he’s trying to gauge whether your response is genuine. “Never mind,” he shakes his head with a small smile. The look has you prickling in annoyance, partly because it seems like you’re not in on the inside joke playing in his head. Still, you don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting to it. “I’m going to head out, let you get some rest. I’ll be back here early tomorrow morning,” he smirks, “just a heads up so you don’t launch that knife at my head.”

Your eyes roll instinctively. “If I throw a knife at your head, it’s more likely because you’re insufferable.”

“Mhmm, sleep tight. If you need anything, call me. I’m just down the road and I can be here in five minutes, yeah?”

The offer is comforting — an olive branch. You don’t tell him as such, but he seems to know when your shoulders slacken, tension draining from your bones. “Yeah, thanks, Buck. Bucky—” you quickly correct yourself.

His pink lips curve up on one corner. “Buck is fine too. Goodnight, doll.”

Before you can protest the unprompted nickname, the front door is closing behind him. When you reach up to touch your cheeks, you find them warm. 

–

The following days pass in a hazy blur. You continue to work around the house, moving your laptop from one place to another whenever you run into a block. Sometimes you pace, take a lap around the house. What you won’t admit to yourself is that, every time you move, you find yourself chasing after Bucky.

You’re still not entirely sure what work he does around the house, but apparently it’s everything. One moment he’s fixing the leaking tap in the kitchen, the next he’s climbing on the roof to fix the shingles. He’s always covered in dirt-stained clothes, always ends up shirtless in the house at the end of the day. It’s all incredibly distracting.

If Bucky notices you trailing after him, he doesn’t point it out. He keeps to himself, occasionally looking up to check on you then goes back when he sees that you’re still sitting there, fingers chipping away at your keyboard. Once he does notice, which is unfortunately after the second time you followed him, he always gives you a heads up.

“I’m going to work on the kitchen sink, do you need more time here?”

“The balcony upstairs has a clear view of the garden and the roof.”

Small gestures that don’t go unappreciated by you. The two of you make it a habit of sharing lunch, you whip up something easy when you need a break from writing, and Bucky tries his hand at a new dish when you’re fully immersed in your work (spoiler: both of you put both bathrooms in the house to good use).

The noises he makes as he works — the clanging of his tools, the hissing of loose air, the little grunts he lets out — become your soundtrack. A soothing sort of white noise that keeps you company as the words fall onto the pages. You don’t think you’ve ever been so productive in your life.

When the day bleeds into hues of pinks and purples in the sky, you find that sinking feeling returning. Dinners with Bucky are comfortable with the two of you sharing bits and pieces, like a precursor to dessert that leaves you hungry for more. Each time Bucky shares a small bite, you have the urge to take a bigger one. He seems to know, drinking in the curiosity in your eyes, and offering you more.

However, as each night winds down and the silence begins to settle again into the air, you’re left to your own devices. At the end of the night, he always leaves. There are words sitting on your tongue that risk falling free, a plea for him to stay, to keep your nightmares at bay. Alas, your pride has them crumbling into ashes, and he is gone before you can even whisper your desire into the quiet.

This is one of those nights and you find yourself twisting and turning in the guest room, the sheets feeling a little too scratchy, the bed a little too firm, and the room a little too silent. Throwing the covers off, you pad back downstairs and attempt to tire yourself with work. Only the sentences come out a garbled mess and you end up closing your laptop in frustration, nearly tossing that darned thing out the window. You’d give something else for Bucky to repair.

So you give into your last resort which is to step outside into the brisk air and sit on the steps of your front porch. At least out here the crickets and the wind lull you to a sense of peace. A peace that you haven’t found on your own since you left the city. You almost miss your small apartment and the cracks on your floor, the sounds of city traffic and impatient rush-hour drivers pouring in for the day. But you rather enjoy the fresh air. You needed it — to take a step back.

When you think about Max now, the ache doesn’t pulse as painfully anymore. Your heart throbs dully, a reminder of what you have suffered and survived. When you really turn it in your mind, you realize that what you had in him was comfort. It’s difficult to describe what you had as love when you can barely describe what it means to be in love with him. Romantic media has soiled your idea of love and sparks and butterflies, pushing you to the other end of the spectrum to believe that love is much more practical. Love is about checks and balances, building a strong, grounded foundation to last.

And you’re left wondering if you’ll ever find a love that feels like the movies.

Before you can dwell on it for too long, you hear the sound of gravel crunching and your skin pebbles in fear. You have no weapon out here. You’re near hypothermic in your flimsy pajamas. Your fingers will likely crack if you even think about clocking this intruder.

Luckily, you don’t have to think about self-defense when Bucky emerges from the shadows. The moonlight casts him under a pale glow, gleaming gold with the lamp hanging by the front door. “You scared me,” you mutter with a huff, heartbeat soothing into a gentle rhythm.

“You scared me. I thought I was going crazy when I saw someone sitting on your porch. Figured I’d check to make sure you were okay.”

A light laugh slips past your lips. “Why were you up?”

“Why were you?”

“Stop turning it around on me.”

“You’re such a brat.”

A gasp. You narrow your eyes at him. “Excuse me?”

“And you’re barely wearing anything. You must be freezing.” Bucky doesn’t waste a beat before he shrugs off his thick coat and drapes it over your shoulders. The warmth that surrounds you is immediate — what remains of Bucky’s body heat that clings to the fibers of the fabric. “What in the hell are you doing out here?”

You sigh. “Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t work. Thought I could use some fresh air.”

“Doll,” Bucky grunts, sounding almost disappointed.

“Why do you call me that?” The question springs from your lips before you can think twice. “Just— not that I mind, I’m just wondering.”

He pauses only for a second before he shrugs. “Because you look like one.”

“You objectifying me, Barnes?” You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest to bury yourself deeper into his jacket.

It smells like him. You’ve been getting whiffs of him while he works — sometimes he smells like citrus and pines, other times like sweat and grime. Both are equally intoxicating and you can’t tell which you prefer. This jacket is a balance of the two, placated by the crisp winter air.

“Only if you want me to,” he shoots back with an easy grin, leaning against the wooden frame opposite of you.

You hate to admit it but there is something so effortlessly sexy about him. A lazy kind of confidence that doesn’t come embellished with hours of primping that you’ve seen your ex do. The fine lines on his face, the exhaustion in the shadows under his eyes. They make him feel real.

Bucky adds, “Are you okay?”

The million-dollar question. “Not sure,” you confess, eyes wandering into the open field. You see his house in the distance, blinking like a single star in the stretch of darkness. “I think I’m getting there.”

Bucky drops down next to you, scooting closer while also nudging you to make room for him. You do. For a moment, the two of you sit in the stillness. Two people existing, hovering but never touching. His voice is gentle when he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

The first instinct is to say no. You’ve barely met the man, you already told him too much once, you refuse to do it again.

But the voice inside your mind tells you to trust him, to open up to him. He’s a stranger, one who you’ve been following in the time you’ve been here. But his presence feels like a safe haven.

When the words come out, they are intentional. “I’ve been playing back the last few years in my mind. Seven years is a long time to spend with someone. I keep trying to find that single point of inflection, the time when it all went wrong. When did he decide that I wasn’t enough? Or maybe that I was too much? When did he figure out that it wasn’t me that he wanted forever? When did he realize that this risk was worth losing me?”

The questions that have been swirling in your mind for the better part of your nights spill out into the silence. You take in a shaky brath, your heart pressing against your bones, tight in the way it shrinks and inflates. Bucky doesn’t respond and it coaxes more out of you. The doubts you’ve been too fearful to address.

“I think I come back to the question of why. Why did he do it? Why didn’t he just break up with me if he didn’t love me anymore? Why did he take her to our home? Why her? Why not me?”

When you turn to look at him, he’s already staring right back at you. His gaze is kind. There is no weight to the way he scans your face crumpled into a resistance to your tears.

“It’s not on you. His decisions are not a result of your actions. His mistakes are not a reflection of who you are. Guys fucking suck,” he spits out and you giggle, the sound a little frayed. “It’s true — well, most guys suck. This one in particular because he couldn’t see what was right in front of him. Hopefully this one asshole doesn’t deter you from finding someone better. Someone who loves you. Deserves you.”

Your voice betrays the hope that tinges it. It’s fragile, small. “You really think there’s someone out there like that?”

Bucky’s eyes are soft, the frozen chips in his eyes thawing into clear water. “Loves you, yes. Deserves you, never.”

Your heart palpitates a little too loud, a little too fast. The skip of a beat. Your fingertips tingle with the urge to reach out to him, bury them in his thick hair. It would be easy, sliding your hand to close the whisper of a distance. It would be simple to scooch over until your knees touch, until you can brush your lips against his skin. Until you can draw them up to his.

His glance falls to your mouth, a brief millisecond, before flying back up.

Easy. It’s easy.

Too easy almost.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.” Bucky gently bumps your shoulder with his, breaking the spell. You look away quickly, hoping the warmth that’s crept up your neck doesn’t give away your intrusive thoughts.

The two of you rise to your feet, Bucky reaching out a steadying hand which you don’t take but appreciate anyway. He walks you to the door, some form of upstate gentleman hospitality that’s severely lacking where you live in the city.

There’s a crackle of a spark in the air, one that flashes so quick you nearly miss it. It’s a zap of lightning in clear skies. It weighs in the atmosphere like the residues of humidity after a downpour. The feeling sticks to your skin but it’s not uncomfortable, only unfamiliar.

“Try to get some sleep,” Bucky says as you stand just past the threshold of your doorway. You almost invite him inside, lips parting with the request ready. Without waiting for you to ask, he responds, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Promise.”

You can only nod. “Thanks, Buck.”

“Anytime. Have a good night,” he calls out as he jogs down the steps, figure half cloaked in the darkness.

A breeze whips past your neck and that’s when you realize— “Wait, your jacket.” You whirl around just as he turns back to look at you.

Then there’s that charming grin again, and your heart stupidly lurches for him again. “Keep it,” he beams, stealing the air from your lungs, “it looks better on you.”

—

Something has changed. You can’t quite put a finger on it, but you sense the shift to his demeanor. An unfamiliarity that makes the hairs on your arms stand. While the morning starts like any other, Bucky feels… different. He’s still wearing his uniform tee and plaid shirt combo, red this time, greeting you with a sleepy grunt at seven as he trudges into the house. Yet, the air teases with a new kind of tension.

It begins with breakfast when you’re deftly flipping some eggs and bacon, a hearty meal you have been preparing every morning. Bucky goes towards the stove, undoubtedly to steal some food as he always does. Only this time, he brushes behind you, a little too close for comfort when you can feel his body heat against your back. As he plucks a piece of bacon from the pan, his hand settles on your spine — high enough to be appropriate, low enough for you to notice. It’s not uncomfortable, but the weight and warmth say I’m here. When he drifts away, his palm drags to your hip, squeezes lightly, then releases you. He leaves you with the echo of his footsteps disappearing down the hall.

It’s not a material change. Not really. It’s not something you would outwardly question with him. It’s not that you mind that he’s suddenly comfortable enough to put his hands on you. You haven’t known Bucky that long but, when you’ve spent nearly every living moment together for the past few days, there is an automatic intimacy that connects the two of you. A red thread if you will.

You hate to describe it as dependency; whenever he exits a room you’re in, the temperature drops a degree lower; when he returns, the sun is pleasant where it kisses your skin. You want to chalk it up to the fact that you really haven’t been in this house for too long, and Bucky radiates the kind of contentment with being accustomed to the space. The voice in your head calls you a liar in denial.

You try not to listen to her too much. What does she know?

Bucky slithers back into the room a couple of hours later, this time in coveralls. A system in your brain appears to have malfunctioned at the sight because it can’t compute exactly what you’re seeing. If Bucky notices your blank stare, he doesn’t point it out. Perhaps it’s the years of evolution — and a decade of staring at men only in boring, stiff suits, but that same voice earlier is now screaming in your ear that’s a fucking hot working man. That voice is likely influenced by your knowledge that he actually does work with his extremely capable hands. It begs the next question: what other things are those hands capable of?

Your self-control tried and failed to slam the brakes on finishing that thought. How easily did you forget that seven-year relationship that almost destroyed you. What you need now is some healthy distance from romance and all of its associated variables. What you don’t need is to be thinking about how broad his chest looks underneath that navy fabric that stretches across it, or how his thick arms seem to fill it out, or how he’s now starting to tie his hair back into a bun.

Life isn’t fair. Some higher power up there is testing you and your self-restraint, which is admittedly not very strong.

“You okay?”

Bucky’s voice helps you drag your attention away from cataloging every single detail you find delicious about him today, quickly creating and filling a little memory box in your head to the brim. It’s probably a bad decision since you haven’t exactly gotten laid in a while, and Bucky is someone who you very much can imagine doing the laying.

Swallowing the thick, aroused lump in your throat, you nod and smile. Tight. “Fine. Great.” Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathless.

Thankfully, Bucky lets it slide. “I need to go into town to help out a friend. Did you want to come along? Figured we could do a night out after I wrap up. Dinner maybe.”

Your brows jump. Is he— “Are you asking me out?” You blurt out before you can stop yourself.

Bucky’s lips tug up on the corners, pretty pink surrounded by his dark stubble. He has trimmed it down, giving you a clearer view of his sharp jawline and shallow dimples. You can’t tell which one is worse for your libido.

“Do you want me to ask you out?”

You press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, heart skipping a beat over how casually confident he looks. That lazy smile, that devilish glint in his eye. “Touché,” you mutter, “let me get changed.”

Looking at your options, you are — well — stumped. It’s not as if you packed to star in some cheesy romcom, playing out this potential something with your parents’ employee. You packed for comfort, which means a wide array of cozy, ratty sweaters and sweats, more than enough leggings to avoid a wash, and a single pair of jeans. You tell yourself you’re not trying to dress to impress Bucky, why should you? It’s not a date. Still, you find yourself digging through your pile for more options, praying for something more enticing than home clothes that drown you.

Past-you clearly thought you needed this and you find a flowy, maxi skirt which you throw on with your most presentable sweater. You spend a bit of time on your makeup and hair — enough to make you look like you have been getting eight hours of sleep a night, not enough to make Bucky think you’re putting in that much effort for him.

Now, you look good. You may even look good enough for a date. Which this is not.

When you get to the bottom landing of the stairs, Bucky’s head immediately lifts from his phone. The slow smile that sprawls across his face is certainly worth the extra push you put into your appearance. He doesn’t comment, instead giving you a leisurely once-over that has your chest rising with the hitch of your breath. His eyes dark with his pupils blown.

For some reason, it feels infinitely heavier than a compliment.

The drive out into town is plagued with air thick with tension, the music crooning from the speakers doing nothing to ease it. It’s like sparks of electricity crackling here and there, enough times for you to notice, but so de minimis that you can choose to ignore them.

“You feeling better? Didn’t catch a cold from last night, did you?”

“No,” you murmur, “I’m fine. Just— hasn’t really been easy sleeping away from home. I’m used to the crowds and the noise.”

Bucky pauses. You can practically hear the gears in his head turning. “Anything I can do to help?”

You almost — almost — let slip that his being around does help. That his voice is soothing, his presence calming. The proximity and his warmth a balm for your aching soul. “No, think I just need to grow into it,” you shrug with a sigh, then add, “but thank you for checking in on me last night — and for your words.” You stop to take a deep breath. “It’s a little embarrassing actually to tell you all that, I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“Doll,” Bucky says, the word tinted with the slight hint of exasperation. “I’m glad you talked to me, alright? Shouldn’t be thinking all of that alone. Don’t want you thinking that you’re to blame for someone acting real stupid.”

You hum, looking away to bite back the smile that threatens to crawl up your lips. “Thanks, Buck.”

His shoulders loosen, rolling back slightly as he reaches his free hand over to your knee, giving it a squeeze. It’s barely anything, but it feels like everything.

“This okay?” He asks, voice so low that you almost miss it beneath the quiet purr of his car.

His hand is a comforting weight on your knee. His fingers grounding without overwhelming you. His eyes search you in brief glances, almost wary. You can feel his grip loosening, his hand slipping as you wait a beat too long to respond.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” you say, equally quietly, but you know he hears it when he slides his hand back firmly over your knee and keeps it there.

When you arrive and Bucky releases you, you feel the loss almost instantaneously. You wonder if it’s your heartbroken-riddled mind playing tricks on you, craving the touch of a man you barely know to replace the one you thought you did. His gaze finds you again, kind and warm. There’s reassurance in the way his blue eyes shine, and you take satisfaction in that for now.

Bucky helps you down, careful to take your hand and slip his fingers through yours as he tugs you towards the open door of the garage. You don’t question why he keeps your hands interlinked, you don’t want to risk him letting go.

“Great, you’re finally here,” a tall blonde man pops out from behind the car. “I can’t get this running. I don’t think the battery’s busted but—” His eyes find you a smidgen too late, but are quick to drop to your hand in Bucky’s.

Instinctively, you pull away, tucking your hand behind your back. It’s not shame, it’s embarrassment. You don’t know this man. He doesn’t know you. Neither of you can define the nature of your relationship with Bucky so neutrality seemed to be the best option.

Bucky peeks at you, slightly amused, but doesn’t comment. “Yeah, give me a second and I’ll take a look. Come say hi first, don’t be rude.”

The man swaggers over towards you, legs as long as Bucky’s carrying him to the two of you in a few quick strides. He wipes his hands, stained in oil and grease, on a rag that looks equally soiled. He sticks it out and Bucky smacks it away.

“Don’t get your greasy paws on her.”

The man is handsome in that traditional sense, a typical all-American. The light to Bucky’s dark, with the exception of the black smear on his face. He grins easily and nods his head at you. There’s a knowing look in his eyes that you can’t understand, but Bucky seems to, judging by the glower he throws at him.

“I’m Steve, Bucky’s friend.”

You introduce yourself and stick out your hand for Steve to shake. His smile stretches a little wider as he accepts it, and it morphs into a smirk when he turns to Bucky.

“Bucky didn’t tell me he was bringing a pretty lady around. Hell, I didn’t even know he knew any ladies, let alone pretty ones. Have you met Sam yet? Did you bring her around to meet Sam? He’ll love her. He’ll love you.” His attention consistently shifts between the two of you with every question. 

“Shut it, Steve.”

His gruffness is leveled by the fondness in his voice. It’s clear they have a good relationship. Good enough that Bucky lets parts of him that he hasn’t even shown you shine through. It’s endearing.

Bucky shoos his friend away, then turns to you. “Assuming you don’t want to stick around a couple of grease monkeys, I can drop you off in town when I go to pick up some supplies for that guy. I can pick you up whenever you give me a call. It’ll be a couple of hours at least before I finish up, but we can go to dinner after? You can also stay here if you want. I grabbed your laptop on the way out in case you wanted to do work or relax with us. Steve has WiFi.”

In the last few years, you don’t think Max has thought anything through beyond getting takeout together after work or shooting you a quick message if he gets a last-minute reservation somewhere. Perhaps your standards have stooped to levels lower than the floor in the years you’ve been together — resignation mistaken as comfort, but the thought that Bucky has put into making sure you’re comfortable is nice.

“You can drop me off in town. I can walk here after, it’s not too far.”

“Doll, I’ll pick you up, don’t—”

“Can you relax?” You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can read a map, Barnes. You finish up whatever you need to do here so then we can go to dinner. I want that Italian spot. The one you keep talking about with the good ravioli.”

His lips quirk up as he shakes his head slightly, a huff of a laugh escaping his lips. “Alright. I already made a reservation there, you’ve been talking my ear off about it.”

“I have not.”

“Alright, doll,” he relents. “Come on.”

Bucky keeps his hand on your knee again for the duration of the ride, completely oblivious to the fact that your heart is about to leap out of your chest and onto his dashboard. He releases you to come out and open your door, his hand around yours again in an instant, like he can’t bear to not touch you for even a second.

Before Bucky separates from you to head to the hardware store, he clasps your hand a little firmer. “Call me if you decide you want me to pick you up. I’ll have my phone on me the entire time, yeah?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, Buck.”

Bucky chuckles again. “Such a brat.” You scowl. “I’ll see you later.” With one final pat to your head, he walks away.

The town is a nice place to stroll around in. Given that you’ve been cooped up at home, being more than aggressively productive with work and your deadlines, it’s nice to actually use your legs for something other than going to the kitchen or the bathroom. You stop by little shops and pick up little trinkets that remind you of Bucky, realizing later that he may not even need them. You start to overthink it, panicking on the sidewalk over how it looks, when a door opens.

“Come to look for more books?”

Mr. Moore. “Oh, hello. I, uhm, honestly am just browsing for now,” you say sheepishly, scratching your cheek. “But I’ll certainly be back when I’m interested in more.”

“Don’t worry. I was just surprised James was with a pretty lady, never seen him around here with anyone — and he is around here quite a lot.”

Heat creeps up your neck at the pretty lady, second one you’ve gotten today. Instead, you opt to address— “James?”

“The young man you were with. He comes by a lot for books. Says he is building out a library for someone.”

A library? James? “Bucky’s building a library? For someone?”

“Ah, yes, that’s what he prefers to go by. Yes, he comes by to pick up a new book every once in a while. His taste is quite eclectic and I’m not sure if he’s even read any of them,” Mr. Moore laughs lightly, unaware of what his words have just done.

Your heart may have splintered a bit. Despite what you try to tell yourself, that you’re not trying for anything with Bucky, this disappointing news has dashed what little exists of your hope. It feels a bit childish to be so… possessive over a man you’ve just met. You only know him in the context of your little bubble, within the confines of your home. He probably does have a life outside of it all, why wouldn’t he? You’re only meeting Steve for the first time and he seems to be a very good friend.

You try not to think about it too much as you start the slow walk back to Steve’s place. Even the hustle and bustle of this quaint town does nothing to distract you from the multitude of thoughts swirling through your head. You’re still thinking about them even when you stop in front of the open garage again.

Steve perks up when he spots you. “Hey! You’re back.”

Bucky slides out from underneath the car fast and your heart traitorously jumps. His coveralls are now spotted with grease and oil, his hair messier from lying on his back, top buttons of his coveralls popped open in the heat of the work. His eyes are bright when they find you, but his brows immediately pucker.

Fuck, are you really that obvious?

He gets to his feet and wipes his hands down, cursing when he sees that he isn’t getting rid of them that easily. He almost looks pained when he approaches you, looking down at your hands. “Sorry, don’t want to get you dirty,” he mutters, bitterness tinging his voice.

“It’s okay,” you can only say.

Bucky tilts his head, seeming to assess you and your expression. You don’t know what face you’re making, but it’s clearly concerning enough to have him frowning. “Everything okay? Did something happen?”

You’ve known this man less than a week and he can already read you like a book. Meanwhile, you apparently haven’t even begun to read the important chapters of his life. “Yeah, I’m good,” you force a smile.

Looking far from satisfied with your response, he gives you an easy out by pivoting to look at the bag in your hand. “Got anything nice?”

Now the gift feels a little silly. You pull out the small item from the bag. “Um, it’s a fridge magnet. A ravioli. Thought it would be cute since we’re having that for dinner tonight.”

“S’cute,” he murmurs, eyes only briefly flicking to the item in your hand before refocusing on your face.

“It’s for you,” you state lamely.

Bucky’s eyes sparkle even brighter as he looks at it in awe. He reaches out to take it from you, flinching at his dirty hands again as he stops. “Thank you, I love it,” he says softly, “hold onto it for me, will you? Don’t want to get it dirty.”

You hum and nod.

“Doll, did something happen? Was someone bothering you?”

Your head jerks up. “What? No. Nothing happened.”

“Then why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”

Do you? “I don’t have a puppy,” you sarcastically respond. Bucky gives you a pointed look. “Nobody was bothering me, promise. I’m just… thinking about something.”

“You gonna share that thought with me?”

Highly unlikely. You’re not here for any longer, you may as well save yourself the embarrassment of bringing up hey, so I thought we had something starting here, but you seem to have someone else you’ve been interested in for a while.

Fortunately, before you can answer, Steve calls out. “Shit, Buck, need your help with this.”

He looks pained once more when his attention flies briefly to Steve and returns to you. “We’ll talk later. I gotta help this guy. He’s fucking hopeless when it comes to cars.”

You end up sitting against the wall on one of the workstations, your laptop propped up in front of you. Despite having all the time in the world while waiting for Bucky, you can’t seem to concentrate. It’s a good thing you’re ahead of most of your work. The rest of these pieces can be pushed to January, which leaves your holidays untouched. You end up pulling up a book you’ve been meaning to read and flipping through it.

The pages do keep you occupied, stopping you from going down a rabbit hole of despair. Every once in a while, Bucky would stop by and say, “Sorry, not that much longer.” He’d check in to see if you were hungry, if you wanted a drink, if you were enjoying the book, if you were comfortable, if you were warm enough. 

His concern is sweet, but you can’t help thinking that this is probably how he is with everyone. If he’s like this with you, you can’t imagine what he’s like with the recipient of that library he’s crafting.

Each time, you would reassure him that you’re fine and to focus on the task at hand. He doesn’t look very convinced.

When you’re a third of the way into the volume, Bucky comes up to you, looking weary but glowing with contentment. “Took longer than I expected. Sorry about that. I’m going to go wash up and we can go?”

“Sounds good.”

Bucky lifts his hand up again, fingers twitching, only to pull it back in frustration. You don’t have time to solve what that was about when he then goes into Steve’s house. Steve is still tinkering away lightly but you can feel his gaze drifting towards you every once in a while.

“You finding the house okay?”

His question pulls you back to the present. “Ah, yeah, it’s been good. Bucky takes great care of it.”

“Mhmm,” Steve singsongs, like he knows something he won’t share. Him and Bucky have that tendency, you’re not gonna take the bait. “What do you think of him?”

The question catches you off guard. Steve is probably being a protective friend. Bucky has been spending an awful amount of time around the house. Maybe he’s worried that he’s left him defenseless to a stranger from the city — not that that man can be defenseless, he can probably fling you across the room with one hand. The mental image does nothing to help when you press your legs together.

“He’s a good guy.”

“The best, really,” Steve emphasizes, “loyal too. Like a dog.”

You let out a small snort at the comparison. “Think he’ll twirl three times and bark if I tell him to?”

“Think he’ll do anything you tell him to,” Steve flashes a cheeky grin.

You’re not sure what to make of that. His words are cryptic, saying little but hinting at so much more. As a writer and a reader, you’ve always been able to read between the lines — except for when it comes to things related to you. In this case, while you are slightly hopeful about his words, you’re not going to let it get out of hand. 

“How long have you known him?” 

Steve pretends to think for a second, but you know the answer is top of mind. “Since high school. We went to different colleges for a bit, but ended up back here anyway.” 

This is someone who knows Bucky well. Really well. Maybe even too well. Perhaps he would know this person that he’s supposedly interested in. You could be nosy and ask, play it off as genuine curiosity, but who are you to invade his privacy? 

“That’s a while,” you choose to mutter instead. 

“Not longer than you though,” Steve shrugs. 

Your brows immediately meet in a frown. “What do you—”

“Ready to go?”

Bucky’s return interrupts your train of thought and your head instinctively turns to find his voice. The words fizzle out in your throat when you see him. You’ve seen Bucky down and dirty, grease-stained, dirt-covered. You’ve seen him shirtless under your sink, on your roof, behind your house. But you’ve never seen him like this.

To others, it may be nothing to write home about. A crisp button-down, black trousers. He’s rolling up his sleeves as he approaches you. His hair is tugged up into a bun with a few strands (aptly named slut strands by your friends) loosely framing his face.

The closer he gets, the louder your heart beats. You wonder if he can hear you, wonder if it’s obvious how your brain is completely short-circuiting at the sight of him looking deliciously put together.

While you can’t find the words to say, Steve lets out a low whistle behind you. “Look at you, haven’t seen you look this clean since senior prom.”

“Quit it,” Bucky grunts. If you didn’t know any better, you swear you see his ears tinged pink. He shifts his focus to you, eyes softer. “Ready to go?” He repeats.

Unfortunately, all you can manage is a nod. Mentally, your jaw is on the floor, dragging behind you as he leads you back to the car, a warm hand on your back.

It’s been so long since you’ve been this… affected by someone. Max dressed in custom suits and shirts that cost him thousands at least, but none of them have your heart beating out of your chest, your legs pressing together, or your breath knocked out of your lungs. Bucky changed that quickly.

Once again, you’re left wondering if this is all the aftermath of your breakup. You can’t help but constantly contemplate whether your attraction towards Bucky is spite towards your ex, or a search for something more, or a temporary filler for that cavity in your chest. The questions are a test of your rational decision-making. Emotions are difficult to decipher after a major incident, but you find yourself enjoying Bucky’s company and maybe that’s enough for now.

Bucky keeps his hand on your knee again on the drive over, the weight strangely soothing. A familiar touch. He doesn’t press further on your quietness from earlier, but you don’t miss the way he keeps glancing your way with inquiring eyes.

The Italian place is nothing fancy, nothing like the Michelin-starred establishments in the city. It’s a small, family-run bistro that Bucky apparently frequents because the host and the owner greet him like family, kisses on his cheeks and everything.

“And look at this pretty lady you’ve brought with you,” Maria beams, immediately welcoming you with a hug and a kiss on each cheek as well. “My, my, I can’t remember the last time you’ve brought a date here.”

“Maria,” Bucky scolds teasingly, affectionately, “I’ve never brought a date here.”

“You’re right,” she hums, eyes sparkling with a mirth that you don’t understand. “Come on, I have your table set up for you. Good thing you called, we have the Millers coming in later for Harry’s sixtieth so you know they’re filling the whole place.”

A groan resounds next to you as Bucky guides you to follow Maria with a hand on your back. “So much for a nice, quiet dinner.”

Maria only smirks before she leaves you at the table to get some water. You finally manage to get your first question out, and it’s not even the most pressing one. “Do you all just know each other around here?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, not everyone. Some are more active in the community than others, so you tend to see the same faces. The Millers are a large, rowdy bunch, you’ll always see the group of them at town events. Maria’s family has been here for generations and she does food donations every Sunday.”

“And you?”

Bucky leans forward, arms folded on top of each other on the table. His baby blues shine under the low overhead lights. His smile almost teasing. “What about me?”

Warmth crawls up your neck again. “How does everyone know you?”

“Not everyone knows me,” he says and you immediately reward him with an eye-roll over his fake modesty. He laughs, “It’s true. I help out around town, I’m pretty handy, but nothing compared to some of the good people around here.”

“I think if you kidnapped someone’s dog, they would probably thank you for taking such good care of them.”

A snort slips past his lips. “Glad you think so highly of me.”

Dinner is a lovely, quiet affair. Bucky’s compliments did not do the ravioli justice as the pasta melts in your mouth with that delicious ooey-gooey filling. You’re pretty sure you blacked out and threatened to marry Maria at some point if that would get you her secret recipe. She laughed and told you that you don’t think Bucky would ever let that happen.

“Oddly protective of your ravioli, Mr. Barnes,” you grin.

“Oh, trust me. It’s not the ravioli he’s protecting,” Maria smiles, winking at the two of you before disappearing back into the kitchen.

You’re too food-drunk to fully process her words, instead choosing to scoop up more sauce onto your pasta and into your mouth. Another moan leaves your lips at the tangy, fresh tomato flavor.

“You make those noises every time you eat?” Bucky asks from across the table.

You finally look up from the divine dish, finding him amused, pupils dark where they’ve expanded. You don’t even have the capacity to be embarrassed when the food is worth it. “Only when I get something really, really good in my mouth.”

Bucky’s lips part before his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. He closes his eyes for a moment, releases a sigh, and once again shakes his head. “The mouth on you.”

Sure enough, the moment the Millers arrive, the restaurant descends into pure chaos. You’re surprised Maria even let Bucky keep the table when their family takes up the remainder of the seats, some of them squeezed together shoulder to shoulder. Their voices pulse off the walls, rambunctious in a way that only a large family can be. You find yourself both endeared and amused; after all, growing up, it’s only been you and your parents.

“Wonder what it would be like to have a big family,” you murmur quietly.

“Think you want a lot of kids?”

“First date and we’re already talking about having kids?” You grin, relishing the way he flushes pink again.

It’s not a date, the voice in your head chooses to emphasize then. Two friends having dinner. Remember, Bucky has someone he’s actually interested in. The reminder has your stomach churning and suddenly, panna cotta on your tongue doesn’t taste as sweet anymore.

“Hey, where did you go?” Bucky drags you out of your thoughts again. His gorgeous face is marred by the furrowing of his brows. You blink at him, the grey clouds slowly rolling away. “Lost you for a second there,” he murmurs, “what are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you answer a little too quickly.

“Are you sure? Sure seems like something’s bothering you. If I can do anything to help, you know I will.”

Unfortunately, this is not a problem he could help with. Not unless he suddenly loses interest in whoever he’s building a romantic library for. “I’m fine,” you force out a smile, “just work.”

“Thought you were doing well with your deadlines.”

Shit. You’ve always wished that men would pay more attention to the things you say; now, you’re starting to regret hoping for that. “I am, I’m thinking about my line of work for January. Hoping I have enough to sell to publications.”

Bucky stretches his hand across the table and takes yours, thumb brushing the back of it gently. “You’ll do great. You’re good.”

“You’re just saying that,” you laugh, your heart threatening to burst again with how aggressively it’s thumping. Your hand feels like it’s on fire where it’s tucked into Bucky’s.

“No, I’ve read your work. You do some nice fluff work, but there are a lot of your analytical think pieces that I enjoy.”

A squeak escapes you. “You’ve read my writing?”

“Don’t look so surprised, your parents talk about you all the time. How proud they are of you. I get forwarded all your articles.”

You groan, pressing your free hand against your forehead. “I’m going to murder them. I’m so sorry.”

“Why should you be? I like reading them.”

“They’re force-feeding it to you.”

Bucky laughs, grinning wide. “Actually, they did offer to stop after a while but I told them to keep ‘em coming. Makes me feel more intellectual compared to all the how-to-fix-a-bathroom guides I’ve been reading.”

It’s irritating how you keep drawing comparisons between Bucky and your not-to-be-named ex. The latter worked in finance and barely had the time to give your work the time of day. You didn’t think much of it, figured it just wasn’t his cup of tea. Little did you know that his cup of tea was bending his secretary over his desk.

“Well, I appreciate it,” you say, hoping your embarrassment of being perceived isn’t too obvious.

Bucky turns to look at the increasingly unruly crowd to the side. “Ready to get out of here? With the amount of wine Harry’s drinking, I have a feeling the tables will be their new floors soon.”

With a laugh, you nod. Bucky swipes his card before you can even pull out yours, which pulls a protest out of you. He only smiles, “First date, right? You can take the next one.”

Oh, how you love the way your heart skips a beat.

You didn’t have a single drop of alcohol yet you feel wine-drunk the entire ride home. With Bucky’s hand on your leg and his humming in your ears, this feels like a high you haven’t experienced in a while — or at all for that matter. You almost wished he would drive slower, take his time so the night wouldn’t end. Once the night comes to an end, he’ll be gone again and you’ll be alone again.

The car pulls to a quiet stop in front of your house and the engine clicks off, bathing the two of you in a thick silence. The dread sinks in fast. It’s not only about being left on your own, it’s specifically about having distance between you and Bucky. Today feels different; it’s not like all those times spent in your kitchen sharing a meal or the drives out into town for a purpose. There is a heavier taste to the air that leaves you wanting more, craving a fix that you can’t quite name.

“Walk you to your door?” Bucky asks softly, to which you manage a nod.

There aren’t enough steps between the car and the door. By the time you exhale, you’re already on your front porch, your key in the door. Bucky hovers behind you wordlessly.

Once the door is open, you rotate to look at him again. “Thanks for dinner, I really enjoyed it. We should do it again sometime.”

“Mhmm, just say when and I’ll take you.”

Then that word sticks again to your mind, begging to be freed. The one plea that you’ve managed not to say, but rests so heavy on your tongue that you want it to just roll off. Bucky looks at you with eyes searching for any signs.

Stay.

His eyes widen, revealing more of those beautiful blue irises, gold flecks glowing underneath the warm oil lamp. You realize then that you’ve said it out loud.

Moritification is etched onto your face when you quickly add, “For wine. I picked up a bottle last time we were in town. Um, it’s still early. If you want. You don’t have to, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do but—”

“Nothing better to do,” he easily interjects, “nothing else I’d rather do.”

Your chest blooms with hope as you take a step back into your house, swinging the door open further for him. “I’ll get the opener.”

The two of you settle in the living room. The television flickers quietly as background noise as you take another sip of the burgundy wine. It tastes delicious, a twenty-dollar bottle that could pass as two hundred. Maybe it’s not the wine itself, maybe it’s the company. Bucky pokes at the logs blazing in the fireplace before setting the metal rod aside and sitting back down next to you.

The conversation flows easily, lubricated by the alcohol buzzing in your veins. You take one glass after another, finding yourself a little lighter, a little less anxious in talking to him when he’s so close to you like this. He listens to you with rapt attention, even when you start going on tangents, arms moving around animatedly. He asks you follow-up questions, intrigued when you reveal more details about your story.

You tell him about life in the city, your friends, your colleagues. You don’t even think about your ex as you describe it to him, your life doesn’t center around him after all, and you realize that now. You tell him about the stories you’re thinking of writing, more think pieces that he enjoys, and he asks you to send him the draft when you’re done, tells you that he’d love to read it in advance.

“Why would you want to read the draft? It’s not going to be perfect,” you say, crinkling your nose.

Bucky’s lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. “I like seeing how your works progress. How they can only get better. Plus, gives me some idea to the raw makings of your mind.”

You laugh at that. Bucky grins even wider.

When you realize how long you’ve been talking — how much, you stop abruptly. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’ve been rambling. I tend to do that.”

“Don’t apologize, I like hearing you talk. You haven’t really been doing much of that since you got here.”

The way Bucky’s looking at you now, like you’re the only thing in the world worth paying attention to, has butterflies fluttering inside your chest. Your stomach flips when you see the flames flicker, casting his features in this warm glow, the other half shadowed where he turns to look at you.

He looks beautiful. He always has been. But in this light, on this specific night, you don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone more irresistible.

You blame the alcohol for what you do next. Looking at the clock, you see that it’s gotten quite late. The two of you have spent the last couple of hours chatting right here on this couch. A very comfortable couch.

“You’ve had a good amount to drink,” you whisper, scooting closer to him. 

He’s had one glass. Barely anything. He probably doesn’t feel a drop with how big he is.

He looks at you, his gaze falling to your lips before slowly, hesitantly drawing back up. “I have,” he lies for you.

“You should just stay the night. S’not safe for you to drive,” you say, keeping your eyes locked on your hand as it reaches over to slide up his lap. His thick thigh tenses beneath your fingertips and your mouth begins to salivate instantly.

“Sounds like a good idea,” he confirms as he leans closer towards you. His breath ghosts the shell of your ear as he does so, lips grazing the length of your neck as he inhales deeply. “Y’smell so good.”

You bite back a moan, swallowing it down with the taste of the wine. “New perfume.”

“Don’t think I’ve smelled it before.”

“Didn’t think you were paying attention to how I smelled.”

Bucky chuckles low, puffs of air meeting your sensitive skin as he presses his lips against the side of your neck. A shiver snakes up your spine as your eyes slide shut. His presence is heady, like a drug seeping into your veins.

“I always pay attention when it comes to you.”

Fuck. Not only is your heartbeat crescendoing, there’s a new but not unfamiliar pulse between your legs that pulls a whine from your lips. Bucky shifts back and you feel that loss almost immediately, body instinctively drawing closer to seek him out again.

“Are you sure about this? You’ve had quite a bit to drink,” Bucky says gently, gaze laced with concern as he stares at you.

You can feel him pulling away, becoming more hesitant, but your hand squeezes his thigh, the same way he’s been doing all day. “Never been so sure of anything in my life. Promise.”

Before the flickering flames, Bucky slides a hand up your neck, thumb pressing gently against your jaw, which has you parting your lips ever so slightly in soft pants. He watches it carefully, how your lips stick together before separating, how your eyes glaze over at the small act. Then he leans closer, you can feel his breath against your skin. Your eyes slide shut expectantly, lips closing in anticipation.

“Keep your mouth open, doll,” he says, voice clear and stern.

You feel that order between your legs, pussy clenching. But you do as you’re told and you open up your lips again. Bucky closes the distance with a groan and licks your bottom lip. It’s like the first breath of air when you’ve been choking for so long, the first drop of liquor for an addict who just wants a taste. His tongue pushes into your mouth and you moan needily, fingers crawling up his chest to claw at his collar and draw him closer.

Bucky doesn’t waste a second and hoists you up to his lap, legs bent and straddling him, before kissing you again. His moan reverberates straight through you, straight to your core where it squeezes with the need for attention. His hands around your back, one to cup your ass and the other to bury in your hair. He tugs it back, gentle enough not to hurt you, but firm enough that you can feel your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

He tilts your head slightly to the side to open your neck up for his lips. His teeth. His tongue. He’s lapping at you like a dog while you grind down on his lap like a bitch in heat. His mouth feels hot and delicious against your sensitive skin, his growing erection digging against your thigh until you position yourself right on top of it. You thank the heavens you decided to wear a skirt, the thin fabric of your underwear is the only thing that stands between you and heaven. His cock feels thick against you, growing with desperation.

“Tastes so good, as sweet as I imagined,” Bucky mumbles against your skin. “Are you wet for me, doll? Can feel you leaking on my pants.”

Shame doesn’t even reach you when you’re slammed with the urgent need to feel more of him, pressing yourself down with a hungry whimper.

Bucky slips his hand underneath your sweater and tugs it over your head. You let him without a single letter of protest. The house is warm with you sandwiched between the fireplace and Bucky’s body heat. Your body feels like it’s been lit on fire with how Bucky ravenously drinks you in, his keen bright eyes memorizing you with a weight that has you shuddering.

“Always imagined what you looked like underneath all those cute sweaters and hoodies,” he says softly, palm stroking up your side and thumb reaching to brush your nipple over the fabric. You jolt in his hand, back arching slightly to his touch. “Could never compare to the real thing. Look at you. Fuckin’ beautiful.”

“Buck,” you whimper, the beginnings of embarrassment settling in the more he stares at you.

His gaze is casual but alert, like he’s taking his time committing the sight of you, every part of you, to the parts of his mind that he will constantly bring to the forefront. “Don’t get shy on me,” he smiles slow, “been thinkin’ about this for far too long. You don’t know how many ways I’ve imagined taking you. How many nights I spend with my cock in my fist, the sound of you in my fuckin’ ears like you’re right there with me.”

You let out another curse at the visual. All those nights you spent turning alone in your bed, you could’ve been with Bucky. You could’ve had his cock in your fist, could’ve been giving him the real reactions that he so desperately wants.

Bucky pops open the hooks of your bra, carelessly tosses it aside, before he dives in. His mouth latches onto your nipple while his hand gropes you eagerly. Fingers pinching, palms kneading, stimulating every inch of you, before he switches sides. Your nipples are slick with spit as you throw your head back, pushing your breasts more into his mouth, which he accepts with a wet groan.

“Pretty fuckin’ nipples, couldn’t have pictured anything better,” he grumbles, teeth nipping lightly to tug your nipple.

It would be humiliating to hear him narrate all this, but everything that comes out of his mouth is fire on your skin. “More, Buck, need more,” you stutter a gasp.

“Yeah? So needy. God, you’re fuckin’ unbelievable. Look at you grinding your hips down like a slut for me. You want my cock that badly?”

Bucky pulls away for a moment, seeming worried that he has gone a step too far when he frowns to check on you, but you’re still weighed down by your labor breaths, your chest constricting. You put your own hand on the back of his head to push him back towards you. “D-don’t stop.”

You don’t need to ask him twice. He’s back on you, tongue swirling around your peaked nipples, breath hot against the moist skin. Drunk on the feeling, you barely register Bucky laying you down on the couch, stretching you long as he crawls between your legs. He pushes your skirt up to your hips slowly, the fabric tantalizingly exposing each inch of your leg until he sees the damp fabric of your panties.

His thumb digs into the wet spot as he chuckles. “So wet for me already. So desperate. Thought I was the only one who wanted this. But looking at you now, so sweet on me, rubbing your pretty pussy against me before I even do anything,” he groans, breath hot against your skin. His tongue darts out to stroke up your clothed pussy, getting a hint of your saccharine taste.

“Buck,” you whine, fingers burrowing in his thick hair. His bun has loosened now, more of his hair brushing against your legs. “I can’t— I want your cock. Please. Can’t wait anymore.”

“No can do, doll,” he smiles, pressing a firm kiss against your clothed cunt. “Need to make sure I take care of you first. Prep you first. I don’t want to hurt you with my cock.”

The idea of how thick he is, how big, that he has to prepare you properly. You can only weakly nod as he ducks his head again and begins to thumb your clit while he mouths on your pussy, soaking your panties further with his spit. Before long, he’s hooking a finger to drag your panties to the side and touching his tongue to your center. The first stroke has your hips lifting, a gasp yanked out of your throat involuntarily.

“So fuckin’ sweet, this is what I wanted for dessert,” he grumbles, keeping his lips attached to your pussy. His tongue swipes up the lips, meeting his thumb at your clit to stimulate that sensitive bundle of nerves. “Would’ve taken you right there at the restaurant if you asked.”

“Bucky,” you whine. You could say more, but his name says enough. I want you. I need you. Your mind already struggles to string words together with him, let alone when you have him between your legs. His breath stokes the fire deep in your belly as he continues mouthing you hungrily.

“Mmm, keep calling my name, doll. Always pictured what you sound like beggin’ for me,” Bucky grunts and finally pushes a finger into you. He looks up at you as he does, watching as your expression morphs from a frustrated frown to blissful desire. He pumps the finger in and out of you slowly, enough to tease you, to edge you. With every stroke, he changes his tactics based on how you’re responding. He curls his finger inside when he sees your lips part, he pulls it out when you squeeze your eyes shut. His tongue joins two of his fingers then as he scissors you open, stretching out your insides.

His ministrations are relentless and you’re left squirming and whining underneath him, his free hand pressing down on your hip to keep your steady. You’re leaking all over the couch, the smell will likely last for days, but that seems to be the last of his problems.

“Should’ve taken you at mine,” Bucky grunts in annoyance. “I wanted you to drip all over my bed, my sofa. I wanted your smell to linger for days. Every time I lie down to sleep or rest on the couch after a long day, I’ll smell you everywhere. I’ll jerk my cock to the thought of you, knowing you’re probably doing the same with your pretty fingers right here.”

“Shit, Bucky, please. I can’t do this anymore,” you gasp breathlessly, “I need you. Please. I need you inside. I want you to cum with me.”

“Doll, you keep me down here and I’ll cum untouched, I promise you. Don’t need my dick wet in you to cum. You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this, how long I’ve wanted this. How many times I pictured bending you over the kitchen counter, or eating your cute cunt on the balcony.”

Desperate whines leave your lips again as you tug on the strands of his hair, a feeble attempt to get him to come up. The more he talks, the closer you get to your orgasm. But you want him. You want him inside you.

“I’m begging you, please. Just— just come up here and fuck me properly.”

Luckily, Bucky relinquishes and crawls his way up, his lips wet with your juices dragging up your skin as he makes his way back up. When he meets your lips again, you can taste both of you on him. You never thought you’d like it, but the way Bucky enjoyed himself down there was enough to have you giving in.

Bucky strips off his shirt, flinging it across the room, and unbuttons his pants. He quickly takes everything off before climbing back on top of you. While he keeps your mouth busy, his hands are tugging down your panties to your ankles. You don’t even know when he grabbed a condom but he’s already rolling it on while your brain is still stuck in this hazy fog of lust.

“So hard for you,” he heaves, “been hard for days. Balls so full. No matter how many times I cum, every time I see you, I get so hard again. You’ve turned me into a mess. Desperate only for you.” He positions himself at your entrance and the first push of his thick tip into you already has the two of you moaning. He inches himself in slowly, if not for you then for him. Bucky lets out a gasp as your pussy clenches tight around him. “So fuckin’ tight, doll. Fuck. Pussy was made for me. Got me locked in a death grip. Like she doesn’t wanna release me.”

Bucky eases into you slowly, excruciatingly. Every drag of his cock inside of you feels like the strike of yet another match to set you on fire. Your knees are bent and he’s fucking deep inside you, sweat beading his brows not from exhaustion, but the energy exerted to keep himself in check, to stop himself from finishing embarrassingly fast.

“Could cum right now, doll. But want you to enjoy it. Want you to feel how fucking hard I am for you.” His fat cock splits you open as you lie there and take it, as you let him use you however he wants. You savor the way his face transforms every time he pumps inside you. His eyes shutting and opening, a battle between the need to control himself and the desire to watch you as your cunt swallows him. His lips separating with hot, heavy breaths. His chest rising, stomach tightening, until you can see his chiseled torso gleaming in the light.

“Buck, I’m so close,” you whisper, trust in your own voice slipping through your fingers. “Needa cum. Just, mmm, feels so good. Need you.”

Bucky presses his forehead against yours, capturing your lips once more as he fucks into you. His cock is hot and heavy and thick inside you, a weight that grounds you into the cushions. Your insides coil tight. Your entire body buzzing alive with a desperate need for a satisfaction that’s so close you can practically taste it.

“So fuckin’ gorgeous, doll. You’re made for me. This pussy, gonna mold it to my cock. I’m gonna keep you in here, fuck you stupid every day. You don’t have to worry about a thing, I’ll take good care of you, you know that, right?” He rasps, shifting away slightly only to search your eyes. When you can’t find the energy to respond, he punctuates a “Right?” With a particularly deep thrust.

You nod, unsure of what you’re even agreeing to. At this point, all you have in your mind is Bucky and his smell and the feel of his cock delicious inside of you. You feel so full, each nerve vibrating for attention as Bucky continues to pump into you. Sweet and filthy words spill from his lips, each syllable dragging you closer and closer to that climax you so desperately crave.

“Now that I’ve had a taste of you, don’t think I’ll ever let you go.”

“Going to have you cockwarm me, just sit on my cock and look pretty.”

“Make you cum every day, until you can’t think about anyone or anything but me.”

From this moment alone, you know Bucky can keep his promise. Your brain is repeating his name over and over again, wretched pleas falling from your lips as he ruts his hips to push himself deeper inside of you. You can practically feel him inside your stomach, his length disorienting.

“Bucky, p-please, I wanna cum. Please let me cum.”

“Yeah, you want to cum, doll? Want to cum all over my cock? You’re already soaking my cock right now, can’t wait to have your cream all over me.”

His words have you wheezing, gasping for air in your choked lungs. You beg him one more time, the permission to release.

“Alright, doll. Cum around my cock. Squeeze my dick. I want you to milk me dry. Cum for me.”

Your orgasm wracks through you like lightning, the crack striking you as your pussy convulses around his cock, your stomach tightening with the release that catches you. Your body quakes beneath him as he too finds his completion, burying his face in your neck, beard scratching your sensitive skin, as he spurts into the condom, filling the rubber with evidence of his pleasure. Bucky’s hips stutter a few more times as he slumps on top of you, careful not to hurt you, but his weight a steadying presence.

Your cunt is still throbbing around him, his cock twitching inside of you, when you finally swallow around your dry throat. Bucky jerks back, quickly assessing you as he lifts himself up. Your hand wraps around his bicep to keep him there, keep his cock inside you a little longer.

“You okay?” He asks warily. “Did I hurt you?”

A laugh of disbelief rises from your chest. “Oh fuck you like you didn’t just give me the best damn orgasm of my life.”

His frown melts away into a wide smile. “Yeah? Best one, huh? That’s a big compliment.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He presses his lips against yours again, tasting you slowly once more before he draws away and kisses your temple. “Well, now I have to figure out how to make it better than best.”

Somehow, you don’t think he’ll have a problem doing that. 

–

A one-time fix was never going to be enough. Now that you’ve had a taste of him, you can’t seem to get enough of him. Whereas you were already following him around the house before, you can’t keep your hands off him now. Anywhere he’s willing to take you, you will. 

Not that it’s any different from Bucky who hasn’t let you out of his sight for a second since that night. When the two of you wake up the next morning, sticky with each other’s body heat, Bucky joins you in the shower and soaps you up before he sinks his cock back into you, taking you against the hot stream of water pouring down from above, pressing you up against the cool tiles until your legs are shaking. 

With the wine glasses still in the sink, stained red from the night before, he has one of your legs over his shoulder as he devours you again. This time, you do cum around his tongue and, based on the groan and the way his shoulders shake, he finishes untouched inside his pants.

The two of you bounce between your bed, the kitchen counter, against the outdoor shed. You get on your knees for him until he’s begging for you to stop. You don’t and he cums in your mouth, cock hitting the back of your throat as he spills white into you. He returns the favor by pressing you down onto a wooden workstation and your legs clamped around his face as he eats you out, eyes fixated on you the entire time. 

You still do activities outside, of course. When Bucky tries to work on the sink, you end up slithering over and fucking him on the floor. When you try to write outside on the porch, Bucky has you sliding your wet pussy along his cock until he cums all over your belly. 

Sometimes, you still drive out to town and you tease him so much in the car that he ends up swerving into a deserted road to fuck you in the backseat. The two of you go at it like rabbits anywhere and everywhere, days of build up feeling like months of separation. So much so that—

“Shit, I’m out of condoms,” Bucky curses with two of his fingers inside you and one hand trying to fiddle with his wallet. 

At this point, he’s riled you up enough that you say, “I’m clean. I’m on the pill.”

Bucky’s lips tilt into a small amused smile at the desperation in your voice, how you greedily grind against his hand. “As enticing as that sounds, I want to be safe with you.”

So you drive into town and stop by the nearest store. Bucky picks up two boxes of condoms, smirking when you question him teasingly if that would be enough. The store clerk eyes the two of you with disdain as Bucky pays for it, once again pushing your wallet away. 

On the way back home, you’re still vibrating with need but there’s a calm with Bucky that has you leaning back in surprise, watching you carefully.

“What’re you thinking about?”

Bucky huffs a laugh, smiling as he turns to you. “It’s my favorite time of day. Driving you.”

It’s unexpectedly soft and you can’t help yourself from leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. Bucky turns then to peck you quickly before his hand takes yours on your lap. 

Through all this, you can’t help that tiny, niggling, persistent voice in the back of your mind that reminds you of what Mr. Moore had said. About this person that Bucky is trying to court. Your brain is struggling to draw the line between him having this grand romantic gesture of building someone a whole damn library and the fact that he’s fucking you of all people right now. Not only once or twice or thrice, but you’re running out of fingers.

The only reason that your brain helpfully supplies is that you are a filler. It is the only reason that makes any semblance of sense. A good time. A good lay that he indulges in from time to time to keep him busy and distracted since he can’t seem to be with the one he is actually interested in. You want to ask him, want him to clarify what his intentions are — if this is all temporary or if he hopes for it be something more. Every time you come close to asking, your pride stands in your way; your last shred of dignity telling you that it’s better not to know rather than get an answer that puts an end to all this. You end up replacing that urge with his lips instead.

If you can’t have him forever, at least you can have him now.

Bucky doesn’t appear to suspect any of these thoughts from you. After all, every time he notices a shift in your mood, every time a question hangs on the tip of his tongue, you climb on top of him and push his attention to your body instead. It’s a defense mechanism, one that you’ve used hundreds of times before to avoid disappointing conversations. It’s apparently a tactic that works on Bucky too.

Still, sometimes, when all is said and done, and you’re tangled up in your sheets, Bucky says, “I know there’s something on your mind, I don’t want to push you to talk if you’re not ready. But I want you to know that I’m here and I’ll listen.”

Those times, your heart aches a little louder.

However, the conversation happens sooner than you think. It all comes full circle to where it began. You’re fully sated, limbs tingling all over from the delicious fuck that Bucky just put you through, stretched out like a feline on the couch — one that you replaced under the guise of a Christmas gift to your parents.

Bucky’s naked ass, his very gorgeous naked ass, is within your line of sight as he adds more logs to the fireplace. He had gotten up the moment you shivered a little bit. When he returns to you, he sets up pillows on the floor and tugs you down with him. A blanket covers both of your nude figures as he wraps an arm around you to keep you close and warm.

In addition to that invasive thought, another question comes to mind when you retrace your steps with Bucky.

“Something you said when I first met you,” you start and Bucky hums, “you mentioned something about me not remembering you. Have we really met before?”

His body shakes with laughter and you swat his chest, cheeks warm not only from the dancing flames. “We have.”

“When?” You ask in exasperation, knowing full well he’s only dragging this out for his entertainment.

“A long time ago. We met a good number of times actually,” he continues. When you give him a look demanding more, he only smirks. “My dad used to work for your parents. He did all of the upkeep on the property until he passed a couple of years back, then I took over.” You whisper a quick sorry for his loss with a kiss to his cheek which he gratefully accepts with a squeeze of your knee. “We lived in that same house but I used to come around and help him with odd jobs around here, especially when he got older. Your parents also just let me hang around because I was learning from my dad. That’s when I first met you.”

You’re struggling to piece together the memories from your childhood. Fragments of scenes in this house that you frequently visited during school holidays or lived in only for certain seasons. It’s all a little hazy but you vaguely recall a dark-haired kid. Always with a scratch on his face. A streak of dirt on his white t-shirt.

“Back then, you only came up here every summer and fall. Only time I got to see you. Grew up kinda alongside you. I’m a little older than you, a little scrawnier then—”

It hits you then. “James?” You blurt out. “You’re James?”

Bucky laughs, eyes twinkling delightedly. “Yeah, I’m James. It’s my first name. Bucky’s short for my middle.”

You remember this guy, older than you. He used to toil around in the garden, planting all sorts of vegetables and fruits that your parents would use to whip up the occasional home-cooked meal. You remember telling him once that daisies are your favorite and, three days later, you found beds of them in the backyard ready to pick. You hadn’t picked any of them; instead, you’d spend hours just laying on the grass reading by the flowers. You remember your friends coming to visit and they would tease you relentlessly for living with a boy because James was always there. They weren’t being mean, they were just innocently poking fun. You remember denying your crush on him, a crush long forgotten when you started getting to know Max more in the city.

Still, James is always on the outskirts of your memories. Helping your mom with groceries, talking to your dad about his car, out and about around the house. He lingers on the edges of your periphery, never quite in the center after a while. You can’t believe you nearly, completely forgot about him.

Now, what Mr. Moore said makes sense. Calling him James. You never connected the dots.

“Did you eat a truck or something?” is the first thing you ask. The James you knew, the blurry visage in the back of your mind, was lanky and skinny. He was always a little tall even for his age, but never this big. Not as big as Bucky is now. It seems like your graduation and full move into the city had removed him altogether from your thoughts.

“I grew up,” Bucky smirks. He sure did.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugs. “You didn’t remember me, there wasn’t a point to bringing it up. Plus, it was cute seeing you squirm around someone you thought to be a stranger for a while.”

He practically is a stranger. The years of distance have put a wall between the two of you, one that you failed to look over. But you’ve been chipping away at it slowly over the past week, taking down the bricks to reveal the man on the other side. The man you had known and the man as he is today.

With one mystery down, you brave yourself for the second — one that has the potential to break your heart.

“I was talking to Mr. Moore that day, when we visited Steve.” Your words have Bucky perking up, shifting to look at you with deep curiosity. “He told me that you come by there a lot, that the reason why he knows you so well is because you’ve been buying a lot of books to build a library for someone.”

Bucky pales even in the warm light of the fireplace. Your heart sinks.

“I just— if you were interested in someone, you don’t have to— I mean, if she or he or they are here, I don’t really understand why we’re doing this. I just assumed they’re not here and so you couldn’t, you know, be with them. Because it’s insane to think that someone wouldn’t want to be with you. I guess what I’m saying is—”

He shuts you up with a kiss, lips sealed firmly on yours. “Shut up.”

“Excuse me,” you scoff.

“For someone I consider to be incredibly smart, you’re an idiot.”

“Again, excuse me?”

“Doll, you’ve touched that library.”

That takes you aback, you look at him incredulously. “What?”

“The books you’ve been going through. That library upstairs.”

The realization dawns on you fast, melting like snow on your fingertips. The neurons in your brain are rattling off signals into the abyss, piecing together things you’ve heard, things that have happened in the last few days. Mr. Moore’s words. Steve’s vague teasing. Bucky’s behavior.

Oh god.

Before you can spiral further, Bucky takes your hand in his and brings it to his mouth. He places soft kisses on your palm and on your wrist, feeling the pulse underneath with his lips. “You read so much growing up. I remember you raided your parents’ books until you ran out. You’d complain about not having enough so I used to clean out my pocket money to buy you more. You lit up, thinking your parents finally heard you, and you finished those books in no time. It just became a habit,” he adds.

“You’re still buying books today?”

“Never stopped,” he replies simply, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You hadn’t come around in a while but I figured that you’d like it once you did. I’m not consistently buying things,” he chuckles, “just whenever I see something that makes me think of you, I’ll get it and shelve it.”

The library had been sparse growing up, shelves with empty slots that had you irritated even as a teenager. You never questioned the new books that popped up from time to time, thinking it was your parents finally adding to their collection. The library today is filled to the brim, books upon books filling the racks. The ones that don’t fit sit on a couple of neat stacks on the floor.

“Was that what had you up in your head all this time? You thought I was buying books for someone else?”

At that, you snap back into reality, embarrassment creeping up on you.

Bucky laughs and you whine for him to stop, burying your face in your hands. He takes your hands and uses them to draw you closer, peppering your face with kisses that have you squirming and giggling. “Fuckin’ cute. After all the time I spent with you and you thought I was trying to court someone else?”

“I didn’t know!”

“Doll, I’ve been into you since we were kids. Into you even when you were gone. You think I’d let this chance go when you’re here?”

You look up sheepishly at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember you.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs sweetly against your lips. “We have all the time in the world to make up for it.”

–

Your morning routine hasn’t changed much since everything that has transpired. You still make breakfast for the two of you, Bucky still comes into the kitchen groggy. Except now Bucky is strolling in straight from your bed, head rumpled with sleep, and eyes that quickly darken at the sight of you. He sidles up behind you, strong arms wrapping around your waist as he pastes his lips on the back of your bare shoulder where your pajama shirt has slipped down.

“Morning, doll,” he rumbles tiredly, tucking his chin over one shoulder.

“Morning,” you hum and pluck a piece of crisp bacon to hand-feed it directly to him.

It always starts like this, an innocent act stained the moment Bucky puts his mouth on you. He closes his lips around your fingers, licking the grease and flavor off completely and pressing his morning erection against your ass. “Want you,” he says, sleep slowly bleeding out of his voice.

“You had me last night, yesterday afternoon, at lunch, and in the morning,” you say with a smug smile. He looks equally pleased with himself when he realizes how many times, how many ways he has had you in the past twenty-four hours.

“Can’t get enough of you,” Bucky grins, switching off the stove and shoving his hand past the elastic of your pants. “I want to feed this greedy little cunt too.”

Before long, you’re a moaning mess with your cheek against the counter as Bucky fingers you open — not that he has to anymore with how much he’s fucked you last couple of days — and thrusts his cock deep inside you. He’s pounding into you from behind, fingers solidly buried in the flesh of your hip. He bends forward to press his front against your back, nipping your ear as his hand comes around to lock around your throat.

The light squeeze has you dizzy, whimpering for more. Bucky keeps you full, tells you how you’re such a good girl for him for always warming his cock in the morning. How your pussy is still so tight around him even after the number of times he has stretched you open.

You’re in that halfway state of lustful daze and barely-there consciousness when Bucky stiffens behind you. Turning back to look at him, you whine petulantly. “Why’d you stop?”

“Do you hear that? Someone’s coming.”

You grunt, nudging your ass back against him. “It’s fine. It’s probably the mailman, we can get it later.”

However, Bucky still doesn’t move an inch, which makes you huff. The sound of the car rolling up towards the house has him freezing. “Shit, I know that car.” He abruptly pulls out of you, cursing under his breath again as he helps you pull your pants up.

“Whose car is it?”

“Your parents.”

“Shit.”

The world drops at your feet as you scramble to put yourself together again. While your parents know you’re not their innocent little girl anymore, it doesn’t mean they approve of you christening every inch of their holiday house with the man they hired to maintain it.

Panic claws at your stomach but Bucky quickly kisses you, kind eyes grounding you. “Okay, let me make sure we didn’t leave anything behind. You go talk to them first.”

Always the rational one. The one with the solutions. All you can think about is — “They were supposed to be gone for another few days!”

“I know, doll,” he murmurs softly then kisses your forehead. “Go.”

Your stomach flips, and you can’t tell if it’s because Bucky’s being extra soft with you, or the fact that your parents nearly caught you getting your insides rearranged with Bucky fucking you seven ways to Sunday.

You reach the door just in time to hear the keys jingle. Grabbing the handle and swinging it open, you greet them with the brightest smile you can muster. “Mom! Dad! You’re back so early. I thought you were supposed to be in Cancun for a couple more days.”

Your dad wraps you in a hug first, his jacket chilly against your thinner pajamas. When he embraces you, you finally catch sight of the intruder who at least has the decency to look contrite when he catches your eyes. Your fists ball together tight at the sight of him.

“What’s he doing here?”

As your mom wrangles you into a hug of her own, your dad beams brightly at you, seeming almost proud for doing such a good deed. “Oh, honey, we thought it would be such a shame for you to spend Christmas alone and working, so we left our cruise earlier and picked him up on the way up here. I was surprised to hear Max didn’t come up with you. He’s welcome here, you know.”

“Okay, but—”

Max, the fucking asshole, has the nerve to interrupt you with a pointed look and that practiced smile on his face. “And we are so, so grateful for that,” he declares, sliding an arm around your shoulders and pecking your cheek. You wanted to hit him with an uppercut to his fucking jaw. His hand squeezes your arm. “We wouldn’t want anything to ruin Christmas, would we?”

Your parents love the holidays. They think it’s the time to reconnect with loved ones, spread magic, and sprinkle holiday cheer. You’ve been celebrating the season with Max, your parents, and his parents in the city for years, a convening of the two sides likely to be officially family soon. But this year is clearly different and your parents have yet to catch wind of what has happened.

You hate to break their heart, especially since you know they wanted to do something nice for you. So you keep your mouth shut — for now. The threatening glare you sear into Max’s head behind your parents’ back as they enter is enough to have him cowering slightly.

As if the universe is determined to set your life on fire, Bucky comes down the hall just as the front door closes behind the lot of you. His eyes are warm when they find your parents, but you can see the wall that slams up when he spots Max next to you, his arm around you. You quickly shrug it off with a frown, trying to reassure him with your gaze but he’s already shifting his attention to your parents.

“James! Good to see you, son. I see you’ve been taking good care of the place and our girl. The two of you haven’t seen each other in some time, right?” Oh boy. He’s been taking real good care of you, that’s for sure.

Bucky’s lips tug up into a genuine and partially amused smile as he nods. “Just doing my job.”

The look he throws at you is knowing, sparkling almost with mischief. You breathe a sigh of relief seeing some of the light return to his eyes as he looks at you, almost quietly asking if you’re okay. You only manage a quiet nod, pursing your lips to inform him that you’ll update him on the situation later.

Expectedly, Max’s glance bounces between the two of you, the small wheels in his mind spinning and working on overdrive. The genius that he is puts two and two together, and he narrows his eyes at Bucky. Good thing your real man isn’t one to be fazed and he sizes Max up as they greet each other.

“Max, the boyfriend,” Max smiles confidently, almost snarkily, as he sticks his hand out.

Bucky looks at it, looks at him, and clenches his jaw. “Funny, that’s not what she told me about you,” Bucky snips right back.

That wipes the smile clean off Max’s face and you’ve never seen anything to satisfying.

Your dad — god bless his soul — is oblivious to the showdown happening under his roof and only claps his hands together. “Let’s do a family dinner tonight. James, you’re welcome to join us, of course. We will order in and have a feast. A celebration of the holidays and joyous reunions.”

You wonder how you’re going to get yourself out of this mess.

The dinner is only tense for you, Bucky, and Max. Your parents are enjoying the catered meals, Maria having outdone herself with the selections once again. While your parents chatter your ears off about the cruise, you’re nervously looking between Max to your right and Bucky diagonally across you. He hasn’t said a word the entire time, while Max has been currying favor with your parents. He’s always been good at that, sweet-talking his way into situations. He just doesn’t know how to keep himself there when he can’t keep it in his pants.

“So, Max, tell us, come on. When are you doing it?”

“Doing what, sir?”

“Proposing to my daughter, of course!”

You can hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. Your mother waits with bated breath, you tense down to your toes, Max is frozen solid, and Bucky looks like he has stopped breathing altogether. The awkwardness weighs heavily at least between the three that understand the situation, but your parents only look at him with hopeful eyes.

“Sweetheart, you two have been dating for god knows how long now. It’s about time, don’t you think?” Your mother coos. “She wants children and this is a good time to start. We’d love to be grandparents.”

Marriage? Children? As good as Maria’s cooking is, you can feel the food coming back up your esophagus. Max glances at you and forces out a smile. A smile both to convince your parents and to convince you. “Soon. Whatever it takes. I’ll get her to marry me.”

It’s not only a promise to them. It’s a promise to you. He’s determined to win you back.

Your mother practically swoons. “Look at that, how romantic. Isn’t that just sweet?” As if things couldn’t get any worse, she then moves her attention to Bucky. “James, what about you? We’ve known you for as long as these two and I’ve never seen you with anyone. Do you have anyone special? You’re free to bring them around, you know. You’re practically family.”

Your heart knocks against your ribcage in anticipation. What would he say? Is this it? Is this the time to reveal everything?

However, Bucky doesn’t even as much as spare you a glance before he turns to your mom with a tight smile. “No, no one special right now.”

The collective disappointment is palpable around the room, but it’s most obvious on you. Bucky still won’t meet your eye, instead picking apart the food on his plate to keep himself distracted and his hands busy. Your parents continue to talk through dinner but none of you seem to be listening anymore. The five of you work quickly to put away the dishes and clean up the table for the evening.

With every passing second, your heart sinks deeper into the floor. You can feel Bucky slipping away, his presence, his mind elsewhere even as he putters around the house to help.

“Well, we’re going to call it a night, kids. We’ll see you in the morning. Perhaps we can go for a hike!” Your dad announces enthusiastically, only to be met with the groans of everyone in the room. “Okay, so hike up for debate, we can discuss this tomorrow.”

Your mother only shakes her head, shooting apologetic glances at the three of you. “He’s had a long day. Have a good night. Max, you can stay in the same room. We know you’re both adults, we trust you to act accordingly. And wear protection.”

“Mom!” You snap and she only laughs as she pushes your father up the stairs into their room. You mutter curses under your breath about how unbelievable your parents are.

When they’re finally out of sight, you turn towards Bucky, taking a step towards. However, he takes a step back, shaking his head. “I should head out for the night. Your parents are still here. We can talk in the morning.”

“Buck—”

“You have some things you clearly need to sort out too,” he smiles and you don’t like that it’s tinged with sadness. A preemptive disappointment that you want to wipe away.

You’re about to reach out for him again when Max catches your hand and shakes his head, telling you to stay. That one moment of distraction is all it takes for Bucky to leave the house with a quiet click and his car roaring to life. By the time you step out onto the porch, he is already driving down the winding road.

It is then that you turn the maximum strength of your seething glare towards Max. “You really have some fucking nerve.”

“They showed up at your door, thought I’d be home. They called me, what was I supposed to do?”

“Don’t pick up! Tell them you’re cheating scum! Literally anything but tagging along and fucking showing up here when nobody wants you here.”

Max sighs. “Baby, come on.” The pet name grates on your nerves now, sounding like the scrape of nails on a chalkboard. “It was one time—”

“Was it really? Because the two of you sure as hell seemed real comfortable in my home, fucking on my bed.”

“We weren’t fuck—” he stops when he sees the look on your face, “not that time. No. Look, I made a mistake. We have something good here, don’t we? We’ve been together for so long. That was an error in judgment on my part. She was temporary. You’re forever, baby. You’re it for me. We’re meant to be together. Your parents love me. Why throw away a good thing?”

When he extends his hand towards you again, you smack it away with your stomach churning in disgust. “You’re fucking vile. This was never a good thing. Meeting Bucky here, the way he treats me, the way he sees me, I know now that I was never anything more than a convenience for you. So you can shove that mistake and whatever good thing you think we have up your fucking ass.”

“You’re really going to disappoint your parents over Christmas?”

“My parents care more that I’m genuinely happy, and I can tell you — from the bottom of my heart, with the greatest sincerity known to man — that I am genuinely happier with Bucky than I have been with you all these years. I can’t believe I wasted all my time on you, but at least now I know I was preparing myself for someone much, much better than you.”

Max opens his mouth again and you’re getting real sick of his bullshit so you pin him yet with another glower, daggers landing a hairsbreadth away from his head. That shuts him up.

“I want you gone in the morning. I’m not a heartless asshole like you so you can stay on the couch. You’re going to keep your bags packed and you are going to go. I will explain everything to my parents so you don’t have to face them again. Or would you prefer I tell my dad now so he can whoop your ass back into the city?”

The look of pure, unfettered fear on his face is more than satisfying. While your dad is the most easygoing man you’ve ever known, he is also fiercely protective, especially when it comes to you. The last thing Max wants when your dad learns the truth is to be under the same roof as him, a confined space and acres of land in his backyard to hide the skeletons.

“Fine. I’ll leave in the morning. But I’m telling you right now, you’re making a huge mistake.”

“I’m sure you think that, but I don’t think I’ve ever been more confident in anything in my life.”

With that final word, you throw the door open and head out to the shed. You don’t want to arouse suspicion from your parents, so you can’t take the car and risk them noticing you peeling out of the driveway, but you also need to see Bucky tonight. Right now. You don’t like the look that he left with, like he’s saying goodbye without a proper farewell. Your rickety old bike leans against the wall. It looks like a death trap but it’s a death trap that’ll work to get you where you need to go.

In hindsight, biking in the dark is likely your dumbest idea to date. The flashlight on the creaking hunk of metal flickers in and out, leaving you blind in the darkness for a good portion of your ride. The tires are almost completely flat so it takes you a bit more work to get it moving. Your sweater catches on a few branches on your way there, probably collecting a bird’s nest by the time you reach Bucky’s home. You’re squinting at the mailboxes you pass by and finally screech to a halt when you see Barnes painted onto one of them. You turn into his driveway and break into a run the moment you hop off the bike; in fact, you’re only halfway off your bike as it spins and hits the ground when your own feet pound against the dirt.

Your fist knocks repeatedly, banging louder and louder with every second. He’s in there. He can’t pretend not to hear you. The side of your palm is starting to sting with how hard you’re knocking on his door when you land another hit, the same time the door opens, leaving you swinging into thin air.

“Doll, you’re going to wake up the whole damn neighborhood.”

“It’s not my fault you weren’t answering.”

Bucky looks behind you, notices something, and then looks at you with wide eyes. “How did you get here?” You open your mouth then promptly close it because you know he won’t like the answer. A scowl descends on his face. “You did not bike here. Tell me you didn’t bike here.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you that.”

“Are you insane? Do you know how dark out it is? Not to mention that bike is a death trap. Chain barely works, everything is rusted, the light is busted. You have no reflective attachments whatsoever which means cars can’t even see you. What if you got hit? What if you got hurt? What’s the matter with you?”

It’s your turn to give him a dirty look. “Oh, get off that high horse, Barnes. You wouldn’t even look at me, what was I supposed to think?”

“I told you we’d talk in the morning.”

“Well, we both know that you’re good at keeping secrets and who knows what you would’ve concocted in your head before the night is over.”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t argue with you. He only sighs and tugs you inside, muttering about how cold it is before he grabs a jacket from the coat rack and wraps it around you. “Alright, fine. Yes, I was thinking a lot about dinner. Maybe it got in my head a little bit.”

“I knew it,” you hiss. “And you still left?”

“I figured you’d want time to talk to your ex.”

“Why would you even think that?”

Bucky licks his lips, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks bigger this way, broader, but there’s something vulnerable to his stance that pinches your heart. “Look, I just wanted you to have the full opportunity to consider your options. We’ve had a great few days. This last week has been unbelievable. Sometimes, I still can’t believe this is real — and that you’re real. But if this is a rebound thing for you, fine. Just— I can’t really do that, not with you. I don’t trust myself to keep my distance.” He breathes out, his exhale shaking along the notes. “Also, you deserve better than that tool over there. Even if you don’t end up with me, even if you don’t stay with me, don’t go back to him. You could do so much better.”

This is when you take a step towards him, your hands reaching out to untangle his arms and wrap them around you. Your own hands slide around his torso, wrapping around his middle as you look up at him. “Bucky, listen to me very, very carefully. This is not a rebound. You are not a rebound. I haven’t thought about my dickwad of an ex in days. When I do, it’s only to compare how shitty he was to how incredible you are. I would never go back to him. I didn’t want to upset my parents for Christmas, which is why I kept my mouth shut tonight. I’m telling them about Max first thing in the morning. It’s not because I didn’t want to tell them about you because I do — and I think they’ll be happier seeing me with you anyway.”

He tilts his head. Light is already returning to his eyes and you melt into his hold as he tightens his arms around you. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I’m much happier with you too,” you grin, reaching up to kiss him quick on the lips.

Bucky leans down to chase your mouth again, slanting his lips over yours. He sighs into your parted lips. “You still live in the city, doll. This wouldn’t work. I can’t take you away from your life there.”

“Well, I do work remotely most of the time and my parents barely use this house. I could move back in while I figure out what to do with my apartment. The train is an easy trip into the city, I could still see my friends, or I can invite them up here for a getaway.” You look up at him with coy eyes, a teasingly shy smile. “Introduce them to my very gorgeous boyfriend.”

He practically glows with your words. The smile that threatens his expression breaks out in full force across his handsome features. “Boyfriend, huh? Think I could get used to that.”

“You better because that’s what I’m going to be calling you from now on. Boyfriend.”

“Fuckin’ tease,” he chuckles and lifts you up, your legs wrapping around him. “Well, how about you let your boyfriend take real good care of you tonight?”

“I can’t think of anything better.”