perfectprettypisces

[perfectprettypisces]

Superman Kissed Me

Summary: You thought you got lucky when Superman agreed to give you an interview after he only seemed to allow Clark to interview him. When the questions begin, however, you quickly start to regret ever asking for the interview in the first place, because Superman is much more of a flirt than you ever thought he was.

Word Count: 6.6k | I do not give consent to having my work republished or posted to any other platform or profile other than my own.

Warnings: fluff, angst if you squint, kissing without consent (but is it really), reader is uncomfortable for a hot minute, clark being cheeky, superman being sneaky, swearing.

Your leg was bouncing a little uncontrollably as you shifted in your chair for the third time in the last two minutes. 

Your palms were a little sweaty, even though you’d wiped them on your jeans twice now. Your heart was also beating a little faster than it usually is, and your face felt like you were standing directly in front of the sun. And yet you also felt a little chilly.

In other words; you were nervous. 

You hadn’t felt this nervous since your very first job interview, which was quite a long time ago. But your nerves were justified since you were interviewing Superman for the very first, and hopefully not last, time in a few minutes. He’s only ever been willing to partake in interviews done by Clark for some unknown reason, but when you ran into some trouble a few days ago and he had to step in, you threw caution to the wind and asked for an interview when he was free to do so, after thanking him for helping you, of course. 

You were fully prepared to hear no and a kind excuse as to why he couldn’t, but Superman surprised you and agreed to do an interview later in the week.

Clark hadn’t been at work that day, so you couldn’t even rub it in his face right away that you finally scored an interview with Superman, but when you went over to his place later that night, you weren’t the slightest bit humble about it. He just laughed and congratulated you, then asked how you managed to get an interview, and you had to tell him about your mistake of taking a back alleyway to work instead of the normal route. 

Your excuse was that you like seeing different parts of the city, and it was always good to know different routes to get to certain places, but that just launched a full on lecture from your boyfriend that ended with him reminding you not to go into alleyways that are very much the definition of sketchy. 

How he managed to turn your triumph into a lecture about keeping yourself safe, you didn’t know, but it was just another thing that was so Clark, you couldn’t even be mad at it. 

You and Clark have been dating for just over half a year now, and it was refreshing to be with someone you actually connect with and have a lot in common with. He is kind, sweet, caring, protective and funny, and it was definitely a plus that he was very easy on the eyes. 

He is very attractive.

Clark is the first guy you’ve been with that wears glasses, and you found him unbelievably attractive in them, but you weren’t sure how serious his loss of eyesight actually is. You assumed he was pretty damn blind since he didn’t take his glasses off for anything. 

He wore them all day long. You can’t think of a single time where you saw him without them in the six and a half months you’ve been with him. He keeps them on in the shower - well, at least the showers you have with him, he keeps them on during sex, even when they were sliding down his nose from the sweat building up on his skin, and when you were pretty sure they were fogged up to the point where he couldn’t even see out of them. 

It was a little odd, but you just brushed it off, feeling a little bad for him since it seemed as though he literally couldn’t see shit without his glasses on. 

You decided to have the interview be on the roof of The Daily Planet building, which is where Superman ended up taking you when you found yourself cornered in that alleyway with two very angry looking men standing in front of you. It was easy for both of you, since he could simply fly up there, and you could simply take the elevator, then the stairs, then go right back down to start writing all about the interview. 

The sun was beginning to set in the sky, casting a pretty golden hue across the rooftop as you braced your hands on the ledge. The interview was set for later in the day, in the early evening since it would be nearing the end of your work day, and it gave him a little more movement room in case something happened during the afternoon or morning. 

You were nervous, of course, but you were also very excited, because you would be the only other person after Clark who had been given the opportunity to interview Superman. 

Leaning over a bit, you looked down at the street below, several stories between you and the sidewalk down there. It was still so busy out, despite the average person’s work day ending soon, and the faint noise of traffic was a welcoming distraction as you waited for him to arrive. 

Interviews never usually last too long, and you definitely didn’t want to take up too much of his time, so you already had all your questions planned out, as well as a few you were curious about that didn’t really have anything to do with the article you were writing. How often did the chance to interview the world’s hero come around? Of course you had a couple questions you were dying to know the answers to. 

You propped your elbow up on the ledge then placed your chin on your palm, letting out a slow, heavy breath in an attempt to calm your nerves. “Excuse me, ma’am,” you heard a voice from behind you, and it was so familiar, despite you only speaking to Superman once before. “You aren’t planning on having me save you again before we start this interview, are you?”

When you turned your head and looked over at him, you felt your nerves calm down a bit. It was weird. Superman was a stranger, and yet you felt completely comfortable around him, even more so now than you did a few days ago since there was no looming threat hanging over you. 

He was standing a few feet away, his hands clasped behind his back, under his cape, and he was so tall, his head was blocking the sun from your eyes entirely. A soft grin was on his lips, his eyes one of the kindest pairs you’d ever seen, and his hair was perfectly styled, even though the small bit of dirt on his chin told you that he’d been saving the world yet again just before this. 

You didn’t answer him right away, and his smile faltered a little as he swayed on his feet a bit. “Can you get away from the ledge?” he asked instead of repeating his earlier question, which came off much more playful than this one did. “Please?”

A heat took over your face as you looked over the ledge again, then quickly shook your head. “Oh, no, I wasn’t…” you trailed off, then forced out a laugh as you took a step away from the ledge and toward him. “Sorry. I got a little nervous while I was waiting. I wasn’t going to…you know, jump or anything like that.” 

Superman’s smile returned fully at that, and he nodded as you moved to stand in front of him. “Well, I’m glad to hear that,”

You gave him a smile of your own as you looked up at him, and he was even taller up close like this. His frame towered over yours, but there was also a sense of familiarity about it, like you’ve craned your neck exactly like this many times before to be able to look into his eyes. 

His eyes were really pretty, and it was probably because they were the exact same shade as Clark’s. You were sure if you looked at him long enough, you’d get lost in his eyes in the same way you get lost in Clark’s. 

You had to clear your throat to be able to speak clearly, and you gestured behind him to where the chairs were. “Thank you for agreeing to do this with me,” you said as you sat down, trying to discreetly wipe your hands for hopefully the final time. “I was beginning to think you had sworn exclusivity to Clark.”

Superman let out a short laugh as he shook his head, sitting down on the chair across from yours. “Well, when the person interviewing me is as pretty as you, it’s kind of hard to say no,” he said, and you froze for a few seconds as you processed what he said. 

He just called you pretty. Superman just called you pretty. You knew he was known for his kindness and friendly personality, but you were not expecting him to say that to you before you even had the chance to pull out your notes. 

“Oh,” you blinked a few times as you shifted in your seat, a flattered smile forming on your lips as you tried to think of what you could possibly say to that. It wasn’t like he full on flirted with you or was trying to fluster you, he just gave you a compliment. “Well, that’s really nice. Thank you.”

That works, right?

You broke eye contact as you reached down beside you and grabbed your notes out of your bag, suddenly feeling nervous again as you flipped through your book. 

Needing to clear your throat again before speaking, you give him a kind smile as you sit up straight and turn on the recorder. “So,” you started, feeling the familiar tingle of nerves return to your body. “Superman. First off, I want to thank you for taking the time to sit down with me. I know you probably don’t have a lot of time to spare these days.”

He smiled at you, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “Thank you for having me,” he said as he clasped his hands together, and your eyes instinctively focused on them for a few seconds. They were big and would definitely cover your whole entire face if he were to touch you, and they looked so familiar. 

Did all men’s hands look like that? Your exes hands were definitely bigger than yours, but not nearly as big as Clark’s, or Superman’s for that matter.

When you looked back up at his face, you saw a faint smirk on his lips, and he clearly saw the way you were staring at his hands. You were blushing now and felt flustered as you tried to get your thoughts together so you didn’t make a complete ass of yourself in front of the world’s hero. “So, um,” you mumbled, looking down at the list of questions and notes you have in your notebook. “Looking at you now, it’s clear you just got finished saving the world yet again. What was it this time? A fire breathing dragon? Or a fifty foot tall giant?”

Superman laughed and shook his head, his hand coming up to rub at his chin and smooth out his hair, as if he was trying to make sure he looked presentable because of your words. It was unnecessary, because he looked great, but he seemed to be keen on having a good appearance in front of you for some reason. “No, nothing like that,” he said, dropping his hand back down once he was satisfied with his appearance again. “It was a lot more tame. The fourth line flooded. I’m sure you heard all about that though.” 

You titled your head, your expression blanking for a few seconds as you took in his words. “I did not, actually,” you said, then cursed inside your head, because that meant all the other lines would be backed up until the city got a maintenance team down there to fix whatever had been damaged, and that would probably take weeks. 

It was a bad day to be one of the people who took the subway. 

“That’s unfortunate. I’ll probably need to find another way home later,” you mumbled, then shook your head as you looked down to decide the first real question you wanted to ask him. 

Before you could though, he piped up with another…friendly remark. “Oh, if you need help getting home, I’d be more than happy to assist you. You know how anxious people get when the subway goes down. I wouldn’t want you to have to go through that. You know, having to deal with agitated people, especially with how hard you work and all,” 

You kept your head down but flickered your gaze upwards, unsure of how to respond to that. Was that another attempt at flirting? Or were you reading too much into it? There was no way Superman was shooting his shot with you. 

But that was the second thing he’s said to you that’s made you question if he was or not. You were usually pretty good at reading people, and while Superman was a little more reserved, he was giving off the vibes Clark was when he was trying to work up the nerve to ask you out. 

You lifted your head, your eyes shifting to the recorder that was on the arm of the chair between yours and his. “Um,” you spoke up, leaning towards him as if you were trying to share a secret with him in a crowded room, but it was just you and him up here. “I don't know if Clark mentioned it, I thought he might’ve, but he and I are together. Like, we’re serious and everything.”

You hoped you weren’t reading too much into it, because this would end up being super embarrassing for you. How humiliating it would be if you mistook his friendliness as him trying to flirt with you. You were sure you wouldn’t be able to look at him ever again. 

When Superman’s brows raised, but he didn’t say anything, you shifted a little and sat back up straight. 

“I just thought you should know that,” you added, smoothing down the pages on your lap. 

He nodded and gave you a thumbs up. “Understood,” he said. “He didn’t mention that, but I can understand why he’d want to keep you all to himself.” His smile grew at that, and now you were almost positive he was flirting with you. 

Or he just called you ugly. One or the other. 

You gave him a look of disbelief as you shook your head, your mood quickly shifting south as you took a breath to compose yourself. Your mind went back to the night you told Clark that you’d be interviewing Superman, and how he told you to not be surprised if Superman tries to flirt with you. He said that no guy, not even a meta-human like Superman, could resist you because of how gorgeous you are, and to remind the man that you’re very much taken. 

That night you’d laughed and rolled your eyes, but now you weren’t laughing. It felt like Clark had somehow predicted this. Or he manifested it. Or jinxed it. Either way, this was all his fault, and you felt right to blame him for it, even though he wasn’t even here. 

“Can we get back to the interview?” you asked, your voice coming out a little more stern than you meant for it to, and it had Superman nodding quickly and sitting up straight, his smile fading as a serious expression took over his face. 

“Of course,” he answered, gesturing to your notes. “Please, ask away.” 

You pressed your lips together as you nodded, fighting the urge to move away from him, because this was not going how you thought it would. Like at all. 

“Okay,” you mumbled, rolling your shoulders as you willed yourself to relax. He seemed to be backing off, so there was no reason to continue to feel pissed about how things were playing out. He seemed to be civil again, so you decided to be civil as well. “I was hoping to talk a bit about your earlier life. Like, how you discovered your ability to help people and do good in the world. Was it something you knew right away? Or did it come to you over time? Anything you’re able to share would be great, but no pressure at all-”

“You really are pretty, you know that?” he cut you off, and you felt your earlier irritation come back in full swing. 

You slumped back against the chair, your eyes wide and your lips parted in disbelief. “Seriously?” 

He held his hands up in defense, his eyes shooting to the ground. “Sorry. I’m sorry, but you can’t deny how gorgeous you are,” he defended himself, but also only made things worse as he gestured at you. “You have to know that by now, right? Or is Clark not doing a good job at reminding you?”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s none of your business,” you said, even though you yourself had asked him a personal question only seconds before. But that was because that’s how this was supposed to go. Why you were suddenly the one being questioned, you had no idea, but you wanted to put an end to it. “I’m the one interviewing you, remember? I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions here.” 

Superman nodded slowly, and he almost looked guilty as he stayed silent for a few seconds. Then he met your eyes again, “That wasn’t a yes, by the way,” he noted, “So that leads me to believe he’s not doing a very good job at reminding you.”

You threw your hands up in defeat, reaching over to stop the recorder from capturing any more of this nonsense. What a waste of fucking time. 

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, shoving the recorder back into your bag. How Clark ever managed to get a single answer out of this guy was beyond you. You didn’t want to think it was because he’s a guy and you’re a girl, but you had some serious doubts that Superman was flirting with Clark during the interviews he had with him. Unlike your failed attempt just now, Clark actually managed to get somewhere whenever he interviewed Superman. 

You stood up from the chair and shoved your notes into your bag as well, feeling the way your face was heating up with how angry you’d gotten in such a short time period. “I can’t believe what a waste of time this was,” you huffed, slinging your bag onto your shoulder. “I can’t believe I was looking forward to this…this mess, and now I have to figure out another story to write by the end of the week, all thanks to you.”

Superman stood up as well, towering over you once again. “So I shouldn’t expect a second interview any time soon?” 

You scoffed as you slung your bag over your shoulder. “Not from me,” you muttered, your evening thoroughly ruined. You never expected the guy who saves the world nearly every single day to be such a…a guy. A stereotypical guy who only sees girls as one thing. 

Maybe you were being too harsh to compare him to all the fuckboy’s you’d met in your lifetime, but that was just what he reminded you of right now. You didn’t even want to listen back to the recording, because you knew it was full of useless information and flirting and you’d probably want to crawl out of your skin if you heard him say those things to you twice. 

You really lucked out with Clark, because he’s never once made you feel like that. He leaves you cute and sweet voicemails or voice notes over text, and you could happily listen to those for the rest of your life. 

When you turned around, Superman was closer to you now, giving you a kinder smile. It had you narrowing your eyes as you crossed your arms. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

His broad shoulders lifted just once, and that was the only answer you were given to your question, because he changed the topic before it could even begin. “I’m sorry this didn’t go the way you wanted it to,” he said, and he sounded so genuine. So much like how he sounded the first time you spoke to him, and how he comes across on the news or in Clark’s articles. “My intention wasn’t to upset you in any way, and I apologize if I did.” 

You weren’t sure how much you believed his words, because in your opinion, he worked a little too hard in his attempt to upset you. And yet you still appreciated his apology. “Thanks, I guess,” 

He held out his hand to you in a way that felt like he was trying to clear the air and end this on a peaceful note. “I wish you luck with your article,” he said as you took a few steps towards him and reached for his hand. 

It was a lot bigger than yours and encased your entire hand, which was a little distracting as you let out a huff. “Yeah, I’m sure you do,” you muttered looking down at the way his fingers wrapped around yours, and it felt familiar. Like this was something you felt on a damn near daily basis, and you furrowed your brows as he stepped closer to you. “That’s so weird. This feels so-”

You were cut off when you glanced up and only briefly saw that your face was a mere few centimetres from his before his lips brushed against yours in a kiss that was also familiar, but it caught you so off guard, you couldn’t even process the fact that you know you’ve felt those lips before. 

Had you given him the wrong idea? Made him somehow believe you’d leave Clark for him? Is this what he was expecting when you asked for an interview? Did he assume you’d be okay with it just because he’s Superman? There were too many questions, and you didn’t want the answers.

You were mad. You were offended. You felt used.

It was as if you’d been burned, the way you pulled back so fast and looked up at him in shock. Your lips parted, a string of curse words and insults ready to be thrown in his face, but you discovered you were rendered speechless. 

You were now 100% convinced you hadn’t been reading too much into this. Superman just fucking kissed you. After you told him you were very much with his…his, what, his friend? Is that what Clark was to him? Probably not after this. 

Did he really think he could kiss you and you wouldn’t go straight to your boyfriend? You knew Clark would be upset, and he’d probably even go as far as to write a very negative article about the man who the world looks up to. You were very excited to help him write that. 

You pushed against his chest, but he stayed completely still and sturdy, and you scoffed as you ran your hand down your face. You were mad, your shoulders were tensed up and your face felt like someone had poured scorching water directly onto it. Your breathing was uneven and you had the urge to punch him square in his face, but you were somehow able to hold back. 

He probably would’ve caught your arm mid-swing anyway.

Turning away from him, you wrapped your fingers around the strap of your bag, needing to hold onto something to refrain from throwing yourself at him. You’d end up hurting yourself more than you could ever hurt him. “You know, most girls would’ve probably slapped you right now, and I still very much want to, but you wouldn’t even feel it, would you?”

Despite him literally kissing you thirty seconds ago without a care in the world, Superman now looked a little guilty as he kept his hands by his sides. The nerve of this guy. The fucking nerve. 

You shook your head and began walking towards the door, but before you could open it, you swung around to look at him one last time. “If I were you, I would prepare myself for a very angry, very negative article written about you. And, actually, thank you for the interview, because now I can use it towards said article,” 

His shoulders dropped and an unimpressed look formed on his face. “Come on,” he mumbled. “Really?”

You nodded and reached for the door handle. “Uh huh,” you confirmed, then swung the door open and began the descent down to where your co-workers were eagerly awaiting your return from interviewing The Superman. 

What a joke. 

You were still pissed off when you stepped off the elevators and headed straight to your desk. Jimmy was typing away on his computer when you briskly walked past him, making him do a double take. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to be in such a mood after being so excited about this interview. “Hey,” he called out to you. “How was the-”

“Horrible,” you answered as you closed your laptop and stuffed it into your bag. “It went horrible, Jimmy, thanks so much for asking.”

His eyes were slightly wide as his fingers paused on the keyboard. “Oh,”

“Yeah. Oh,” you muttered, grabbing your water bottle from off your desk. “And no, I didn’t get the chance to ask him if he has any solutions for clingy ex-girlfriends, because he was too busy flirting with me the entire time.”

Jimmy’s eyes narrowed as a comically confused expression took over his face - one you would’ve laughed at if you weren’t so livid. “The hell…”

You put your bag back on your shoulder before walking past him again. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Superman is a fucking asshole. That’s all any of you need to know,” you said, pointing to Lois, who had been trying to subtly listen to you without making it obvious, but of course you noticed it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Once you were back on the elevator and heading to the ground floor, you tried to calm yourself down. You were heading straight to Clark’s place, because as angry as you are, you were also feeling extremely guilty. 

Another guy had kissed you. You’d been head over heels for Clark since the day you met him, and he’s been nothing but perfect and kind and faithful, and you let another guy get too close to you. 

You had tears in your eyes as you stepped out into the lobby and headed straight for the revolving door that would take you outside. Instead of heading towards the nearest subway station, you began walking in the direction of Clark’s apartment. 

He lived kind of close to the Daily Planet building, which is why you always called him out on being late for work damn near everyday. 

When you got to his apartment complex, your tears were rolling down your face as you kept your head down and walked onto the elevator and pressed the button for his floor. You were terrified that Clark would be mad at you, that he’d somehow find a way to put the blame on you. 

It was crazy, because Clark was the sweetest, most kindest man - person - you’d ever met in your entire life. 

But the guilt was quickly eating you up from the inside, and you were full on crying by the time you reached his door. Normally, you’d just walk in because he usually keeps it unlocked when he’s home - something you told him to stop doing since it was very easy for a random person to walk into his place - but this time you knocked quickly, your hand shaking as you lowered it back down to your side. 

The door swung open seconds later, and you were met with your boyfriend’s achingly handsome face, and his breathtakingly beautiful smile. The sight of him had your lip trembling and more tears gathering in your eyes, and as soon as his smile faded, you were in his arms. 

Clark held you against his chest right there in the doorway, one big hand coming up to cradle the back of your head protectively. His other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you tightly against his body as you cried, and you were already starting to feel better now that you were with him, in his arms. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly, turning his head and brushing a series of soft kisses along your temple. “What happened, baby?”

The softness of his voice had you burying your face in his neck, your tears seeping into the fabric of his shirt. His scent consumed you, and you wanted to surround yourself with all the things that made up the perfect man in front of you, the one who has your whole heart in the palm of his hand. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, clinging onto him and fisting his shirt. “I’m so sorry, Clark.”

His fingers tangled in your hair, and he dipped his head down to press a soft kiss to the curve of your jaw. “Why? What happened?” he asked, his grip on you tightening a bit. “Was it the interview?”

You sniffled, then pulled back and looked out into the hallway before pushing him into his apartment and closing the door behind you. Your face was undoubtedly red as you reached for his hands and held them in a death grip. “You were right. Like, you were spot on. Superman flirted with me, like, the entire time, which was actually only a small amount of time since I stopped the interview really quickly once I realized what was happening,”

Clark’s expression softened as he laced his fingers with yours, and he sighed, “Baby,”

“No, no, I swear, I stopped it. I ended the interview, I don’t know, maybe five minutes after it started,” you insisted, squeezing his hands. “I told him I was with you and that you and I are together, and then I started leaving and he wanted to, I don’t know, leave off on a good note or something, and he shook my hand and then he kissed me.”

You were rambling now and the expression on Clark’s face was unreadable, making you feel even more panicked. 

“He kissed me, I didn’t kiss him back, I swear. I was literally going to slap him in the face, but it probably would’ve been useless,” you said, watching as he stepped away from you, making your arms go limp at your sides. “But I still feel guilty about it, and I needed to tell you. I’m so sorry, Clark. I swear, I didn’t want any of that to happen. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”

But he didn’t look mad. He didn’t look upset at all. There was a small smile on his lips as he took another step away from you so he was standing in the middle of his living room. 

Your brows were furrowed in confusion as you let the straps of your bag slip off your shoulder and onto the floor next to the chair. “Why are you looking at me like that? Why do you look so happy?” you whispered, your voice a little hoarse as you watched him raise his hand. 

He reached for his glasses, and you were standing there feeling completely powerless as he pulled them off. Your tired eyes were suddenly wide open, and your gaze flickered all over his face, then up to his hair - which was styled the exact same way Superman’s was half an hour ago. 

Your lips parted but no words came out as you processed what exactly you were looking at, and when he pointed to his left, your eyes instantly followed in the direction of his hand, and you saw the suit and cape that Superman is only ever seen in draped over the armrest. 

How you failed to notice either of those things when you came in, you didn’t know. 

A choked gasp left your lips, and you felt lightheaded and dizzy as your tears stopped rolling down your face. “You-” you stuttered, pointing at the suit as if it was some big discovery to the both of you, when in reality, Clark was the one wearing it on that rooftop. “Are you…you’re…” 

You were once again rendered speechless for the second time in under an hour, and your head was beginning to hurt as you looked between him and the suit and the glasses in his hand. 

Then you felt annoyed all over again, and your gaze hardened as you moved towards him. “Are you fucking serious,” you asked, your voice raising as you pushed on his shoulders, but he was as still and as sturdy as he was after he kissed you earlier. “You’re-are you fucking kidding me?”

Clark dropped his glasses in favor of wrapping his hands around your wrists, halting the weak shoves you were giving him. And he was laughing. He was fucking laughing. 

“What is so funny?” you muttered, pushing on his hands, but his grip was tight. 

He laughed again, and shook his head. “I’m not laughing,”

“Yes, you are,”

He released your hands and held up his own in surrender. “Okay, I am, but only because you’re making me laugh,”

You squinted up at him, shaking your head as you gestured wildly with your hands. “How? How am I making you laugh? I’m fucking confused because you just told me that you’re Superman without actually telling me you’re Superman, and you’re laughing at me when not even five seconds ago, I was crying my eyes out because I thought I accidentally cheated on you with…with you,”

Saying it out loud, it sounded completely ridiculous, and if the situation was slightly different, you were sure you’d be laughing at it too. 

Clark gave you a sheepish look. “I’m sorry,” he offered, and you let out a scoff of disbelief as you shook your head and turned around. You weren’t planning on leaving, but he thought you were as he quickly followed you, wrapping his arms around you from behind and pulling your body against his. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby, don’t leave me, okay? I’m sorry.” 

Your tears were drying on your face, but he still tried to blindly wipe them away with his hands, and it forced a laugh out of you as you pulled away from him and turned around to face him once again. You looked him up and down, taking in his height that matched Superman’s perfectly, and his eyes that were the exact same shade as Superman’s, and his lopsided smile that was the same one Superman had given you before the interview started. 

You shook your head as you reached up and ran your fingers through your hair. “I don’t know what to say,” you sniffled, still in a state of disbelief at how this whole ordeal turned out. “I can’t believe you’re Superman.”

Clark’s smile was softer now as he reached up and wiped away your remaining tears properly, his thumbs stroking along your skin like second nature. “I’m sorry. I knew I needed to tell you soon because things have gotten so serious between us, and I love you. You deserved to know, but I didn’t know how to do it,”

You gave him an unimpressed look as you leaned into the gentle caress of his hands. “So you thought making me cry was the best way to go about it?”

He shook his head, his bottom lip sticking out in a pout. “I didn’t think you’d cry,” he promised. “The idea came to me when I helped you in that alleyway a few days ago. I thought it would’ve clicked sooner than it did, and I was going to tell you during the interview, but you shut it down so fast, I never got the chance to.” 

“Yeah, because you were being a creep,” you pointed out with a laugh as he pulled you back into his arms.

“Clearly Superman needs to step his game up, huh?” he mumbled and you laughed again, pressing your face against his chest. “He’s got as much game as I do apparently.”

You shook your head, propping your chin on his chest so you were looking up at him. “Your game is good. You got me, remember?” 

Clark smiled down at you and nodded, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I did.”

You let out a soft sigh, feeling mentally drained as the weight of everything that happened in such a short amount of time weighed down on you.

You felt a lot better now, even if you are still a little pissed about the way he decided to tell you. The way Superman was talking to you suddenly made so much sense now, and you were sure you would be able to laugh about this more within the next few days. He was so forward, so sure of himself, and you knew that if you’d let yourself kiss him back, you would’ve realized that he was your boyfriend.

Maybe the plan wasn’t all that crazy.

No, it definitely was. What the hell was wrong with him?

You looked over at the suit again before burying your face in his chest. “I can’t believe you did that to me,” you mumbled. “I thought I messed this up.”

Clark hummed, holding you against his body like you were meant to be there. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I feel so bad about it. You looked so pretty, and you still do. You’re gorgeous. And trust me, if anyone was to mess this up, it’d be me. Look at today as an example.” 

You huffed, wrapping your arms around his middle. “You didn’t mess this up either,” you said, then looked up at him again. “But don’t do that to me again. And there better not be any more secrets between us, or I’ll leave your ass so fast.”

Clark’s eyes widened as he shook his head. “There aren’t any more secrets. I promise,” he said, his hands settling on your hips as he leaned down, and you met him halfway in a kiss that felt the same as the one on the rooftop did, but you had no plans on pulling away first this time. He broke the kiss but kept his face close to yours as his lips curved upwards in a smug smile. “I’m sorry the interview was a bust, but I promise I’ll give you a much better one if you were to give me a second chance.”

You laughed and tipped your head back. “Oh, no. I’m never interviewing you ever again,” you stated, then remembered the last thing you said to yours and Clark’s co-workers. You pursed your lips as you shrunk a bit in his hold. “Um, by the way, you might need to do some damage control with Jimmy…and Lois.”

Clark gave you a confused look. “Why?”

You shrugged, “Because Superman pissed me off, and I wasn’t about to let our dear friends believe he was this super nice and kind guy the media says he is,”

He tilted his head and groaned, “Seriously?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, leaning up to kiss him again. “Next time come up with a nicer way to tell me your deepest, darkest secret.” 

Clark rolled his eyes as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “I guess I deserve that,”

“Oh, you do,” you agreed, draping your own arms around his shoulders as you took in every inch of his face. His glasses-free face. “I got to say, I thought you were hot with the glasses, but now that they’re off? Damn, Clark. You’re sexy as hell.”

That had his smug grin coming back as he pulled you flush against him. “Yeah?” he murmured, and you nodded as you hummed. “Well that’s good to hear, since I won’t need to wear them when it’s just you and me, you know, since you’re now aware you’re dating Superman. I guess my plan was a good idea after all.”

You rolled your eyes. “You would find the good in what you did,”

Clark smiled in agreement, then he was kissing you again, but much deeper than before.

-

Thank you for 6.1k followers x Happy Friday

[perfectprettypisces]

just one ; clark kent

fandom: superman 2025 (dc)

pairing: clark x reader

summary: you and clark have been best friends since college, and you know everything about each other—including his superhero identity—but tensions have risen since you started working with him at the daily planet, and after superman is exposed to a 'truth telling toxin' you decide to take a little advantage of the fact that he can't lie

notes: a little late to the party, but have a clark kent fic! sorry this is late (and i've been m.i.a.) i've been busy watching the film eight times, crying about the film, and having an existential crisis about the fact that i'll never love another man the way i love david corenswet... but anyway! i struggled a little with this, hence it taking so long, so i'm sorry if it sucks? but regardless, i always love to hear what y'all think, so please let me know!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, it has some corny moments, some jealousy, brief mention of a dating app, lots of tension, very minor miscommunication, clark jokes about eating kryptonite, jimmy is a well-meaning meddler, italics, clark says 'gosh' a lot, and SMUT (making out, f oral receiving, fingering, unprotected p in v, dirty-ish talk, also it's a few thousand words of smut oops) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 21621

- Clark - 

“It’s kind of pathetic if you think about it,” Jimmy says. 

Lois rolls her eyes. “Don’t start, Jimmy.” 

“I’m not starting anything,” he says, gesturing toward Clark with his coffee mug. “Just look at him. He’s like a golden retriever waiting for someone to throw the ball.” 

Lois tries not to laugh, but a soft snort slips out before she can hide it behind a sip of coffee. 

“I think it’s sweet,” Cat says, perching on the edge of Jimmy’s desk. “Being in love with your best friend is so… early-two-thousands romcom coded.” 

Lois swivels in her chair to give Cat an incredulous look. “What does that even mean?” 

“It means Clark is a nerd who’s hopelessly in love with a girl way out of his league, and it’s adorable in a tragic, pathetic kind of way,” Jimmy says. 

“Jimmy!” Cat smacks his arm. “Stop calling Clark pathetic.” 

“I’m not calling him pathetic,” Jimmy insists, still grinning. “The pining is pathetic. There’s a difference.” 

“You’re still being a jerk,” Lois mutters into her coffee. 

Their teasing continues, but Clark barely registers it. He hasn’t heard a word since the moment you walked through the door—hair mussed from the wind, a binder hugged tight to your chest. Perry intercepted you immediately, stopping you at the front desk to talk about the article you submitted late last night. Clark only knows this because he can hear every word from across the newsroom—the warmth in your voice, every shift and cadence he’s memorised over the years. 

It’s not an accent or a twang. It’s just you. 

The voice that lingers in his dreams, that echoes in the back of his mind whenever he’s flying through the sky, wondering if you’re thinking about him too. 

It’s always you. 

“Morning, team!” you greet cheerfully, dropping your bag and binder onto the desk opposite Clark’s. 

Jimmy smirks, his gaze flicking toward Clark before settling on you. “Good morning, hot shot. What was all that with the boss about?” 

Clark is staring—he knows he is—but he can’t help it. You’re just so goddamn beautiful. You have been since the day he first met you, and no amount of superhuman restraint has ever dulled the way you affect him. If kryptonite is his greatest weakness, you’re a very close second. 

“Didn’t you hear?” you tease Jimmy. “I’m the new headliner.” 

“Front page?” Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Already? Wow. I’m impressed.” 

You grin, pretending to flick your hair off your shoulder with mock dramatics—and that’s when Clark notices it. The change. The subtle way your body reacts. 

Your heartbeat picks up, quick and sharp against his ears. He can see it now—literally see the steady thump of your heart beneath your ribs, see the way the muscles in your chest tighten and your breath catches ever so slightly. 

But why? 

The question lodges in his mind like a splinter. Is it Jimmy? Is it something Jimmy said? Does he make you nervous? Does he make you excited? 

Do you... like him? 

Clark’s brow furrows. He tracks the heat rising under your skin, the almost imperceptible tremor in your hand as you lower it to lean on your desk—and then he freezes. 

Oh, God. He’s staring directly at your chest. Through it, technically, but from the outside no one else would know the difference. His face heats, and he blinks hard, forcing himself to stop—to look away before someone notices. 

“Better watch out, Kent,” Lois says, smirking over the rim of her coffee cup. “You might’ve just convinced Perry to hire your biggest competition yet.” 

Clark clears his throat, pulling his gaze up to your face where it belongs. “Yeah, I think I did.” 

You give him that cheesy little smile—the one where your nose scrunches up, your cheeks flush pink, and his heart stops—the one that slips into his dreams every damn night. He loves that smile. He loves your face. He loves you—and God, he hates that he’s too much of a coward to say it out loud. 

He wishes he wasn’t. 

He wishes—of all the powers in the universe—that he had the ability to rewind time. Then, he’d go back to college, back to the late-night study sessions and coffee runs and the years of friendship and banter. Back to that night, right before graduation, when he told you the truth about who he really is. 

If he’d been half as brave as everyone thinks he is, he would’ve said— 

I’m Superman. And by the way, I’m in love with you. Wanna make out? 

Maybe then things would’ve been different. Maybe if he tacked it on to the big reveal, you would’ve fallen for him too—charmed by the whole ‘superhero’ thing. 

And maybe by now you’d be doing everything and more than just making out. Because yeah, he wants to do a lot more than that. A lot more. Which is a real problem, because just thinking about having you—really having you—makes him dizzy enough to fly straight into a building. 

He isn’t joking when he says you affect him like kryptonite. He doesn’t know why, but when it comes to you, he’s helpless. Powerless. He’s always felt things more deeply than most—because he isn’t like most—but with you? It's something else entirely. 

He knows for a fact he couldn’t live without you. That’s why he convinced you to stay in Metropolis after college. Why he’s never stopped being your best friend. Why he got you the job at the Daily Planet—because weekends with you weren’t enough. He needs you every single day. 

And that’s also why he’s never told you how he really feels. Because the way he loves you scares him—and if it scares him, what would it do to you? Probably terrify you. Maybe even drive you away. And he can’t risk that. 

He can’t risk losing you. 

So here he stays, hopelessly stuck in the friendzone, listening to you chat animatedly with Cat about some loser you met on Hinge who you’re going out with tomorrow night. 

“His profile says he’s into hot yoga and smoking meats,” you say, holding your phone up for Cat to see. 

It takes every ounce of—superhuman—self-control for Clark not to scoff. 

“Baby girl, it also says he collects limited edition knives,” Cat points out, her brows drawn. “Are you sure you want to go on a date with this guy?” 

You roll your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, but he’s the only half-decent match I’ve had in weeks.” 

Cat blinks at you. “Seriously? But your profile is perfect. I made sure of that myself.” 

“I know,” you sigh, your gaze sliding toward Clark—who’s very conspicuously looking anywhere but at you. “But I left my phone unattended on my desk a couple weeks ago, and someone thought it’d be funny to change everything so the only matches I got were Arkham escapees.” 

Jimmy snorts at his desk, but his eyes stay glued to his screen like he isn’t blatantly eavesdropping. 

“Clark,” Cat says, her glare narrowing at him. “Messing with her dating profile? Really?” 

Clark’s head snaps up—blue eyes wide and full of faux-innocence. “It was Jimmy’s idea.” 

“Dude,” Jimmy says, swivelling in his chair, “you really don’t want to start pointing fingers. Because I won’t hesitate to—” 

“Okay!” Lois cuts in, standing from her desk with her empty mug in hand. “I’m going to need you all to shut up and get some actual work done before I lose my mind.” 

Jimmy chuckles and turns back to his desk. Cat sighs, handing your phone back with a dramatic shake of her head. Clark glances toward Lois, mouths a quiet thank you, then lets his gaze drifts back to you—only to find you already watching him. 

You’re wearing a that half-scowl, half-smirk look that makes his stomach flip like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He feels seen. Exposed. Almost like you’re the one with x-ray vision. Or worse, maybe you can read his mind. 

He raises a brow. “What?” 

“No snide comment about my hot-yoga-loving, knife-collecting, entrepreneurial date?” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, he’s an entrepreneur? That’s impressive. Really sounds like you found a winner.” 

“Entrepreneur is just code for broke,” Jimmy mutters. 

You ignore him, your eyes staying locked on Clark. “So, you’re not going to warn me against going on this date?” 

Clark shrugs, leaning back in his chair like he’s not affected. “Why would I? He sounds great.” 

“He collects knives, Clark,” you say, tilting your head just enough to make it feel like a challenge. “Doesn’t that seem a little… murder-y?” 

Clark smiles, leaning forward again until his elbows rest on the desk. “For your sake, I hope he’s not.” 

“But if he is...” you press, voice dropping low. “You think there’ll be anyone around to save me?” 

The way your lips curl, the glint in your eyes, that soft, sly note in your voice—it’s enough to make Clark feel uncomfortably warm. He always runs hot, but looking at you now? Teasing him like this? It feels like you’re daring him to lose control. 

God, the things he’d do if you weren’t looking at him like that in the middle of the goddamn newsroom. 

“You mean Superman?” he asks, his voice low now, matching yours. “I’m sure he’s got better things to do on a Friday night.” 

Your brows shoot up. “Better things?” 

“Maybe,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, but his throat feels tight. 

“Well,” you murmur, leaning back in your chair, “you’d know. Considering how close you and Superman are. All those exclusive interviews…” 

Jimmy snickers quietly, but neither of you spare him a glance. 

“I hope he doesn’t, though,” you add, tone light but loaded, your smile lingering as your gaze slides toward your computer screen. “I hope he’s got nothing better to do. I hope he’s hanging around, just in case my date is a psycho and I need saving.” 

Clark opens his mouth to reply when Steve walks by, cutting in like a brick through glass. 

“Haven’t you been saved by Superman, like, five times already?” 

Your cheeks heat, and Clark hears your heart pick up—a sound so sweet it nearly undoes him. Because he knows it's for him. Well, Superman technically, but Clark Kent is taking this win. 

“It was once—maybe twice,” you say quickly. 

“Actually,” Jimmy chimes in, “I think it was more—” 

“Oh my God,” you cut him off, flustered. “Why is everyone so chatty this morning? Can we please just work?" 

Steve rolls his eyes and keeps walking. 

Jimmy frowns. “You and Clark were the ones—” 

“Jimmy,” Clark says, his voice clipped in a way that makes Jimmy blink. “Seriously. Work.” 

Jimmy throws his hands up in surrender and spins back to his screen. Clark waits a beat, then glances up over the low partition between your desks. The second your eyes meet his, he can’t help the small, smug curve of his mouth. You roll your eyes but can’t hide your own grin, and suddenly it feels like the whole newsroom has faded into background noise. 

Because you’re looking at him like that—with those eyes—and lousy date or not, you still know exactly who’s going to show up if you need saving. 

The rest of the day goes by like any other. Everyone gets lost in their work, debates flare and die out, coffee is chugged like it’s oxygen, and Perry yells at someone for a misspelled headline at least once. It’s fair, though—journalists should at least know how to spell. At least. 

By three p.m., Clark can tell you’re deep into that afternoon slump—when the sunlight pouring through the big glass windows feels too warm, your last coffee was too long ago, and you’re one sigh away from curling up at your desk for a nap. 

Clark secretly loves this time of day. He doesn’t get the same crash as everyone else, so it’s the perfect time to spoil you without you—or anyone else—raising an eyebrow. He lives for the way you give him that sleepy, dopey smile whenever he drops a chocolate bar on your desk, grabs something from the front desk for you, or—his favourite—when he walks down the block to get you a real coffee from your favourite café instead of the sludge in the breakroom that Perry insists on calling coffee. 

He’s just about to do exactly that when he sees you drag your tired feet into the printer room and start stacking cartons of paper reams like some kind of reckless architect. 

He stops at the doorway, brows furrowed. “What are you doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder as you drop a third box onto the wobbly stack. “Building. What does it look like?” 

“It looks like you’re five seconds from filing for workers’ comp,” he says, stepping into the small room. 

The space is cramped, mostly taken up by the oversized printer and a few sad piles of paper—some blank, some the casualties of misprints. The back wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving crammed with office supplies and random junk that no one has bothered to sort since, well, ever. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say with a small smirk. “I can still type with a broken neck.” 

Clark is about to argue when you bend over and press your palms flat against the top box to test its stability. His words die in his throat. His eyes—traitorous, shameless—drop to the curve of your ass, barely two feet in front of him. He’s staring—again. He knows he’s staring, but he can’t stop—because apparently, all it takes to unravel Superman is you in a pair of fitted grey office pants. 

Then you plant one foot on the unsteady tower like you’re about to climb Everest, and something in him snaps. 

“Woah, no way,” he says, stepping forward in a blur. 

Before he can think better of it, his hands are on your waist—warm, firm, and holding you steady as he pulls you back down to the floor like you weigh nothing. 

The heat of you bleeds through the thin fabric of your shirt, and it’s dizzying. You’re too soft, too precious, and he has no business touching you like this. His breath snags in his chest, sharp and unsteady. He’s hugged you before—plenty of times—but this? This is different. This feels dangerous. 

Then, of course— 

“What’s going on in here?” Jimmy asks, grinning like an idiot as he leans against the doorframe. 

“I was just trying to—” you start.  

“She was just—” Clark says at the same time. 

And then he hears it—your heartbeat, skipping once before it kicks into overdrive. Your body grows even warmer beneath his hands, and you step away quickly, like his touch was too much. His stomach twists. 

You’re flushed. Flustered. Because of Jimmy? 

The thought hits him like a punch to the gut. It has to be. What else could it be? You’ve never looked at him like that. Not Clark. Not the way you look—the way your body reacts—when Jimmy appears, always wearing that lazy grin, the one that apparently drives women wild. 

“Hey, I’m not judging,” Jimmy says, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast. “The printer room is a classic. Just don’t let Perry catch you—he almost had a coronary when he found me in here with someone.” 

Then he winks and walks away, strolling across the newsroom toward his desk. 

For a second, Clark just stands there, jaw tight, the faint sound of your too-quick heartbeat still humming in his ears like static. He wants to say something—ask why you get all warm and pink every time Jimmy walks into a room—but he swallows it down. This isn’t the time. He doesn’t have the right. 

Instead, he clears his throat and turns back to the shelf, reaching easily for the toner cartridge on the top shelf. 

“This what you were risking your life for?” he asks, holding it out to you. 

You sigh dramatically as you take it. “Yes, that. Don’t look so smug just because you’re freakishly tall.” 

“Sorry,” he says, tone dry, “next time I’ll let you make the ER trip.” 

You scowl up at him, lips twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “Well, not all of us can be eight feet tall and built like a Greek god.” 

A slow smile tugs at his mouth. “Seven and a half, tops.” 

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are still pink. “You’re impossible.” 

“And you’re reckless,” he fires back, soft but certain. 

There’s a beat—a pause thick enough to feel. Your eyes hold his, that half-challenging, half-teasing look that makes his pulse thud a little harder. Clark’s not sure if you know what you’re doing to him or if you’re just being you, but it’s suddenly too much. Too warm. 

Jimmy’s stupid grin flashes in his mind. He can still hear the way your heart had jumped when he appeared, the way you’d flushed—warm and flustered in his hands, but not because of him. 

Clark clears his throat and steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for you again. “Try not to give yourself a concussion while I’m gone,” he says, trying for light, but it comes out a little too clipped. 

You blink. “Gone?” 

“Coffee run,” he mutters. “You look like you could use it.” 

“Oh. Thanks,” you reply, with that soft, tired smile—like it’s just another small kindness between friends. 

And it kills him. Because he doesn’t want to be just friends—not when Jimmy’s grin gets that kind of reaction out of you. He wants that reaction. He wants to be the one who makes you smile, who sets your cheeks on fire, whose presence throws your heartbeat off balance. 

By the time he’s back out in the newsroom, his chest is tight and his jaw aches from clenching so hard. Jimmy is laughing with Cat at his desk, and Clark can’t help but picture you grinning at him like that. Laughing like that. 

He swallows hard, grabs his jacket, and heads for the elevator before he does something stupid. Like break the sound barrier just to get to your favourite café and back, because apparently, that’s the only way he knows how to compete. 

The walk helps. A little. At least enough for him to stop replaying the printer room in his head like it’s a crime scene and he’s looking for evidence of when, exactly, he lost his mind. He forces himself not to rush, because it’s not like you’re going anywhere. Most of the Planet’s staff will be chained to their desks until well after sunset—you included. Then he’ll walk you home like he always does, listening to you rant about something dumb Perry said or the latest atrocity the breakroom coffee has committed. God, he loves your voice when you’re like that—sharp, alive, unfiltered. 

It’s pathetic, he knows—just as Jimmy had so graciously pointed out this morning—but Clark couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. Because aside from saving the planet and doing as much good as one man—one Kryptonian—possibly can, he lives for you. 

He hasn’t thought much about what he’ll do when you inevitably find someone. Someone who isn’t him. Maybe he’ll move to a red sun planet and sulk until he withers away. Or move to the moon and mope for all eternity. Or, hell, maybe he’ll just swallow a chunk of kryptonite and be done with it. 

Because the truth is, he doesn’t think he’d survive it. Losing you to someone else would tear him apart in ways nothing else could. It’s the second-most painful thought in his head—the first being losing you in the other sense. The permanent, irreversible sense. Which is exactly why he should be trying to keep his distance. Why he shouldn’t need you like this, so badly it scares him. 

But every time he’s tried to warn you, every time he’s told you that being close to him is too dangerous, you’ve just looked him in the eye and said you don’t care. That you need him. 

And God help him, because hearing you say those four little words—I need you, Clark—is enough to bring Superman to his knees. In more ways than one. 

“Uh, Clark?” Lois asks, head tilted, one arm holding the elevator doors open. “Plan on moving any time soon?” 

Clark blinks, hard, and realises he’s back at the office. In the elevator. Holding your coffee in one hand and a paper bag with two warm pastries in the other. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Daydreaming.” 

Lois smirks as she steps aside. “Wonder what about.” 

Clark steps out of the elevator and—of course—his eyes go straight to you, all the way across the bullpen. You’re at your desk, typing away with that little furrow between your brows, the one he could sketch from memory. 

“I swear you’ve got a sixth sense just for her,” Lois says as she steps into the elevator. “Doesn’t matter where she is—you always know. Like your compass doesn’t point north. It points to her.” 

Lois is a journalist, Clark knows that. Words are her weapon. But the truth of them still hits him square in the chest. He doesn’t mind the teasing, but he hates how transparent he is—how anyone can look at him and just see. 

“You should just ask her out,” Lois adds lightly. “Put us all out of our misery.” 

Before he can find an answer, the elevator doors slide shut and she’s gone—taking her sharp words and knowing smirk with her. 

Clark waits a moment, draws a deep, steadying breath, then crosses the newsroom toward you. He can see the exposé you’re working on, the one you’ve ranted about a hundred times, and he can practically feel the focus radiating off you. It almost makes him hesitate—almost. 

“Coffee,” he says, placing the cup on your desk. “And pick a pastry. Or we can split them both.” 

You flinch slightly before glancing up at him with that dopey, tired grin. Your bottom lip is swollen and raw from chewing on it, and the sight alone makes something stir in his chest—and lower. 

“Where’s my coffee?” Jimmy calls, spinning lazily in his chair. 

Clark hears it again—your heartbeat, stuttering once before racing fast—and his chest tightens. He doesn’t want to regret getting you this job, but he’s starting to think he might have been better off leaving you at Metropolis Mail. You hated it there, but at least you didn’t have a crush on any of the old, sleazy men you worked with. 

“Clark doesn’t like you like he likes me,” you tease, eyes narrowing at Jimmy. 

Jimmy snorts. “And you know what? I’m grateful that he doesn’t. Otherwise, we’d have to—” 

“Jimmy,” Cat interrupts from across the bullpen, “don’t finish that sentence unless you want me to staple your mouth shut.” 

Clark settles at his desk, watching as you reach for the bag of pastries. Your cheeks are still pink—flustered, again—and he can hear your pulse humming too fast. 

“Okay, we’re halving these,” you declare. “I’m not choosing between a chocolate croissant and a cinnamon roll.” 

He smiles softly as you tear open the bag and flatten it on your desk. You split the croissant, then the cinnamon roll, eyes flicking between the halves before—like always—you pick the smaller pieces for yourself. He knows you do this every time you share food, even when it’s something you love. He’s only asked you about it once, and you’d just shrugged, saying he’s bigger so he gets the bigger piece. 

But no matter how many times you do it, it still makes him feel special. 

Then—before Clark can even think about standing up to grab his halves of the pastries—you lick your fingers. Slowly. A low hum vibrates from your chest, the sound unexpectedly loud in the unusually quiet newsroom. 

Clark’s breath catches. His eyes flick up, locking on to the way you drag your fingers between your lips. It’s a simple gesture—intimate but mundane—except somehow, it’s not. It’s you, and suddenly the air feels charged—thick with something electric, something that has Clark’s body reacting before his brain can catch up. 

He shifts in his chair, suddenly aware of how uncomfortably tight his trousers have become. 

Jimmy snorts quietly at his desk, barely suppressing a giggle. Even Cat, a little further away, throws Clark a knowing smirk, eyebrows raised like she’s watching a sitcom. 

Clark clears his throat, trying to focus on his screen but failing spectacularly. This—this slow, deliberate lick of your fingers—is a distraction he doesn’t want but absolutely can’t resist. 

And today is the longest Thursday ever. 

- You - 

It’s not often you’re at work early, especially on a Friday, but this morning you woke up at six a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. No matter how many times you tossed and turned or fluffed your pillow. So here you are, chewing on the cap of your pen and glaring at the empty desk across from you—Clark’s desk. 

He’s not always on time—extracurricular activities and all—which is something you should be used to by now. But you’re not. You still worry every time he’s not where he’s supposed to be, and you know it’s ridiculous, but you just can’t help it. 

“Relax,” Jimmy says, startling you as he drops his bag onto his desk. “He’s just late, not dead.” 

You shoot him a glare. You want to say you don’t know that, but you also don’t want to put that kind of energy into the universe. So you settle for sticking your tongue out like the mature, well-adjusted adult you are. 

Jimmy chuckles. “Seriously, I don’t know how you two keep this up. It’s exhausting.” 

You roll your eyes and turn back to your computer, not yet caffeinated enough to have this argument. Again. 

“Why won’t you believe me?” he presses. “He’s into you. I know he is. Why would I lie—” 

“Would you keep your voice down?” you hiss, brows pulling together. “I don’t need the entire bullpen hearing about my pathetic crush on my best friend slash coworker.” 

Jimmy snorts. “But you’re fine with the entire bullpen seeing it?” 

Your chair squeaks as you whip around to face him. “What do you mean, see it?” 

“The way you two are constantly falling all over each other,” he says, eyebrows raised as he drops into his chair. “I mean, come on. The man brings you coffee—good coffee—twice a day, gets you snacks, picks up your mail, walks you home every night, gives you his jacket when it’s cold or rainy. And newsflash—most friends don’t hold each other by the waist in the printer room.” 

Your cheeks go hot, your pulse skipping once before slamming into a frantic rhythm. The memory of Clark’s hands—big, warm, wrapped around your waist like they belonged there—flashes through your mind. The press of his fingers, the solid weight of him so close, the ghost of his breath against your neck. It’s enough to make you squirm, thighs squeezing together as you hope to hell that Jimmy doesn’t notice the way you shift in your seat. 

“That’s just… Clark,” you argue. “He’s nice. He was raised well. He’s a gentleman, Jimmy. More than anyone can say about you.” 

Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Okay, I’m ignoring that insult because I know you’re just deflecting, and you know I’m right.” 

“I know you’re delusional.” 

“Why are you so stubborn?” 

“Because,” you say, sitting up straighter, “Clark knows I have a crush on him. Okay? He knows. So if he liked me as anything more than a friend, he’d ask me out. But he doesn’t. Obviously. And I’m fine with that.” 

Jimmy frowns, leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out. “He knows?” 

You nod. “He knows.” 

“How do you know he knows?” 

Well, that’s… complicated. 

You can’t exactly say oh, because I’m pretty sure Superman can hear my heart go feral whenever he so much as looks at me. Or that he can probably see it pounding and feel the heat rushing through your veins. Or—hell—you wouldn’t even be surprised if he’s picked up on other… reactions. Like that first time you saw him in the suit up close. Or the time he came over to help you move furniture wearing just a tank top and shorts, and—okay, you need to stop thinking about that before you pass out in the middle of the newsroom. 

“I just know,” you mutter. “Intuition. Or whatever.” 

Jimmy groans and tips his head back like he’s talking to the ceiling. “You know, for journalists, the two of you are really bad at using your words.” 

You glare at him—eyes narrowed, jaw tight—wishing you could come up with something snarky to snap back with. But you can’t. Your brain is a mess of Clark’s big hands, his broad shoulders in a tank top, and the way that goddamn suit hugs his thick thighs. 

So, with a frustrated huff, you turn back to your computer and try to focus on work. You finish your first cup of the Planet’s signature sludge by the time Cat breezes in, giving you a wink and a smile before settling at her desk. Lois is next, muttering to herself as she drops into her chair and starts furiously typing whatever it is she’s afraid she’ll forget. 

Your eyes flick up to Clark’s desk every few minutes, and occasionally, you make the mistake of glancing at Jimmy, who is watching you with a very amused grin. He raises his brows, smirking, like he’s daring you to admit that he’s right. You try to ignore him, but after the third look, you can’t stop yourself from scowling and mouthing at him to fuck off, when— 

“You’re very late this morning,” Lois says. 

Your head whips back toward Clark’s desk—eyes wide, heart thudding—and there he is. 

You think you’d be used to him by now. Those bright blue eyes, the unruly curls, the dimples framing those full, stupidly pretty lips. But somehow, every time you see him—which, by the way, is a lot—you feel like you can finally breathe again. Like you’ve been holding your breath without realising it, and now that he’s here, smiling sheepishly and looking perfectly dishevelled, your lungs remember how to work. 

“Yeah, I overslept,” he says, voice low and still a little rough with sleep. 

Your heart stutters when his gaze lands on you, and it’s moments like this that make you wish you could control your own damn body—because how could he not know? Your entire nervous system launches into full red alert whenever he’s within fifty feet of you. And you know he can see, hear, feel everything. 

“Overslept but still had time to pick up coffee?” Jimmy asks, grinning as he swivels in his chair. 

Clark’s eyes flick to him, his brows drawing just slightly, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs one of the two coffees he’d set down and steps toward you, holding it out. 

Your fingers brush his as you take it—just for a second—but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. His skin is warm, steady, and now yours feels like it’s buzzing. You pull back quickly, your traitorous heart hammering like it’s trying to tell on you. 

“Thanks, Kent,” you mutter. 

He smiles—soft and quiet, blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses—and you try not to melt. Or stare. Or do anything suspicious, like sigh wistfully and start fanning yourself with a stack of misprints. 

“So,” Jimmy says, still grinning and clearly unperturbed, “excited for your date tonight?” 

You take a sip of coffee—good coffee—and sigh. “Nope. Cancelled.” 

“What?” Cat pops up at her desk, frowning. “Why?” 

You shrug. “Apparently something came up.” 

Clark raises his brows, but his eyes stay glued to his screen. “Like a prior conviction?” 

You give him a flat look. “Funny.” 

His gaze flicks up, lips twitching. “I’m just saying. Your taste in men is—” 

“Very inconsistent,” Jimmy cuts in, smirking at you. 

Your cheeks heat—you know what he’s trying to say—but you ignore him. Your eyes stay locked on Clark. “What’s wrong with a guy who sells hand-forged artisanal blades?” 

“Where? From the back of his van?” Clark asks, the corner of his mouth curling. “Nothing wrong with that. Sounds very entrepreneurial.” 

You narrow your eyes, running your tongue across your top teeth as you fight back a smile. Because how is it fair that he looks this goddamn cute while mocking you? While teasing you for getting dumped by some knife-collecting ex-con you met on Hinge. 

“At least you’re giving Superman the night off,” Steve mutters, appearing beside your desk with a half-eaten bagel and a mug that says World’s Best Grandma. 

You turn to him, brows drawn. “Okay, for the last time, I have not been saved by Superman that many times.” 

“Um,” Jimmy says, “yeah you have. You’re Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen.” 

Lois spins around in her chair. “Yeah, what are we up to now—like, five or six?” 

“I thought it was five,” Steve says around a mouthful of bagel. 

“Actually,” Cat pipes up, “I think it’s more than that.” 

“It’s not that many!” you argue. “I counted last night—it’s only been four.” 

Everyone stops, eyes flicking toward you. 

There’s a beat of silence. 

Lois frowns. Jimmy raises a brow. Cat giggles. And Clark looks... smug. 

You blink. “What? What’s everyone looking at?” 

“You counted?” Lois asks. 

Clark smirks—he actually smirks. “You keep track?” 

Your eyes go wide. Your whole face catches fire. 

“Oh God,” Jimmy sighs. “Don’t tell me you’ve got some weird crush on Superman.” 

“No,” you reply, too fast. “What? No, I—obviously not. Why would I—?” 

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles. “That’s real convincing.” 

You groan and drop your face into your hands. “I do not have a crush on Superman.” 

“Oh, come on,” Cat says brightly. “There’s no shame in it. The guy’s built like a Greek statue and has the jawline of a god.” 

“And the thighs,” Steve adds. “Don’t forget the thighs.” 

“I’ve never even looked at his thighs,” you lie, still mumbling into your palms. 

There are a few snickers. Jimmy mutters something to Steve about, “Thighs? Really, man?” And then— 

Clark coughs. Once. Loudly. 

You swallow hard and peek through your fingers, just in time to see him lift his coffee to hide a smile. 

“Wait,” Lois pipes up, her tone light but undeniably playful, “didn’t you say the other day when we were watching that live feed of him saving those puppies that you needed to go home and take a cold shower?” 

Clark chokes. Your heart stops. 

He coughs into his fist, turning away slightly like that’ll help disguise the pink creeping up his neck—and the ridiculous grin stretching across his lips. 

Jimmy bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, that’s right. I heard that.” 

“It was a joke,” you say quickly. “I was joking. And I only said it to Lois—” 

Lois grins. “You also said, and I quote, ‘he could break your back and you’d say thank you’.” 

Your eyes go wide. Your pulse spikes. You feel like you might faint. 

And across from you, Clark is coughing harder. 

“Oh no,” Cat gasps, rushing toward him. “Clark, are you okay?” 

He’s hunched over now, still trying to hide his face. “I—I’m fine,” he manages. “Just... swallowed wrong.” 

“Wow,” Jimmy sighs, leaning back in his chair with a wicked grin. “I guess you don’t really have a type then.” 

God. If only he knew. 

“It was a joke,” you say again, sharper now. “It was late, we were all mad about staying back, the breaking news started playing and I made a joke to lighten the mood, okay?” 

Steve snorts. “Then why are you so defensive?” 

Your eyes snap toward him. “Why are you still here?” 

He holds his bagel up like a white flag and turns back to his desk. 

Then Perry’s voice booms across the newsroom, calling Jimmy into his office, and the buzz of conversation quickly dies. Lois spins back to her desk, Cat returns to her phone, and the bullpen slips back into its usual rhythm—paper rustling, keys tapping, the occasional frustrated sigh from someone fighting a deadline. 

With a deep breath, you sit up straighter and try to focus on your inbox. But it’s hard. Because across from you, Clark—apparently recovered from his dramatic coughing fit—is sipping his coffee like nothing happened, eyes fixed on his screen... but there’s something suspiciously smug about the set of his mouth. 

When his gaze flicks up to meet yours, you lift an eyebrow. “You good?” 

His lips twitch. “Didn’t realise Superman made that kind of impression on you.” 

Your breath catches. There’s a spark behind his glasses, barely-there but undeniably real. A little teasing. A little warm. A little dangerous. 

You clear your throat and look back to your screen. “I really was joking.” 

“I know,” he says softly, but you’re not convinced he means it. 

Because for the rest of the morning, his eyes keep finding you. And you can feel it. The weight of his gaze is heavy—too deliberate to ignore—and you can’t help but meet it. Every time. Even when you’re halfway across the newsroom chatting with one of the copy editors, or heading to the breakroom for your third—or fourth—cup of coffee. 

By lunchtime, you feel wired. Not from caffeine or overtiredness, but from the way Clark Kent hasn’t let your heart settle all goddamn morning. And if he smirks at you one more time, you’re pretty sure you’re going to go into cardiac arrest. 

“You busy?” Perry asks, startling you as he appears beside your desk. 

You clear your throat and glance up at him. “Always.” 

“Good. Then you’ve got time to help me.” 

You want to roll your eyes, but you don’t. You haven’t been here as long as the others, but you’ve pretty much clocked Perry—and when he’s in one of these moods, it’s best not to argue. 

“City Council’s pulling the same shit they tried back in ’07, and I need ammo,” he says. “Go find Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign exposé. Should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back. Try not to get lost in there.” 

Then he’s gone, and you’re left staring blankly across at Jimmy—who is chuckling and shaking his head. 

“Right,” you mutter, pushing up from your chair. “And I’m assuming he means second shelf, far back... in the archives room?” 

Jimmy nods. “Yeah. Down the hall, past the printer room, last door on the right.” 

“Great. Thanks.” 

You tuck your phone into your pocket—just in case you do get lost—and head toward the archives room, without looking back at Clark. 

You reach the end of the hall, just as Jimmy had instructed, and push open the last door on the right with a loud creak. It’s dim inside, with no windows and only half of the overhead fluorescents working—some of them flickering ominously. Metal shelving units packed with labelled boxes line the room, everything smelling faintly like dust and yellowed paper. 

You take a deep breath—then immediately regret it, coughing softly as you start down the first aisle. Your eyes skim the labels on the boxes, your brain trying to decode whatever terrible filing system is in place. It’s not alphabetical, not by date, not even by section. You can’t make any sense of it— 

“It’s chronological.” 

You yelp, spinning around just as you reach the end of the aisle. 

“Jesus Christ, farm boy,” you gasp, pressing a hand to your chest. “Why would you sneak up on someone in a creepy room like this?”  

Clark chuckles quietly. “I wasn’t sneaking.” 

“You didn’t knock.” 

“I figured you’d hear me.” 

“Well, I didn’t.” 

He tilts his head, lips curling, dimples creasing. “Probably because you were muttering to yourself.” 

You roll your eyes and turn back to the shelves, trying to ignore the way your pulse is still climbing. “Whatever. It’s not chronological, though. These dates don’t make—” 

“Based on when the reporter started the investigation, not publication date,” he says. 

Your jaw drops. “You’re kidding?” 

He shakes his head, chuckling again. “Nope.” 

“Oh my God,” you sigh. “Whoever decided that is evil. Why doesn’t Perry fix it?” 

Clark turns toward the shelves and shrugs, his arm brushing yours—just barely—and it takes everything in you not to flinch, or lean in, or breathe weird. 

“I think he secretly enjoys torturing us,” he says, glancing sideways. “Plus, who has the time to reorganise the entire archives room?” 

Your traitorous eyes drop straight to his mouth, watching his tongue drag across his bottom lip. Your breath stutters. You’re not even standing that close—it’s just too quiet in here. Too dim. And he’s far too pretty to be looking at you like that. 

You clear your throat. “Yeah—uh, I guess. I mean, we could volunteer Steve. Not like he does much anyway.” 

Clark huffs a laugh. “Hey. Steve does an excellent job of eating other people’s lunches and leaving greasy fingerprints on things.” 

“That’s true,” you say with a soft laugh. “I mean, he’s kind of a catch. Don’t you think?” 

You turn and continue around the shelves into the next aisle. 

Clark follows. “So, Steve is your type then?” 

You give him a flat look. “Don’t.” 

He presses his lips together to contain whatever smug grin is threatening to break free. “Don’t what?” 

“Don’t bring up the goddamn Superman thing,” you say, turning back to the shelves in the hopes that he can’t see the colour crawling into your cheeks. “It was a joke. And Lois… ad-libbed. She made it sound way hornier than what I actually said.” 

He lifts a brow, leaning his shoulder against the shelf. “What did you actually say?” 

You pull out a box and blow the dust away to read whatever’s scrawled across the top. Not that you’re really paying attention. Your brain is fried—too aware of the huge man standing beside you, watching you with such intensity you feel like his stare could brand your skin. 

And, well, it could—technically. 

“I said that half of Metropolis is going to need a cold shower after seeing Superman save some puppies,” you lie—through your teeth. “You know, the female half—and gays. I mean, anyone who is attracted to men, really. Because Superman is a man. A big man. And he was saving puppies, so… yeah.” 

You peek out the corner of your eye as you pull out another box. He’s full-on grinning now—that cheeky grin he gets when he thinks he’s said something hilarious, or knows he’s winning one of your petty arguments. 

“What about the back breaking?” he asks. 

You fumble the box in your hands and it falls to the floor, papers scattering everywhere. 

That is not something you ever thought you’d hear Clark Kent ask you. And those words—in that voice—have completely short-circuited the connection between your brain and your motor function. 

“Shit,” you mutter, dropping to your knees. 

Clark crouches beside you and starts gathering the papers just out of your reach. 

“I meant—” you start quickly, keeping your eyes on the scattered pages. “The back-breaking thing wasn’t, like... literal. I meant emotionally. You know, like... he could ruin me—anyone, he could ruin anyone… metaphorically.” 

He pauses, then glances at you. “Metaphorically?” 

“Yeah. Like, Superman, the idea of him, this gorgeous—” you hesitate, almost choking on your words, “objectively gorgeous guy who’s too good to be true. I mean, he could ruin anyone, right?” 

Clark frowns. “Right.” 

“Besides,” you add quickly, “I have to try and say things that make it seem like I don’t really know Superman because he’s saved me so many goddamn times.” 

He chuckles quietly. “That’s just because you’re near him all the time, and he has to get you to safety before all hell breaks loose.” 

“Okay,” you mutter, stacking the pages with unnecessary focus, “but you don’t need to mention it in every article you write.” 

He shrugs, handing you the papers he’d collected. “Superman likes talking about the people he’s saved.” 

“Clark,” you sigh, reaching for the stack of pages. 

Your hand brushes his, and your breath catches. You both freeze. 

You swear you feel a pulse of heat where your fingers touch—and you know it’s ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop your heart from thudding, or your skin from flushing. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. 

And then— 

“Hey guys,” Jimmy’s voice cuts through the tension. “I hate to break up whatever’s going on in here, but Perry’s about ready to rip heads off if he doesn’t have those notes soon.” 

You jump up so fast you nearly knock another box off the shelf. “Shit, I—um—” 

“Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign, right?” Clark asks, his eyes scanning the room. 

You know what he’s doing, and it’s at times like this that you’re incredibly grateful for his superhuman abilities. 

You nod. “Yep. Perry said they should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back.” 

He steps away, walking along the back of the room before disappearing down a far aisle. 

Jimmy grins and wriggles his eyebrows like an idiot. “The archives room, huh? Pretty cozy in here. Tall stacks to hide in.” 

“Shut up,” you mutter, shoving the box you dropped back onto the shelf. 

Clark returns a few seconds later, holding up a file. “Reynolds’ notes, ’07.” 

“I don’t know how you do it, man,” Jimmy says, shaking his head. “No one can find anything in here except this guy.” 

Clark just smiles, and you roll your eyes. Jimmy takes the file, shoots you a cheeky wink—as if he has any clue about what’s going on—and heads back out the door. 

You turn to Clark, brows raised, lips twitching. “How do you do it, Clark? How do you find things in this terribly organised filing system?” 

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Dumb luck?” 

“Hm,” you narrow your eyes playfully. “I think you’ve got a secret, Kent.” 

You can almost swear you see him blush, but the room is too dark to tell—and you have to look away from his stupidly gorgeous face before you forget how to act like a normal human being. 

He doesn’t reply, he just follows you out of the archives room—flicking off the barely-working lights on the way—and up the hall toward the newsroom. You’re just passing the printer room, trying very hard not to think about the way his hands had felt on your waist, when he finally speaks. 

“I was thinking,” he says, “movie night tonight, at my place? You know, since your date bailed.” 

You glance over your shoulder at him. “Sure you don’t have better things to do on a Friday night?” 

“Nah,” he replies with that small smirk—the one that makes your heart stutter. “Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen is giving me the night off.” 

You roll your eyes. “Okay, for that comment, you’re paying for takeout.” 

He chuckles. “I always pay for takeout.” 

“Yeah?” You stop just outside the breakroom door. “Well, I’m ordering extra this time.” 

“Extra food that I’ll end up eating because you always order too much,” he teases. “Of course. It’s tradition.” 

You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. “Whatever. I’m still ordering it.” 

And then—before he can see just how much he’s affecting you—you slip into the breakroom and let the door fall shut behind you. 

You turn, grip the edge of the counter, and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten straight minutes. Because what the fuck is going on? His voice, his smile, his face, his everything—he’s not even trying, and you’re already halfway to a heart attack. 

You’ve known Clark for years—you’ve been best friends for years. And yeah, he’s always had… an effect on you. But this? This is something else entirely. Being around him this much is starting to feel dangerous. Like the longer you stay in his orbit, the closer you are to coming undone. Every glance that lingers. Every touch that means too much. Every smile that knocks the air clean out of your lungs. You keep pretending it’s fine—but something has shifted. And whatever it is, it’s getting harder to ignore. 

Jimmy’s words echo in your head, and for one traitorous second, you almost believe them. Almost believe that there might be something real behind the way Clark looks at you. 

But no. Surely not, right? That’s not how this works. He’s Superman. He saves cities before breakfast. He could have any woman he wanted. 

And you? You’re just the friend. The one who gets takeout with him on Friday nights because he feels bad that your date bailed. The one he teases in the bullpen. The one trying not to fall apart every time he gets too close. 

You press your palms harder into the counter, as if you can steady yourself with pressure alone. But your heart’s still racing, and your lungs won’t quite fill. 

You cannot keep doing this. Not like this. 

Because one of these days, you’re going to look at him and forget how to pretend. 

- 

You never thought you’d be happy about a hectic Friday afternoon, but today, the distractions are doing a better job than your self-control ever could. 

Perry is hell-bent on nailing this latest City Council scandal, and he’s got the entire bullpen scrambling to publish before the end of the day. Cat is helping Jimmy track down incriminating photos, sift through old campaign trail shots, and monitor social media for real-time fallout. Clark’s stuck on the phone with whistleblowers and trying to pin down a statement from any councilmember who’ll take his call. Steve’s out on the street gathering public reaction—loudly complaining the whole time that his Knicks column is getting bumped. And you’re at Lois’s side, helping her fact-check quotes and comb through timelines while she tears through the main exposé like a woman possessed. 

It’s chaos—in the best way. Because everyone here does their best work under pressure, with ten empty coffee cups on their desk. And the best part? You’re too busy to risk another lingering moment with Clark. Too distracted to spiral. Too occupied to feel anything. 

It’s perfect. 

Right up until five p.m., when Perry signs off, Lois hits publish, and everyone starts packing up for the weekend. 

“Coming straight over, or are you going home first?” Clark asks, shrugging into his jacket. 

From the corner of your eye, you see Jimmy’s head snap toward you—and your cheeks heat immediately. 

“I’ll head home first,” you say, trying to keep your voice quiet. “Change into something comfortable before I come over.” 

It’s no use though—Jimmy hears everything. 

“You know I’ve got a whole drawer of your clothes at my place, right?” Clark says, blue eyes flicking—just briefly—toward Jimmy, who is inching closer on the wheels of his chair. 

You let out a small, nervous laugh. “It’s not a whole drawer. Is it?” 

“Oh, it is,” Clark replies. “Though I think half of it’s just my old college stuff. Pretty sure you stole more than Ma ever got the chance to donate.” 

Jimmy gasps—he actually gasps—like a dramatic little asshole watching his favourite soap opera play out live. 

Both you and Clark turn toward him. He’s still sitting in his chair, halfway between his desk and yours, glancing between the two of you with wide eyes. You’re scowling. Clark just looks mildly sceptical. 

Then, after a beat, Clark shakes his head and turns back to you. “Anyway. You want me to walk you home?” 

“No,” you say—way too fast. “I mean, I’m good. I’ll catch a cab.” 

He nods. “Okay. Let me know when you’re on your way?” 

“Okay,” you echo, giving him a tight smile. 

He tucks his chair under his desk, gives Jimmy a polite—but vaguely curious—goodbye as he steps around him, and walks off through the newsroom toward the elevator. You watch after him until the doors slide shut and the numbers above begin to light up as the lift descends. 

Then you turn back to Jimmy, who has now scooted right up to your desk. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed like a man who’s just connected the final thread on a conspiracy board. 

“You’re pranking me,” he says flatly. 

You close your eyes, breathing deeply. “Jimmy, just… don’t.” 

“You have a drawer. Of clothes. At his apartment.” 

You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand. 

“No—no. Don’t talk. I need to process. I’m having, like, a full-on event.” 

You frown. “An event?” 

“You wear his clothes!” he hisses, loud enough to make your pulse spike. “You hang out at his place constantly. You’re going over tonight, after your date bailed—on a Friday—and you just casually told him you were gonna ‘change into something comfortable’ like that’s not the sexiest sentence ever uttered in this newsroom!” 

Your face burns even hotter. “It’s not—I didn’t mean it like—” 

He gasps again—loudly. “Do you have a drawer of his clothes at your place? If you say yes, I’m pitching Cat a column on office romance and you two are going to be my lead sources.” 

“Well—I mean, yes, but—” 

“Oh my God. You’re basically a couple without the sex!” 

You scowl. “Jimmy—” 

“I’m just saying!” He throws his hands up, wheeling backward like he needs a full-body reset. “You’re over there more than his landlord. You do Friday night takeout. You have drawer rights. He gives you heart-eyes every time you speak. And you’re both still pretending this is all just… platonic?” 

You stare at him, mouth dry. 

“Please,” Jimmy says, softer now, scooting forward again and leaning his forearms on your desk. “Don’t make me live through an unnecessary slow burn. I’m too young to suffer like this. Just jump him.” 

You groan and cover your face with both hands. “Oh my God.” 

“You don’t even deny that you want to,” he says, grinning now. “You’re just too scared to actually do it.” 

You peek at him through your fingers. “Can you please shut up?” 

“Nope,” he says brightly. “I’m way too invested now. I’m not going to shut up until I have proof that you two have finally boned.” 

You drop your hands from your face with a sigh and push back from your desk. “Okay,” you mutter. “I’m leaving now.” 

Jimmy just watches you—arms crossed, smug as hell, like he knows something you don’t. You pull your jacket on, pack your bag, and sling it over your shoulder. 

“Just do yourself a favour,” he says. “Stop pretending this isn’t exactly what it looks like.” 

You give him a look. “Jimmy—” 

“Trust me,” he says, rolling back toward his desk. “You don’t end up with a drawer at someone’s place and standing Friday night plans by accident.” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s not like that.” 

“Sure it’s not,” he chuckles. 

You huff and hitch your bag higher. “I’m leaving now.” 

He turns to face his screen, still grinning. “Have fun, and don’t be shy. You might be… surprised.” 

You stand frozen for a second—heart pounding, thoughts tripping over themselves—then spin on your heel and walk away before you can say something you’ll regret. Before Jimmy’s cryptic nonsense makes your brain explode. 

He’s just messing with you, obviously—he’s teasing, making things up. Because there’s no way a drawer and some clothes and a Friday night movie night means anything more than friendship. 

Right? 

It’s just takeout. Just TV. Just Clark. 

You jab the elevator button harder than necessary, tapping your foot impatiently while you wait for the doors to open. The second they do, you slip inside and start digging through your bag for your headphones. You need distraction—a podcast, an audiobook, something. Anything to stop thinking about Clark fucking Kent before you’re sitting beside him on the couch. 

A breath apart. Bodies warm. Pulse thrumming. 

God. You are so monumentally screwed. 

As soon as you get home, you head straight for the shower, hoping the hot water might help rinse away all your spiralling thoughts. You take your time washing your hair—twice—and exfoliating everything before simply standing under the spray, trying to remember how to breathe. How to be human. How to stop over-analysing every little thing Clark has ever done for you. 

Curse Jimmy Olsen and his stupidly smug words and overly supportive encouragements. 

By the time you step out, you smell like coconut, vanilla, and just a hint of panic. You quickly dry off before picking out a soft pair of sweats and your favourite movie night hoodie. Then you open your underwear drawer—and pause. 

You stare at the unorganised mess of cotton and lace for almost two full minutes. 

It’d be ridiculous to put on something cute. Right? This is just movie night. With Clark. The same Clark who’s seen you eat popcorn off your hoodie while ugly crying over Marley & Me. There is absolutely no reason to wear something small or uncomfortable or even remotely pretty. 

Tonight isn’t special. Nothing is going to happen. 

But then Jimmy’s stupid voice echoes through your head, making everything feel a little less certain. 

“Ugh. Fine,” you mutter, grabbing a pair that could generously be described as a little nicer than usual. 

They’re not scandalous—or over the top—just better than the ones you wouldn’t want found on your body if you got hit by a bus. Which, honestly, is a pretty low bar, but whatever. 

After getting dressed, you quickly pack your bag—keys, wallet, snacks—and slip on the first pair of shoes you can find before heading out the door. 

You’re halfway across the lobby when your phone buzzes with a text—from Clark: 

Something came up. Spare key is under the mat. Won’t be late. 

Before you can question it, a breaking news alert flashes across your screen: 

BREAKING: Robot Attack in Downtown Metropolis 

Authorities are responding to a violent incident involving an unidentified mechanical threat near the 6th & Hadley tech district. Witnesses report strange gas emissions and widespread damage. Superman has been spotted at the scene. Officials urge residents to avoid the area until further notice. More to come. 

You quickly hail a cab, fall into the backseat, and bring up the live feed of the attack downtown. There’s not much to see from the helicopter camera—just the blur of scattered civilians, crumbling storefronts, and a distant flash of red and blue cutting through the smoke. 

Your chest tightens. Your heart starts pounding harder. You know he’s Superman, and he literally does this kind of thing at least twice a week—but still, every single time, you worry. 

What if this is the one time things go wrong? 

What if this is the time he doesn’t get back up? 

What if you lose him before you ever get the chance to tell him how you feel? 

Thankfully, you don’t live far from Clark, and it isn’t long before the cab pulls up just outside his apartment building. You pay the driver, slip out, and hitch your bag higher on your shoulder as you approach the front door. 

You’re here so often that the lobby staff don’t even bat an eye as you walk past. You slip into the elevator, ride it up, and walk the hallway like you know this building better than your own. Then you stop at his door, lift the welcome mat, and spot the little silver key that had been tucked beneath it. 

Of course Clark Kent is naive enough to leave a key under the mat—like that’s not the first place a burglar would look. He’s lucky he doesn’t live in Gotham. You know for a fact he’d have been robbed at least once by now—probably more. 

You step inside and try not to breathe in too deeply like a total creep, but it’s hard not to when the whole place smells like him—familiar and clean, with the faint, crisp edge of cold air from his frequent trips to the Antarctic. 

You kick your shoes off, drop your bag on the kitchen counter, and head into the lounge room to flick on the TV. You settle on the couch and flip through channels until live news coverage of the attack pops up. 

“We’re receiving confirmation that the area has now been cleared of civilians, and that Superman has successfully neutralised the mechanical threat responsible for tonight's attack,” the female news anchor reports. 

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. 

“Authorities remain on the scene, working to identify the strange gas released during the incident. While it appears to be non-lethal, several sources—including a spokesperson from the fire department—have confirmed that individuals exposed to the gas are experiencing some unusual side effects.” 

You lean forward, the curious journalist in you coming to life. 

“In what can only be described as one of the stranger developments this year, witnesses and responders alike seem to be... unable to lie. More than that, they’re being compelled to speak—blurt out personal details, opinions, even long-held secrets.” 

You frown. “Like... a truth serum?” 

“We now go live to Darren McMillan, reporting live from the scene. Darren—what more can you tell us?” 

The feed cuts to a man in a plain surgical mask—which you doubt is doing anything—standing outside a half-burnt bakery. 

“Thanks, Elsie. I’m just outside the perimeter, where hazmat teams and emergency services are still assessing the area. The good news is, no major injuries have been reported. And while the gas remains unidentified, officials say there’s currently no evidence of toxicity or long-term danger.” 

The camera pans out slightly. 

“That said, the psychological effects are harder to pin down. One first responder told me he hasn’t been able to stop talking about his childhood hamster for twenty straight minutes. Another admitted—without prompting—that he once embezzled over four thousand dollars from his mother-in-law. And personally, I—uh—” 

The reporter freezes, eyes wide as he makes uncomfortably direct eye contact with the camera. 

“—I think I might be in love with my barista. Also, I’ve been cheating on my girlfriend with someone from accounting.” 

There's a split-second of stunned silence, then the camera wobbles—and the feed cuts back to the studio. 

“We... seem to have lost Darren for the moment,” the anchor says awkwardly. “We’ll continue following this story as it develops. In the meantime, residents are advised to avoid the area until the all-clear has been given.” 

You snort a laugh as you push off the couch and wander back into the kitchen. You reach for a wine glass from one of the higher cupboards, then spot a bottle of red sitting by the stove—Clark might be immune to alcohol, but he always keeps a bottle around just for you. 

You crack the lid and start to pour—only to somehow misjudge the angle and splash red wine all over your hoodie and down the front of your sweats. 

“Shit,” you mutter, quickly setting the bottle back down on the bench. 

With a sigh, you peel off your hoodie and make your way toward Clark’s bedroom, ignoring the way your heart does that annoying little flutter when you step inside—even though you’ve been in here a hundred times before. 

You go straight to the second-top drawer of his dresser, where he keeps the clothes you usually wear, and grab a pair of old sleep shorts and a threadbare Metropolis University shirt—both clearly his. He wasn’t kidding when he said you’d stolen most of his college wardrobe. 

You change quickly and throw your wine-stained clothes into the hamper by the door on your way out. You know he won’t mind. He never does. Then back in the kitchen, you mop up the spilt wine before pouring yourself a generous glass and leaning back against the counter to scroll through your phone. 

You’re mid-sip when you hear the soft thud of feet on the balcony.  

You glance up, heart hammering, and see Clark step inside. His face and suit are streaked with ash, hair wind-tousled, eyes dark and unreadable. He’s looked better, but he’s definitely looked worse—and for the first time since that breaking news alert popped up on your phone, you feel like you can breathe again.  

“Clark,” you say, stepping forward. “Are you—”  

“Wait,” he says—not loud, but firm.  

You freeze.  

He takes a breath, jaw tense. “You shouldn’t be here.”  

You blink. “What? But you told me to—”  

“I mean,” he says quickly, “it’s not that I don’t want you—” He cuts himself off, mouth twitching like the words are fighting their way out. “It’s... not advisable.”  

“Clark,” you say slowly, “are you okay?”  

He nods—then immediately shakes his head. 

“Are you hurt?” you ask, setting your wine down on the counter. 

“No,” he replies. “But the gas—the stuff from the attack—it has... some kind of neurological effect. I don’t know how long it’ll last.”  

Your brows lift. “Wait... it affected you too? But you’re—”  

“I know,” he says with a small, strained smile. “I’m trying to fight it.”  

“Oh. So,” you step forward, lips twitching, “you’re telling me you can’t lie right now?”  

He nods again. “Yes, but it—it’s more than that. I—” His voice catches, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I want to say things. I want to just blurt everything out.”  

Any trace of amusement falls from your face, and your eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. Like—you feel like you’re just going to fly out there and tell the world that Clark Kent is Superman?”  

He huffs a soft laugh. “Not exactly what I’m worried about—”  

“Wait,” you cut him off. “Okay, first, we need to lock the doors. I know you’re you, so it doesn’t make much of a difference, but I’ll still feel better if they’re locked, okay?”  

You don’t wait for him to reply—you just start moving through the apartment, slamming shut every window, locking the balcony door, then the front door, and double-checking each one. Twice. 

When you return, he’s still standing exactly where you left him—caught between the lounge room and the kitchen, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. 

“I swear I’m going to do everything I can to help you,” you say, your hands starting to tremble. “I know I can’t actually stop you from flying through the window, but—I’ll try.”  

He lets out another soft laugh, low and a little tense. “I’m not going to—”  

“How do we get this out of your system?” you ask, stepping in close and crossing your arms over your chest. 

Clark opens his mouth—then hesitates. His eyes flick down, and his brow furrows, like he’s only just noticed what you’re wearing. 

“That’s—um. That’s my shirt.” 

You glance down. “Oh. Yeah. I spilled wine on mine.” 

He nods, slowly, jaw clenched like he’s physically holding back the rest of the words—but then his eyes drop lower, and his voice slips out before he can stop it. “You look good in my clothes.” 

Your heart stutters. “What?” 

He visibly winces, because he definitely hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I mean—you always wear my stuff, I know that, I just—” He stops and takes a deep breath. “Forget I said anything.” 

You take a step back, flustered, hoping he’s too distracted to notice the heat creeping up your neck. “Okay. Um. What do you need? Should you eat something? Try to sweat it out? Or—I don’t know, take a cold shower?” 

He doesn’t answer. He just keeps standing there, stiff and quiet, like if he says even one word, the rest might follow whether he wants them to or not. 

Your arms fall to your sides as you let out a soft, breathless laugh. “Well... at least we don’t have any secrets.” 

Clark huffs—one breath, sharp and low. “Just one,” he mutters. 

You blink. “What?” 

But he’s already turning away, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m gonna take that shower.” 

And then he disappears into his room without another word, leaving you dazed, confused, and—yeah—a little horny after seeing him in that goddamn suit. 

As soon as you hear the shower start running, you turn and scull the rest of your wine—wincing as it burns your throat. You set the glass back down on the counter with a soft clink, then brace your palms against the cool marble and draw a few deep breaths, trying to stop your thoughts from spiralling. 

Just one. 

Just... one? 

What does that even mean? What kind of secret? Something big? Something small? Something life-ruining? Oh God—what if it’s something serious? What if he’s dying? Or secretly married? Or, like, used to be evil? 

You groan and drop your forehead to the counter. 

No. You need to stop. This is ridiculous. 

It’s normal to have secrets. Everyone has things they keep to themselves. That doesn’t make it shady—or bad—or dangerous. It’s probably just something awkward. Or embarrassing. Or, knowing Clark, so deeply uncool that it makes him cringe to even think about it. 

Yeah, that’s it. That’s definitely it. 

He’s not dying or secretly married or evil—he’s just Clark. 

And he doesn’t owe you everything. He doesn’t even owe you anything. 

You’re lucky to have as much of him as you do. You don’t need to know every little thing. Besides—he’s got a secret. So do you. And despite Jimmy’s encouragement, you’re pretty damn sure you’re never going to tell him. 

Okay. You need to stop freaking out. 

You need to focus on helping Clark through whatever this is before he accidentally tells all of Metropolis that he’s Superman. You need to find a way to flush this toxin—or whatever it is—out of his system. 

And if you can’t do that? 

Then you need to distract him until it wears off. 

By the time Clark’s bedroom door cracks open, you’re back on the couch. The news is still playing, volume low now. The anchor is saying something about clean-up efforts and eyewitness accounts—but you’re not listening. You can’t. Not when Clark Kent is walking toward you in a pair of low-slung dark blue sweats while he’s halfway to pulling a shirt over his head. 

It’s not like you’ve never seen him shirtless before—you have, occasionally. When you went to the beach together. During that horrible June heatwave. That time he spilled hot soup on himself. 

But still. Seeing him like this, fresh from the shower, curls damp and clinging to his forehead—it hits different. It makes your breath hitch, your skin flush, and that spot behind your hipbones ache. 

“Hey,” you say quietly. “Feeling better?” 

“I feel cleaner,” he mutters, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch—as far from you as it’ll allow. 

You swallow hard and shift a little, turning more toward him than the TV. 

“Okay,” you start, “first—I just want to say, I totally respect you having secrets. It’s normal. I mean, Lois and Jimmy are always joking that we’re too close, but we still have things we keep to ourselves. Not full-on secrets, but—like—it’d be weird if we knew every single thing about each other, right? No—wait, that’s not a question.” You let out an awkward laugh. “I swear I’m going to respect your privacy. I’m not going to ask any questions you don’t want to answer. And I’m sorry—I know I’m rambling. But—” you take a breath “—I was thinking, if you can’t just sweat it out or whatever, then we need to keep you distracted. Stop you from flying out there and announcing your secret identity to half the city. So… what if we just talk? Anything. Everything. No secrets. Just... stuff I might not know. Like—I don’t know—when did you first figure out you could fly?” 

Clark just stares at you for a moment—unblinking, brows raised, the slightest twitch pulling at the corner of his lips. He looks a little less wrecked than he did earlier, a little amused, and there’s something else in his eyes you can’t quite place. A look you only catch sometimes—fleeting, private—one he’s usually quick to hide. 

But not tonight. 

“Uh,” he says eventually, voice a little hoarse. “Okay. Flying was… weird. At first.” 

You tilt your head. “So, you just—what? Floated off the ground one day?” 

“Pretty much,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was in high school. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Hard to say—everything was happening at once.” 

You snort softly. “Puberty was a little rougher on you, wasn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “It was.” 

“Do you know what triggered it?” 

“The microwave,” he mutters. 

Your brows rise. “The microwave?” 

“It kept burning my popcorn.” His expression turns sheepish. “I yelled at it and then, next thing I knew, I was on the ceiling. Ma screamed so loud I thought I’d broken something. Which—I did. I crashed into the dining room light trying to get down.” 

You bite your lip to hide your grin. “That’s actually adorable.” 

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m pretty sure I cried. I, uh… cried a lot back then.” 

Your throat tightens and that soft ache in your chest sharpens. “Clark.” 

“No, really. I was a very emotional child. Also, kind of flammable,” he says with a tight smile. “The heat vision was a nightmare. Powers come first, control comes later.” 

“Oh my God.” 

“There’s a reason I was homeschooled for two years.” He pauses, his smile softening. “Well. That, and I had a crush on my tenth-grade teacher and Ma said I was dangerously distracted.” 

You laugh again—quietly—and drop your eyes to your lap, hoping Clark doesn’t notice the way your body flushes with heat. Because seriously, who gets jealous of their best friend admitting he had a crush on his teacher over a decade ago? 

“Okay,” you say, eyes flicking back up. “This is good. Is it working?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “A little.” 

“Good. Next question, then.” 

He lets out a low, quiet laugh and leans back, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Alright. Hit me.” 

You clear your throat, shifting to face him more fully. “What do you think about when you’re flying? Just flying—not in the middle of a fight or racing back to your fortress to heal. Just... in the air.” 

He opens his mouth. Pauses. Closes it. Opens it again. His expression twists, jaw tightening like he’s trying to hold it in—like whatever he’s trying not to say is fighting its way out. 

You open your mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to answer when— 

“You,” he says, voice strained. 

You blink. “What?” 

“And—and my parents,” he adds quickly. “When I can see Kansas. I think about work, too. A lot of things. But I think about you a—” He cuts himself off, hands curling into fists in his lap, brows furrowing. “I think about you a lot.” 

Your breath catches. The room feels suddenly very, very still. Your pulse is loud in your ears—too loud—drowning out the sound of the TV and your own uneven breathing. 

He thinks about you. A lot. 

What does that even mean—and what the hell are you supposed to do with it? 

“Ask me another question,” he says abruptly, almost desperate. “Please.” 

You blink at him. “What?” 

“Just—change the subject. Anything else.” 

You panic. Your thoughts scatter. Your mouth opens, closes—opens again, and then—God help you—you blurt out the first thing that hits your tongue. 

“Are you a virgin?” 

Clark makes a sound halfway between a cough and a gasp. “What?” 

“I don’t know!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. “I panicked! And—and I’m just curious because... you’re Clark. I mean, you’re so kind, and sweet, and polite—and you’ve never even had a real girlfriend the whole time we’ve been friends, so I just—” 

“Yeah,” he mutters, tone dry. “Funny, that.” 

You frown, heat creeping up your neck. You want to ask what the hell he means by that—but you know you can't. Not right now. 

“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” you say instead, softer now. “I’m sorry. It’s just—it’s a thought I’ve had for a while, and it sort of just... slipped out.” 

“No,” he says, voice steady. “I’m not a virgin.” 

You nod, lips parting like you might say something—maybe to apologise again, maybe to change the subject—but nothing comes out. Your brain short-circuits. You feel warm all over. Too warm. 

Clark clears his throat. “Still trying to distract me?” 

“Yeah—” you reply, blinking fast. “Yes. Of course.” 

He gives you a lopsided smile—shy, but trying. “Then ask another question.” 

You hesitate, voice catching as your conscience flares to life. He seems almost normal now—still a little flushed, a little off—but mostly back to himself. Maybe his metabolism is quickly burning off the effects of the gas. Maybe he’s not feeling so compelled anymore. 

Maybe you should take advantage of this while you still can. 

No secrets. Just one question. The one that’s been burning a hole in your chest for years. 

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Have you ever been in love?” 

The second the words leave your mouth, you want to take them back. Clark stiffens—not in a sharp, startled way, but more like someone trying to hold back a shiver. 

“Yes,” he says, immediately—because he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. 

Your mouth goes dry. You want to ask who, but you’re not sure you could survive the answer. 

“What about you?” he asks. 

Your breath catches. “Me?” 

He nods. 

“I—I’m not the one in the hot seat right now, I—” 

“Is it Jimmy?” 

Your eyes go wide. “What?” 

“Are you in love with Jimmy?” he presses, brows pulling tight. 

You just stare at him, stunned, voice caught somewhere in your chest as your brain struggles to catch up. 

“It’s fine,” he says, gaze dropping to his lap. “I get it. You spend a lot of time with him. You’re always talking about him. He makes you laugh. Your pulse goes crazy whenever—” 

“Clark,” you cut in, sharper than you mean to be. “I’m not—what? No. I’m not in love with Jimmy.” 

Clark blinks at your denial like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like maybe he wants to—but can’t. 

“Wait,” you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes. “You said—my pulse. You listen to my pulse?” 

He tilts his head. “I can’t really help—” 

You frown. “I know you can hear it, Clark, but I’m asking if you actively listen to it.” 

“Yes,” he mutters—even though it’s obvious he didn’t want to say it. 

Your cheeks burn. “How often?” 

“I don’t know.” He shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Some—most of the time.” 

You blink. “What? So you just... tune in? Like I’m a podcast or something?” 

He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.” 

“No,” you fire back. “I’m not stopping. Because you just accused me of being in love with Jimmy fucking Olsen. And then you admitted you listen to my pulse like it’s your own personal metronome. And before—” You stop, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack a rib. “Before, you told me I looked good in your clothes. Clark, I’ve been wearing your clothes since college, and you’ve never said that to me.” 

He meets your stare—eyes wild, jaw tight, brows drawn. He looks like he’s on the verge of saying something he’s not sure he’s allowed to say. And maybe that’s exactly what you need him to do. 

“I know we’ve always been close, but—but working together—” Your voice shakes. “It’s different now. We’re too close. Something’s shifted, and I don’t know what. Yesterday in the printer room. Today in the archives. You’re acting weird. I’m acting weird. Everything is weird. And now, somehow, you think I’m in love with Jimmy?” 

“Your heart beats like crazy whenever he’s around,” he says, the words falling out fast, like he’s been holding them in for too long. “You—your whole body flushes. Your hands start trembling. I can see it, hear it, feel every reaction you have when he’s around and it—it—” He cuts himself off, raking a hand through his still-damp curls. 

You watch him for a beat—heart racing, skin burning. The silence stretches between you, taut and heavy. It feels like the same tension that clung to the air in the printer room. And in the archives. Palpable. Suffocating. 

“Jimmy?” you say softly. “Whenever I’m around... Jimmy?” 

He nods, stiff and careful. Like opening his mouth might let too much out again. 

You take a deep breath, shifting a little closer on the couch. “Then tell me, Clark…” Your voice drops, quieter now. “What am I feeling right now?” 

His eyes flit over your face, searching. You watch him track your expression, the set of your mouth, the line of your shoulders. Like he’s trying to solve you. Like he already knows—but doesn’t understand. 

“You’re... flushed,” he says first, voice low. “Your skin’s hot. Your pupils are huge. You’re... you’re breathing hard.” 

He swallows, brow furrowing in concentration. 

“You shifted closer, too. You do that when you’re comfortable, or—or trying to be comforting, but—” His gaze flickers downward. “Your hands are shaking.” 

You don’t answer. You just watch him. Let him keep going. 

“I can hear your pulse in your throat,” he says, eyes there now. “It jumped the second I started talking. And it hasn’t slowed down. Not even now.” 

He shifts, clearly flustered, and you swear his gaze flicks to your mouth before he catches himself and looks away—back to your lap, your hands, your shoulders. Anywhere but your eyes. 

“I—I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says finally, and he sounds so lost—so completely confused—you almost feel bad. “I know what your body’s doing, but I don’t know what it means.” 

You blink at him. “You really don’t?” 

He exhales, voice dropping low. “I don’t want to get it wrong.” 

That’s it. That’s all it takes for your last thread of patience to snap. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—your whole body humming, trembling—and still, he just sits there blinking at you like he’s never once considered the most obvious thing in the world. 

“God,” you mutter, pushing to your feet with a frustrated huff. “Clark—it’s you. It’s not Jimmy, it’s not even Superman. It’s you. I react like this around you.” 

His eyes widen—just slightly. He blinks up at you—once, twice—like his brain is buffering, trying to reboot. 

You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “I cannot believe after all these years, you’ve only just figured it out. And you thought it was because of Jimmy?” You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut to keep the emotion from spilling over. “I thought you fucking knew.” 

“You thought I knew?” he asks, his voice low, rough—a little wrecked. 

You look at him again, expression tight. “Yes, Clark. I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious—because every time you look at me, my heart races and my whole body gets hot and—Jesus Christ. It doesn’t even matter, okay? You’re you, and I’m me, and none of this makes sense, so just forget it.” 

You move past him—but his hand catches yours before you can get too far. It’s gentle, but there’s tension in it. 

You freeze. 

“Wait,” he breathes. “Please.” 

You take a breath—but before you can fully turn around, he tugs. Hard. 

Suddenly you’re off balance—caught, pulled, guided down into his lap like gravity made the decision for you. Your knees hit the couch on either side of his thighs, your hands braced against his chest, and the space between you disappears. 

Your breath catches. His does too. 

You’re so close you can feel the shape of his next exhale against your lips. His hands hover at your waist like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you. 

“I’m not lying,” he says quietly, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing that matters. “I mean—I can’t. I just… I never thought you could feel that way about me. Never even considered it. Not after all these years. Not until thirty seconds ago when you told me—because I’m an idiot.” 

For a moment, he just stares at you—like he can’t quite believe that you’re real. That you’re here, straddling his lap, flushed and breathless and saying all the things he never let himself hope to hear. 

And then— 

He grins. 

Not the awkward, bashful one you’ve seen a hundred times before. Not the polite press of lips he gives strangers on the street or the sheepish half-smile he shoots you across the bullpen when you catch him watching you. 

This one is brighter. Slower. Wider. It blooms across his face like a sunrise—like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time and can’t quite handle it. His eyes crinkle at the corners, blue as heaven, and the dimples in cheeks deepen in a way that makes your stomach flip. It’s the kind of smile that punches you in the gut. The kind that says you are everything. 

It steals the breath from your lungs. 

You don’t even realise you’re leaning in until his hands finally cradle your waist—steady, warm, reverent. 

“Can I—?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. 

But you’re already nodding. Already closing the gap. 

And then he kisses you. 

It starts soft—tentative, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. But it only takes a second for instinct to take over. His hands slide down to your hips, pulling you in closer, tighter. His mouth moves with yours like he’s learning, adjusting, finding his confidence with every brush of lips, every quiet breath shared between you. 

You feel him exhale through his nose—shaky, relieved—like he’s never been this close to peace before. Then his hands glide up your sides and back down again, broad and warm and possessive. The kiss deepens. The tension that’s been wound tight between you for years finally begins to unravel. 

His tongue flicks against your bottom lip, and you open for him without hesitation. A soft moan breaks from you—and a ragged one answers from him. He kisses you harder, needier. His fingers flex at your hips, anchoring you, dragging you impossibly closer. 

“I used to dream about this,” he breathes against your mouth. “Every night. You. This. Just… you.” 

You whimper—actually whimper—and grind down against him before you can stop yourself, chasing the pressure, his voice, his hands, him. 

He groans—loud and helpless—his grip tightening until you gasp. 

He pulls back, just barely, his lips parted and kiss-bruised. His eyes scan yours like he’s checking for damage, guilt flooding in. 

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, breath hot against your cheek. “I didn’t mean to—” 

“Clark.” You cup his jaw. “Tell me what you want.” 

He stills beneath you, swallowing hard. 

Your voice drops. “The truth. Say it.” 

His breath catches—your thighs tight around him, your chest rising and falling against his. His fingers dig in again. 

“I want…” His voice cracks. “I want you to stay right here. I want to kiss you. I want to feel you—all of you. I want you to keep grinding on me just like—” 

You do—grinding down, slow and precise. 

He groans—chokes on it—his head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. “Gosh.” 

You lean in, lips brushing the line of his jaw. “What else?” 

“I want to touch you,” he breathes, helpless. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want—” 

You press your hips down again. 

“Please,” he whispers. 

“Tell me.” 

He looks at you—eyes blown wide, voice nothing but want. “I want to fuck you.” 

You gasp, your mouth falling open in stunned silence. 

Clark Kent just said a bad word. 

Your brain stalls. It short-circuits. You blink down at him, lips parted, heartbeat pounding somewhere in your throat. In all your years of friendship, you’ve never heard him swear. You’ve barely heard him curse—maybe the odd Jesus Christ or damn it—but a full-on fuck just fell from those perfect, full lips. 

“Did you just say… fuck?” 

His cheeks turn pink—he actually blushes—and he ducks his head with a low groan, hiding his face against your neck like he might disappear into your skin. You feel the grin spreading slowly across your throat before his lips press there—soft and reverent, trailing heat as he speaks again. 

“I—” He lets out a breathless, choked laugh. “I can’t lie right now. It’s not fair.” 

You bite back a grin, drunk on the heat of him. “Are you accusing me of taking advantage of you, Kent?” 

His mouth finds your neck again—slow and sure, like a secret—and he hums against your skin. “You’re absolutely taking advantage.” 

You laugh—quiet and shaky—and curl your fingers into his hair, gently tugging until he looks up at you again. His eyes are blown wide, dark with need, but still soft around the edges—Clark, always Clark. 

And you love him for it. 

You want him for it. 

You need him. 

“Come on, then,” you murmur, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Show me what you’ve been holding back, farm boy.” 

His breath catches. His hands tighten at your hips. 

“You sure?” 

You barely have time to answer before his hands slip lower—and then he’s moving. Effortless. Strong. He rises to his feet with you in his arms like it’s nothing, like you weigh nothing at all. 

You yelp, startled, arms flying around his shoulders. “Clark!” 

He grins again—that Clark Kent grin—bright and wide and unfairly charming, even with kiss-swollen lips and pupils so blown you can barely see the blue. “I thought you liked being carried by Superman.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Do not start.” 

His smile only widens as he carries you toward his bedroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What? I think it’s cute that you have a crush.” 

Your mouth drops open in mock outrage. “I told you that was a joke.” 

“Oh, come on.” He’s laughing now—full and warm—and you hate how much you love it. “What was it you said? That he could break your back and you’d say thank you?” 

You slap his shoulder. “I cannot believe you’re bringing that up right now.” 

He just shrugs, eyes sparkling. “You said it. In front of several witnesses.” 

“You’re the worst.” 

“And you,” he murmurs, voice dipping low as he nudges the bedroom door open with one foot, “have been in love with me this whole time.” 

You open your mouth, but no words come out. He’s still grinning—but it softens the second he lays you down, slow and careful, like you’re something priceless. Then he settles between your legs. 

Your breath catches at the sight of him. On top of you. And then— 

“Favourite colour?” you blurt, just to feel steady again—just to see if he still can’t lie. 

He blinks. “Blue.” 

“First thing you ever noticed about me?” 

“Your laugh.” 

“What’s your biggest fantasy?” 

He groans. “You. In this bed. Right now. Can you—can you not?” 

You smirk. “Ever jerk off thinking about me?” 

He flushes scarlet. “Yes. Obviously.” 

“Say something filthy.” 

He makes a strangled sound, then mutters, “I want to come with your thighs around my head.” 

You blink, stunned—and a little breathless. 

He groans again and buries his face in your neck. “Stop taking advantage of me,” he mumbles against your skin. 

You laugh—helpless, delighted. “I literally can’t. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” 

His mouth finds the curve of your throat again—hot, open-mouthed, worshipful—and his hands tighten where they’re splayed across your hips. The teasing slips, melts away, becomes something quieter. Something serious. 

“I mean it,” he whispers, lifting his head, his gaze burning into yours. “I want you. Not just right now. I want you. Forever.” 

The words hang in the air between you, soft and searing, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him—this man, this impossibly good man—whose weight is pressed heavy and solid between your thighs like he belongs there. 

Because he does. He always has. 

Your fingers slide up his neck, into his hair, pulling him down again until his mouth finds yours—hot and slow, like he means to burn the shape of it into his memory. His body moves with yours, a slow, rolling grind of heat and muscle and want. There’s no rush in it. Just need. 

He kisses you like he’s waited a lifetime. Like he’s going to spend the rest of it making up for lost time. 

When he breaks away, it’s only to press his lips to your cheek, your jaw, the hinge of it, then lower—trailing kisses to your throat like he’s tasting every inch, like he’s been starving for it. For you. 

“I used to lie right here and imagine this,” he breathes, voice cracked and close, hot against your skin. “You. Under me. Wanting me.” 

You gasp when his teeth graze your pulse, when he suckles gently at the spot. Then he soothes it with his tongue and lifts his head—eyes dark, full of heat and something more dangerous now. Something utterly undone. 

“I have to get you ready for me,” he says softly, almost apologetic—but his hands are already moving, slow and sure, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Your breath stutters. Your thighs squeeze tighter around his hips. 

God, Clark Kent is going to ruin you. 

“Take your time,” you whisper, voice barely there. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

He smiles—something small, crooked, adoring. And then he leans down, kissing you again, deeper this time, while his hands begin to explore. 

He pushes your shirt up inch by inch, his palms dragging over your ribs, your sides—careful and reverent, like he’s learning, memorising, all of it. Like this is something sacred. His breath hitches when he bares your chest—and the lacy, nothing bra you’re wearing—and for a second he just stares, like he just can't believe you’re real. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Gosh, you’re—” 

You pull him back down to kiss you, fingers fisting in his hair, and he moans into your mouth as your hips rock up, seeking friction. His hands bracket your ribs, firm and warm, steadying you—grounding you—and when he pulls back again, it’s just far enough to press his lips to the centre of your chest. 

“I want to make you feel so good,” he says, kissing lower. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want to watch your face when you come.” 

You shudder, eyes fluttering closed. 

“And I want—” He kisses your sternum. “To take my time.” Another kiss, lower. “So slow you beg.” One more, right above the waistband of your underwear. “So deep you scream.” 

You gasp, your whole body arching up into his mouth—and he smiles against your skin, sweet and filthy and so, so in love it makes your head spin. 

One of his hands slides under your thigh, lifting it gently, while the other tugs your shorts—his shorts—and panties down with aching care. He kisses the inside of your knee. Then the top of your thigh. Then a little higher. 

You can barely breathe. 

When he finally settles between your legs, he looks up—blue eyes blown dark but still so brilliantly, impossibly Clark—and the heat in them nearly knocks the wind out of you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. The only thing he’s ever needed. 

“Okay?” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low. 

You nod—frantic. “Yes. God, yes.” 

And then he lowers his mouth to you. 

You cry out, fingers flying to his hair, hips jerking before you can stop yourself. His tongue moves slow at first, like he’s savouring the taste, mapping you out, learning every reaction. You feel his groan vibrate against you—feel the subtle roll of his hips into the mattress, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. 

Holy shit. 

Clark Kent is between your legs. Clark Kent is making you feel like this. You can barely comprehend it. You’d laugh if you weren’t already half-shaking. 

He hums again when you tug at his hair. His hands tighten on your hips like he’s grounding himself, like he needs you to stay still so he doesn’t lose control. You can feel it now—just beneath the surface—something wild and aching in him, restrained only by the thinnest, fraying thread. 

And when you look down again, his eyes are still on you—bright blue, locked with yours, so full of hunger and wonder and want that you can’t breathe around it. 

“Clark,” you whisper, almost a prayer. 

His eyes flutter shut. He groans into you like the sound of his name on your lips might be his ultimate undoing. 

And then he starts to really eat. 

There’s no other word for it—he devours you. All soft lips and filthy tongue and low, guttural sounds that vibrate straight through you. His hands are everywhere—steadying you, spreading you open, holding you down like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

You feel like you might pass out. Like your whole body has been waiting years for this—desperate, unsatisfied, quietly starving—and suddenly it’s too much. He’s too much. Too strong, too good, too fucking Clark. 

You’re gasping his name on a loop, tugging at his hair, barely holding on—and then you feel it—the sharp, sudden snap of your bra giving way. 

You startle. “Did you—?” 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters against your cunt, voice rough with need. “I’ll buy you a new one.” 

And then he’s back at it, moaning into you like he needs this more than the goddamn sun. Like he might die without it. 

Your head tips back, a choked sound leaving your throat. You’ve pictured this. A thousand times. In a hundred different ways. But your imagination was subpar at best—because nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared you for the reality of Clark Kent between your legs. 

Those bright blue eyes flicker up at you—needy, glassy, reverent—and the second your gaze locks, he groans again, fucking into you with his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you. The sight of him like this—desperate and devout—makes you shudder. 

And then he gives you more. 

One of those impossibly large hands curves up over your chest, thumb brushing your nipple, and the other slides between your legs—slow and careful, but sure. His fingers are thick, coaxing, stretching you open with gentle precision, and the pressure of them alongside his tongue makes you keen, hips lifting helplessly into the rhythm he sets. 

“You feel…” he breaks off, voice muffled against you, breath ragged. “You feel so good. You’re so perfect.” 

You can barely think. His mouth is relentless, his fingers maddening, and he’s everywhere—too much and not enough all at once. He groans again, this time deeper, more desperate, like he’s unravelling by the second. 

“You’re so tight, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the words slipping out like he couldn’t stop them if he tried. “I need you to be ready for me. I—I’m trying to take my time, I swear—” 

He’s losing it. You can feel it in the way his hand tightens on your breast, in the way his hips grind slowly down against the mattress, seeking friction. Superman, falling apart. Big, strong, godlike Clark Kent on his knees for you, coming more and more undone with every breathless moan you make. 

You thread your fingers through his dark curls, tugging, trembling. “Clark—oh, fuck—please—” 

“I’ve got you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “I’ve got you. Just let go for me.” 

And with his fingers curling just right, his mouth wet and hot and hungry, you do. 

You come with a gasp and a full-body jolt, your hands in his hair, your thighs clamped around his head—but Clark doesn’t stop. Not even a little. His tongue keeps moving, slow and thick and dizzying, and his fingers never falter. You're writhing under him, trembling, oversensitive—but he’s got you. One hand bruises into your hip, fingers curling, holding you down like you weigh nothing at all, and his other forearm braces across your pelvis, anchoring you to the mattress as your body bucks helplessly against his mouth. 

“Clark—please—” you gasp, too gone to string anything else together. 

He’s whimpering into you now, low and desperate, hips grinding down against the bed like he needs something—anything—to keep from falling apart completely. 

“Gotta get you ready,” he mumbles, voice deep, breath hot against you. “Need you open for me. You taste so good, sweetheart—so good—” 

Another breathless moan spills from your throat. You’re shaking under him, thighs trembling, vision going a little white around the edges—but his mouth is still on you, relentless, adoring, starved. 

You twist a fist in his hair and pull—hard—and he groans at the sting, finally lifting his head. 

“Clark.” Your voice breaks—your whole body is flushed and ruined, but still you want more. “You said you wanted to fuck me.” 

His eyes flicker—wide and dark and frantic. 

“So fuck me.” You tug again, urging his face up toward yours. “I’m begging you. Fuck me.” 

His restraint snaps with a full-body shudder, and suddenly he’s surging up over you, mouth crashing into yours, and it’s wild. Nothing soft about it. It’s teeth and tongue and groaning, desperate need, like he’s been holding this back for as long as he could—and now there’s no going slow. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you—barely—but his hands are already moving. You can see them tremble as he pushes his sweats down his hips and kicks them off, like he’s barely holding on to enough control to get undressed. You glance down and instantly gasp. 

“Oh my God.” 

He chokes on a laugh—flustered, flushed scarlet—but it doesn’t slow him down. His chest heaves as he settles between your thighs again, mouth brushing yours with a shaky sort of reverence. 

“You—you okay?” 

“Take your shirt off,” you whisper, dizzy with need. “Please.” 

He fumbles it over his head, tossing it aside in one swift movement—and you’re left blinking up at him, dazed and desperate, with nothing but his bare skin and broad chest and huge arms above you. He’s gorgeous. Flushed and beautiful and too damn much, and he’s yours. 

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, a little breathless. 

“You’re massive.” 

His breath stutters at that, and he grins—but it’s helpless, strained, the kind of grin that says he’s one second from losing all control. “Yeah, I—should’ve warned you.” 

“You kind of did,” you murmur, legs wrapping around his waist. “You said you had to get me ready for you.” 

“I did.” His voice drops to a rasp as the head of his cock drags against your slick. “You feel—gosh, you feel like a dream.” 

You blink. “Gosh?” 

He groans, forehead dropping softly against yours. “Sorry. I’m—” 

“Say it dirtier, Clark.” 

“What?” 

You grin, wild and breathless. “Come on. Tell me something filthy. I know you can do it. Just let go.” 

He hesitates, clearly fighting every instinct in his wholesome Kansas-raised body—but then he curses under his breath and mutters, “You’re so fucking tight, I’m gonna lose my mind. I want to fuck you so deep you forget your own name.” 

Your breath catches. “See?” you whisper. “That’s more like it.” 

“I blacked out a little,” he mutters, still flustered. 

“Say something else,” you breathe. 

He groans again—almost a whine—his whole body practically trembling with restraint. “You’ve tortured me for years. Every time you smiled at me. Every time you touched me. Every time you fell asleep on my shoulder—I wanted this. You. All of you.” 

And then he’s reaching between you, holding himself against your entrance with shaking fingers. You both gasp when the tip pushes in—just that—and it’s already too much. 

“Oh my God,” you whisper again, clinging to his shoulders, the stretch impossibly intense even before he’s really in. “You’re not gonna fit.” 

“I—I can stop—” 

“No.” You’re shaking your head, eyes wide. “Don’t you dare. I want you. I want all of you.” 

He lets out a soft, strangled moan, almost losing it then and there. “I’ll go slow. Just—just breathe.” 

And then he starts to push in. Inch by slow, burning inch. His hands firm where they cradle your hips, his breath ragged against your cheek as your body tries to take him—tries to stretch around something impossibly thick, impossibly deep, impossibly Clark. Because of course this gorgeous, sweet nerd has an enormous cock. 

You keen, nails digging into his back. “Jesus Christ—” 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he pants, voice cracking. “Tell me to stop and I will. Just—ugh, you feel so good. So perfect. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You’re not,” you whisper, eyes glassy. “You’re ruining me, but you’re not hurting me.” 

He lets out a shuddering groan and kisses you—soft and aching and full of so much love you could cry. “I don’t want to ruin you.” 

“Too late.” 

You both laugh—helpless, breathless—and then he slides in just that little bit deeper, and the sound turns to a moan. You’re gasping, trembling, stuffed full, but you don’t want him to stop. Not for anything. 

He kisses you through it—your mouth, your jaw, your throat—whispering apologies between every shuddering breath. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to worship it, like he’s trying to ground himself in the feel of your skin, your warmth, your everything. One hand splays across your ribs, thumb brushing the curve of your breast, the other grips your thigh, gently coaxing you open as he sinks deeper. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, wrecked. “You feel so good, I can’t—I’m trying—gosh, I’m trying—” 

You can tell. Every inch he gives you is slow, reverent, but barely leashed—like his self-control is hanging by a thread and the only thing keeping it intact is you, trembling beneath him, arms locked around his neck, whispering please into the shell of his ear. 

His nose nuzzles your cheek, your temple, his breath hot and uneven. “Tell me if I hurt you.” 

“You’re not,” you gasp, even as you clench around him, every muscle taut and trembling. “You’re perfect. Just—just keep going.” 

He kisses you again, deeper this time, a soft groan rising from his chest as he finally presses all the way in. 

Your body tries to adjust around him, stretched and aching and overwhelmed, but all you can feel is him. Every solid inch. Every trembling breath. Every whisper of your name like a prayer. And then—he stills. 

Buried to the hilt. Inside you. 

Clark Kent, inside you. 

You can feel his heartbeat against your chest. Feel him shaking, still trying not to move. 

And then, in the quiet between two shared, ragged breaths, you realise—he’s crying. 

Just a little. Just barely. But it’s there, glittering at the corners of his impossibly blue eyes as he looks down at you like you’re something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch. 

“I love you,” he breathes. “I’ve always loved you.” 

Your heart cracks open at the sight of him—this incredibly strong, impossibly good man trembling above you, full to bursting with love. You reach up, fingers brushing the corner of his eye, wiping the tear before it can fall. 

“Clark,” you whisper, your own vision blurring. “I love you too.” 

His breath hitches again, and for a second it feels like the whole world stills—just the two of you, wrapped in each other, like everything is finally aligned. 

You cradle his face in your hands and press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Then another. Then you press your forehead against his and whisper, “Now fuck me like you promised, Kent.” 

His eyes flutter closed, and a groan tears from his chest. 

“I can take it,” you murmur, arching into him, your body already pulsing around the impossible stretch of him. “You’re not going to hurt me, so stop holding back.” 

He pulls back just far enough to look at you, gaze wild and reverent all at once. “You—you’re sure?” 

You nod, fingers threading through his hair, grinning now. “Fuck me.” 

And just like that, whatever thread of control he was clinging to snaps. 

He moves—finally, fully—and the sound he makes is feral, low and broken in the back of his throat. His hips snap forward once, then again, rough and barely restrained, and your whole body jolts beneath the force of it. He’s huge, maddeningly deep, the stretch still toeing the edge of unbearable—but you don’t want him to stop. You want more. 

You rake your nails down his back, gasping as he fucks you with slow, jolting thrusts, like each one is him trying not to break—but the way his breath catches says he’s not going to last much longer. He’s flushed and wrecked and shaking, sweat collecting at his temples, strands of dark hair clinging to his forehead. 

And he’s so fucking pretty. 

That face—those big, blue eyes gone half-lidded and dazed, those kiss-bruised lips parted with every gasping moan he tries to bury in your neck. The muscles of his back flex beneath your hands, corded with tension. His shoulders shake. His grip bruises—literally—where he holds you. 

He’s trying. Trying so hard to be careful. 

But you don’t want careful. 

“Clark,” you gasp—and his head lifts instantly, eyes locking with yours like he needs you to ground him, to steady him, to keep him from flying apart. 

Your hands slide down his chest, nails dragging lightly over sweat-slicked muscle, and the sound he makes is barely human. The stretch still burns—you’re trembling, gasping—but you love it. You love him. You dig your heels into the backs of his thighs, pull him deeper. But it’s still not enough. 

You lean up, mouth brushing his ear. 

“Stop being careful,” you whisper. “Stop pretending you haven’t been dying to fuck me since the day we met.” 

That’s all it takes. 

He shudders—like the breath has been ripped from his lungs—and then he really snaps. Gone. Whatever shred of control he had left disintegrates, and he drives into you like it’s instinct, like it’s prayer, like he’s been holding this back for too long and can’t any longer. 

“Sweetheart—” he chokes, forehead falling to yours as his hips pound into you, rough now, relentless. “You have no idea. I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—for so long I thought I might lose my mind.” 

His voice is thick, shaking. And his hands don’t stop moving—sliding up your ribs, cradling your breast, gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks like he still can’t believe this is real. 

And all you can do is take it. Take him. Let him love you like this—with every shattered breath, every desperate thrust, every reverent inch of him finally, finally letting go. 

He’s everywhere. Surrounding you, filling you, pressing you so deep into the mattress you don’t know where you end and he begins. 

His mouth finds yours again—hungry, open, all tongue and teeth and need—but there’s nothing rushed about the way he kisses you. Even now, even like this, he still tastes you like you’re precious. Like you’re some kind of miracle. 

And he won’t stop touching you. His hands roam your body like they’re mapping it, like he’s waited a thousand lifetimes to commit every inch to memory. One cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until your whole body arches into him. The other drifts down your side, over your thigh, then back up again, everywhere at once, like he can’t bear not to be touching you. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low, wrecked—soaked in worship and disbelief. “You always have been.” 

He thrusts deep, a little slower, and your breath catches. His name tumbles from your lips again, desperate. 

“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he confesses, hips rocking into you with aching precision. “But nothing… nothing ever came close to this. You—” he groans, kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat “—you feel like heaven.” 

You cling to him, your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs wrapped around his hips. “Clark,” you breathe. “You’re gonna make me—” 

“I know,” he whispers, kissing the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. “Me too. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.” 

And then he changes the angle—just barely, just enough—and you both feel it. You cry out, clutching at him as your whole body starts to shake. His rhythm falters for a second, stutters with the force of how much he’s holding back. 

“I—I’m not gonna last,” he pants, burying his face in your neck. “You feel too good. You feel too good.” 

“Don’t,” you whisper, heart pounding. “Don’t hold back.” 

He lifts his head to look at you—his face so full of love it hurts—and then he kisses you like he’s saying goodbye to every year he had to pretend that he didn’t want this. That he didn’t want you. 

And then he starts to move again—harder, rougher, deeper—and the heat builds sharp and fast, curling low in your belly as the whole world narrows to him. His body. His mouth. His voice rasping your name like it’s a holy thing. 

You’re close. So is he. And you can both feel it. 

But then he shifts—sits up on his knees, never slipping out of you—and the new angle punches a gasp from your throat, your back arching hard against the mattress. 

“Clark—” 

His hands find your waist, and his breath catches. For a second, he just stares—like he’s not sure he’s seeing right. Then one of his palms flattens against your lower belly, fingers trembling. 

He can see himself—a thick, impossible bulge stretching you from the inside out. 

“F—fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, voice wrecked, “I—I didn’t think…” He trails off, too far gone to finish. Too undone by the sight of what he’s doing to you. 

The thrusts are deeper now, angled just right, and every drag of him against your walls you makes your vision go white. You’re a mess beneath him—head thrown back, hands tangled in your hair, then palming at your own breasts, too overwhelmed to know what to do with yourself. 

And he’s watching all of it. 

“You’re gonna break me,” you gasp, almost sobbing on a moan. “You’re gonna—Clark, I can’t—” 

“Yes, you can,” he pants, dragging his thumb over your nipple, thrusting harder, faster, like he’s chasing something just out of reach. “You’re perfect. You’re so perfect—look at you—look at you.” 

Your body starts to lock up, the orgasm barrelling toward you like it’s being pulled from your soul. You try to fight it—try to hold on for him—but he hits that perfect spot again and it breaks you. 

You shatter around him with a scream, legs shaking, fingers digging into your thighs to ground yourself, and he feels it. Feels the way your body clamps around him, fluttering and pulsing, and it sends him reeling. 

His thrusts lose rhythm. His hands clamp down hard—one gripping your hip, the other braced behind him—and he’s trying to hold back, trying so hard. 

You force your eyes open just in time to see it happen. 

His mouth falls open. A breathless moan rips from his chest. And his eyes—his bright blue eyes flare molten red for a half-second before he squeezes them shut and throws his head back, like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he keeps looking at you. 

A raw, animal sound tears out of him as he comes—deep inside you, again and again, his whole body shaking with it. 

He’s trying not to break the bed. Trying not to break you. 

And the heat of it—him, all of him—it feels endless. 

Then finally, he stills. 

You don’t know how long the silence lasts. 

Long enough for your pulse to slow, your body to stop trembling, for your senses to crawl their way back into place—though you still feel wrecked, in the best possible way. 

Clark leans over you, his body a trembling wall of heat. His arms are braced on either side of your head, eyes still squeezed shut, and his jaw is slack, like he’s still riding the aftershocks. 

Then he exhales a shaky breath, nuzzles into your cheek, and whispers, “Are you okay?” 

You hum, blinking up at him. “I think I saw God.” 

That makes him laugh—soft, breathless, a little stunned. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “I was trying really hard not to… you know. Lose control. Burn a hole through the ceiling.” 

You smile, boneless and glowing beneath him. “I think you did great.” 

He kisses you again, then slowly, carefully, pulls out—and you both gasp. The stretch, the ache, the sudden emptiness—it makes your hips jolt, your fingers curl, and Clark wince in concern. 

“Sorry—sorry—” he breathes, already reaching to cradle your waist, pulling you gently into his arms. He shifts you both onto your sides, wrapping around you protectively, like he’s trying to shield you from the whole world. 

You melt into him, sighing as your limbs tangle together, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand stroking lazy circles over your belly. 

After a minute, he presses a soft kiss behind your ear. “I think the gas has worn off,” he says quietly. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I mean—” he trails off, then grins against your skin. “I still want to say filthy things, but I'm not being compelled to.” 

You giggle, turning in his arms to face him. His cheeks are flushed pink, his hair a mess, his blue eyes so soft you could cry. Again. 

“You’d say them anyway?” you tease. 

He brushes your hair back from your face, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “If you asked nicely.” 

You pretend to consider it. “What if I get on my knees and beg?” 

A groan vibrates in his chest. “You're a dangerous woman,” he murmurs. “I’m in so much trouble.” 

You lean in and kiss him—slow and lingering, tasting the smile he can’t seem to get rid of. And then you whisper against his mouth, “I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.” 

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes wide, like he still can't believe what you’re saying. 

He cups your face, forehead resting against yours, and whispers, “Good. Because I’ve been in love with you for years.” 

You blink up at him, smiling. “Years?” 

“I told you,” he breathes. “You’ve been torturing me.” 

You kiss him again, a little giddy now, your whole body aching and your heart so full it might burst. 

And then, nestled against him, sleep starts to pull at you, but you fight it long enough to mumble, “Clark?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Do you think it’s too late for pancakes?” 

He chuckles softly, tugging you closer. “You really are perfect.” 

- 

You spend the entire weekend at Clark’s apartment. Mostly in his bed—sometimes on the couch, or the kitchen counter, or in the shower. And once in the hallway, because you simply couldn’t make it any further without having him inside you. 

By Sunday night, you finally tear yourself away—because you know you can’t show up to work Monday morning wearing a pair of his old boxers and a threadbare Metropolis U shirt. 

You make it exactly twelve minutes at home, by yourself, before you’re packing a bag and heading right back to his place—relieved to find he’s just as desperate to have you back in his arms. 

On Monday morning, you both wake up with every intention of being on time for work—but it doesn’t quite happen. Because when Clark steps out of the shower, fresh and steamy and completely naked, you can’t help yourself. And you’re starting to realise that he has a very hard time resisting you too. 

So, after yet another mind-blowing, back-breaking orgasm, you both finally force yourselves to get dressed and head into the office. 

“They’re going to know,” Clark mutters as the elevator doors slide shut. 

There’s only one other person inside—an intern whose name you’ve forgotten. 

You glance up at him. “How will they know?” 

His lips twitch. “Well, for one, you’re limping.” 

You bite your cheek to keep from grinning. “I can’t help that. Blame your Kryptonian physiology.” 

“Now you’re blushing,” he murmurs, voice low enough for only you to hear. “Your heart’s racing. Your pupils are blown.” His eyes flicker down. “Your hands are trembling, and you’re—oh.” 

His breath hitches slightly. You’re not sure if he can see it, feel it, maybe even smell it—but he knows. He knows exactly what you’re feeling right now. And if this poor intern weren’t in here, you’d probably both be halfway to naked already. 

Your eyes lock—those ridiculous glasses framing that stupidly gorgeous face, blue eyes dark with want—and the moment stretches taut between you. You’re staring so hard, so heavy, that the soft ding of the elevator startles you. 

Clark chuckles, stepping aside to let you exit first. 

You try not to limp through the newsroom—but it’s hard. Your thighs are shaking. Everything aches. And you can feel every single bruise his mouth and hands seared into your skin. 

“Well, well, well,” Jimmy says, scooting back from his desk with that stupidly wide grin. “Look who finally decided to show up—together.” 

You roll your eyes. “We live in the same neighbourhood.” 

Jimmy snorts. “Right. And I’m Superman.” 

Clark coughs into his fist, clearly trying not to laugh. You shoot him a warning glance. 

“I’m serious,” you add, dropping your bag beside your desk. “Same subway line. Total coincidence.” 

“Mmhmm.” Jimmy swivels to follow your path, eyes tracking you like a hawk. “And the coincidence wore off on both your faces.” 

You frown. “What does that even mean?” 

You wince as your ass hits the chair—too fast, too sore. You try to cover it with a cough, but it’s too late. Clark is biting back a smile, and Jimmy’s eyebrows are practically in his hairline. 

“You’re blushing,” he says. “Kent is glowing. And unless my hearing’s gone, you just whimpered when you sat down.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Please tell me I don’t have to pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

“You didn’t hear anything,” you mutter, shifting awkwardly in your seat. 

He’s about to respond when he pauses—squinting at something. His grin widens, eyes locking on to something near the collar of your shirt. 

“Oh my God. Is—is that a hickey?” 

You slap a hand over your neck. “No.” 

Clark chokes on nothing. 

“It is!” Jimmy exclaims, jumping up from his chair to get a better look. 

“No,” you say again, firmer. “It isn’t. It—it’s a burn. I burnt myself.” 

Cat pops up from her desk, squinting. “Looks like a hickey to me.” 

Lois spins around in her chair, smirking, arms crossed. “You burnt your neck?” 

“It happens,” you mutter, fumbling for your phone to check the damage. 

Clark gives you a helpless look over the top of his glasses, mouth twitching with a suppressed smile, cheeks red. And if he didn’t look so goddamn cute, you’d probably hurl a pen at him for leaving a mark so high. 

“You’re seriously denying this?” Jimmy asks. 

“I’m not denying anything,” you say. “I don’t have to deny it, because it isn’t anything. It’s just a bruise.” 

Lois tilts her head. “You mean burn?” 

“Yes—burn,” you say quickly. “Whatever. It’s still nothing. Now can we please—” 

“Kent!” Perry’s voice booms across the bullpen. “My office. Two minutes. Bring your notepad.” 

Clark nods once and scrambles to grab a pen and paper. Jimmy sighs—giving up for now—and collapses back into his chair. Cat drops down at her desk. Lois flicks her gaze from you to Clark, then slowly spins back around. 

You sink lower into your chair as your monitor wakes up. You can see Clark collecting his things, tucking in his chair. He starts toward Perry’s office—then stops beside right your desk, and leans in. 

You glance up just in time to catch the soft smile on his pretty mouth, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. Then he reaches out—one hand gently cupping the back of your head—and presses a kiss to the top of your forehead. 

It’s so sweet, so simple, it makes your chest ache. You almost—almost—forget where you are. 

Until— 

“I knew it!” Jimmy shouts. 

Cat’s head pops up again. Lois spins around. Even Steve cranes his neck from across the bullpen. 

“I was right,” Jimmy goes on triumphantly. “You two finally boned!” 

“Olsen!” Perry shouts. “Watch your language.” 

“Sorry, Chief,” Jimmy says—though still grinning like the smug little shit he is. 

Your face burns as the bullpen erupts around you—laughter, gasps, even a slow clap from Steve. You sink deeper into your chair, wishing it would swallow you whole. And Clark—that traitor—just gives a soft chuckle, his shoulders shaking as he walks off toward Perry’s office, not even trying to hide the smug little smirk on his face. 

You glare daggers into his back. He doesn’t turn around, but you swear he knows—you can feel it in the satisfied roll of his stride. 

“I knew it,” Jimmy says again, practically vibrating with glee. “I called this weeks ago. Honestly, I feel vindicated.” 

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Jimmy, please.” 

“I’m just saying!” he says, unrepentant. “You two have been doing the will-they-won’t-they tango since the Reagan administration. It was painful.” 

You peek at him through your fingers. “You're being dramatic.” 

“You weren’t even alive during the Reagan administration,” Lois states dryly. 

“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “It’s been that long.” 

You drop your hands, lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re impossible.” 

He shrugs. “It’s a gift. Besides, I had a bet going with Cat, and this definitely means I win.” 

“You didn’t win,” Cat calls. “You bet that we’d catch them making out in the office, and that was a forehead kiss.” 

You groan again. “You’re the worst.” 

“And yet,” Jimmy leans forward, cocking a brow, “I’m still your favourite.” 

You open your mouth to argue—but hesitate. 

His grin softens. “Seriously, though? I'm happy for you. Both of you.” 

You blink. 

“Clark’s a good guy, and you…” He nods at you meaningfully. “You deserve someone who looks at you like he does.” 

Your throat goes tight, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. You swallow. 

“Thanks, Jimmy.” 

He gives you a mock salute, then leans back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “Superman’s gonna be crushed, though. His favourite civilian, officially off the market.” 

You snort. “I think he’ll survive.” 

“Will he?” Jimmy muses, hands clasped behind his head, feet up on the desk. “I don’t know. He always seemed very invested in your wellbeing.” 

You shake your head, cheeks still pink as you turn back to your monitor, heart thudding a little too fast in your chest. 

Across the bullpen, just before Perry’s office door swings shut, Clark glances back at you. 

And smiles. 

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[perfectprettypisces]

the most fun a girl can have is finding parallels, noticing patterns, making connections, contemplating

[perfectprettypisces]

𝗠𝘆 𝗡𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝗯𝗼𝘂𝗿 wa𝘀 𝗮 𝗣𝗼𝗿𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿 [ 4 ]

Pairings: PornStar!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Themes: Game of Cat and Mouse. Bucky just being a fucking DREAM MAN. SWOONworthy? Summary: A simple dance was all he asked for. Admitting you wanted his kiss was another story. A/N: I have had 3 versions of part 4 that I wasn't satisfied with and FINALLY, I went in this direction. This is not proof read so if there are inconsistencies or minor mistakes, it's because. . . it's not proof read lmao. I am sorry about the ending lol. We're getting there I promise.

You were mid-sip of your iced coffee (a crime in itself because it was almost ten o’clock at night) when your phone buzzed with a message from Bucky Barnes, Professional Fluster Inducer and Questionably Too Hot for Your Emotional Stability.

Bucky: Do you have anything formal? Like an evening gown? For a company party?

Bucky: I know I said just you and me but. . .I want to bring you as my date.

You blinked.

Sat up straighter. Nearly choked.

Formal?

Evening gown?

Was he asking you to prom? Did you accidentally sign up for a Bridgerton spin-off and not know it? You stared at your closet from your spot on the bed, as though the dusty IKEA doors would magically part like the Red Sea and reveal some kind of elegant, floor-length miracle.

Spoiler: they did not.

You climbed off the bed with your phone in one hand and flung your closet open with the kind of optimism usually reserved for people who say things like "it'll be a quick trip to IKEA." The result? A tragic, horrifying display of jersey knits, three identical black dresses you kept for funerals or "slightly fancy dinner" situations, and one dress that still had a dry-cleaning tag from your cousin’s wedding in 2018. The most glamorous thing in there had sequins, but they were falling off like your will to live during tax season.

You texted back.

You: uhhh i think so?

There was a pause. You waited. And then:

Bucky: You think so? That doesn’t sound reassuring.

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in your skull.

Bucky: Should I get someone to help you?

You made a choking noise, then typed furiously:

You:What??? NO. Do you think I’m incapable of styling myself?!

Bucky: 😬… I’m not going to answer that.

You: WTH? JAMES.

Bucky: I’m just saying... if you need help... let me know.

You threw your phone onto the bed like it had personally insulted your family name.

The audacity. The sheer, unfiltered audacity of this man.

Never mind that the last time you did your full makeup for a wedding, your eyeliner rebelled halfway through and you ended up looking like an extra in a Tim Burton movie. Or that you once tried to curl your hair and somehow managed to temporarily weld two strands together.

It’s fine. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.

Except Bucky Barnes, Ford engineer slash secret adult film star, had just asked you to be his date to a formal company party. To meet his actual colleagues. To see his real job. The one where he kept his clothes on.

And all you could think about was how your last "fancy event" outfit involved a panic-buy from H&M and shoes that made you cry by the second hour.

You stared down at your phone.

You: Are you being serious about the dress code? Like, serious serious?

Bucky: It’s at a golf resort. With valet parking.

You: So... not jeans.

Bucky: Not unless they’re made of your dreams and cost $3,000.

You sighed and sank back into your bed.

This was a test. Not of your style. Not of your ability to blend in among women who probably knew the difference between contour and bronzer.

No.

This was a test of your willpower not to fall harder for the man who remembered to text you about a dress code because he wanted you there.

Even if he did think you needed backup.

You stared at the blinking cursor, pride and panic battling it out like two raccoons fighting over the same slice of pizza. Then you typed with the confidence of a woman who absolutely did not have her life together:

You: I’ll sort something out.

Translation: I will absolutely not sort something out. But I know people.

Specifically, Amy and Trish—two women whose closets could double as costume departments and whose eyeliner wings could cut glass.

You didn’t waste time. You called Amy.

She answered on the first ring, like she'd been waiting her entire life for this very moment.

"Hey," you began without preamble. "This guy I’m seeing asked me to be his date to a work party. I need help. Can I borrow a dress?"

There was a brief pause before Amy gasped dramatically. "Oh my GOD, girl, yes! When is it?"

You paused. "Hang on, let me ask."

You quickly texted Bucky:

You: When is the party exactly?

He replied like he had all the time in the world.

Bucky: tomorrow night.

You blinked. Then blinked again. Because clearly this man was operating on a different calendar. A lawless one.

“…Tomorrow night,” you said flatly into the phone.

Amy, bless her chaotic soul, didn’t miss a beat. “Oh shit. Then we need to sort you out ASAP. I’m calling Trish for a second opinion. You think you can come by my house in thirty?”

You looked down at your current outfit—oversized lemon-print t-shirt, bike shorts, and a single fuzzy sock that may or may not have given up on life.

“…Yeah. Thirty works.”

Thirty-five minutes later (you got stuck behind a garbage truck), you stood in front of Amy’s front door, mentally preparing yourself for what could only be described as the Fashion Emergency Summit of 2025.

You knocked. The door practically swung open before your knuckles touched it.

“There she is!” Amy squealed, grabbing your wrist and yanking you inside like you were the last contestant on America’s Next Top Model: Desperate Edition.

Trish was in the living room, surrounded by garment bags and aggressively sipping wine like it was go-go juice. She looked up, immediately shook her head, and stood like you’d just triggered a makeover bat signal.

“Okay. Work party. Man you're seeing. Formal. Urgent. Got it. First things first—take your pants off.”

You blinked. “Hello to you too.”

“Sorry, did you want to impress him or nah?” she replied, already unzipping a dress bag like she was opening a sacred scroll.

Amy appeared at your side. “We’re skipping the niceties. You’re in crisis and we are the fairy godmothers your mom warned you about.”

You tried to keep up as they steamrolled around you—pulling out dresses, shoes, necklaces, even a clutch shaped like a seashell (for some reason).

“Wait,” you said, hands up. “I just asked to borrow a dress. I didn’t realize I was auditioning for princess diaries.”

“Sweetheart,” Amy said, gently tossing your limp ponytail over your shoulder, “have you seen your closet? This is not a dress loan. This is a full-blown humanitarian mission.”

“So,” Trish said, one perfectly arched brow lifting as she gave you the slow, evaluative once-over, wine glass in hand like she was about to perform a sacred ceremony. “This mysterious man. Is he hot? Rich? Emotionally unavailable? Give me something to work with.”

You dropped your bag with a dramatic thunk near the doorway, already regretting every life decision that had led you to this moment. “He’s… complicated.”

Two synchronized groans echoed through the room.

“Oh God,” Amy muttered, flopping dramatically onto the velvet chaise like this was all too much for her emotionally. “She’s in deep.”

“Complicated is girl-code for ‘his abs should be illegal,’” Trish said, sipping her cabernet like the all-knowing oracle she believed herself to be. “Am I wrong?”

You tried not to look too smug. Shrugged, oh-so-casual. “They should probably be regulated. Yes.”

Amy clapped once. “Then let’s begin,” she said, in the same voice you imagined Caesar used before unleashing gladiators. She looked too smug for your comfort. Like she’d been preparing for this since the day you met.

First came the dresses. A waterfall of fabrics in every imaginable shade. Trish, who had appointed herself Commander of Evening Wear, flung dresses at you like she was battling inner demons through couture. “This,” she said, holding up a gold sequin bodycon dress that screamed Vegas, baby.

Amy barely looked up. “She’s not about to elope with Elvis.”

Midnight blue slip? Too clingy. Velvet green number? Too ‘winter gala at the Met.’ Champagne satin gown? Way too bridal. You looked like someone about to accept an award for Best Performance in a Rom-Com That Ends in Tragedy.

Then came the black satin dress. You stepped out of the bathroom and turned toward them—and everything stilled.

“No one speak,” Amy whispered, eyes wide. “We found it.”

Trish made the sign of the cross.

Then came hair.

Trish unzipped her emergency beauty toolkit with the reverence of a trauma surgeon. Curling irons, dry shampoo, hairspray, texturizing powder—you weren’t even sure some of these things were legal.

She got to work, curling and teasing and muttering “trust the process” like a woman on the brink. She moved with the intensity of someone who’d seen too many TikTok tutorials and wasn’t afraid to experiment. Bobby pins dangled from her lips like tiny swords.

“Turn your head,” she ordered. “Not that way. The other way. We’re building volume, not a crime scene.”

While she worked, Amy began on your face, swiping and sculpting and muttering spells under her breath like she was summoning Aphrodite.

“We contour where we want the light to hit. We bake where we hold grudges. We highlight where we seduce.”

Highlighter shimmered across your cheekbones. Eyeshadow turned your lids into smoky, mysterious omens of danger. Your lashes were now capable of generating electricity and fanning away weak men. Your lips? Berry-stained, sultry, slightly dangerous. Like you bit hearts for breakfast.

Amy stepped back and tilted your chin up with her fingers. “I love us.”

Then came accessories.

Trish handed you gold hoops—small, elegant, powerful. Amy slid a chunky cocktail ring onto your finger like she was knighting you. “You’re welcome, America.”

Shoes. Strappy, black, gorgeous. The kind of heels that whispered I am expensive and will step on you if necessary.

Then perfume. A single spritz.

And finally—quiet.

Amy took a dramatic breath, wiped imaginary sweat from her brow, and in the worst Italian accent you had ever heard, she began:

“Your Majesty… Paolo is exhausted. Because your Majesty—” she pointed at the lemon-print shirt you had worn over here, crumpled on the chair like a sad lemony corpse. “Only Paolo can take this—”

She then gestured to the tragic hairbrush still sitting on the dresser. “And this—”

And with a dramatic flair worthy of an Oscar for Best Supporting Friend, she stepped aside and swept her hand toward the mirror.

“And give youuuu… THIS.”

And actually gasped.

You looked—expensive. Like you belonged in the corner booth of a dimly lit rooftop bar, sipping something with one perfect ice cube. Like the kind of woman who didn’t return texts because she was too busy living.

You stared at yourself. Equal parts shocked and delighted. Maybe even a little terrified. Because this girl in the mirror?

She looked like the kind of woman who would ruin a man in the best possible way.

“…So what now?” you asked, voice just slightly shaky.

Amy raised a brow and smirked. “Now? Now you go knock his emotionally unavailable, hot-ass socks off tomorrow.”

× × × ×

You were already sweating.

Which wasn’t ideal, considering you hadn’t even made it to the event yet. Or gotten into the dress. Or zipped the stupid clutch. Or—most importantly—figured out how to re-create the smoky eye Amy had lovingly summoned onto your face the night before like she was Michelangelo and your eyelids were the Sistine Chapel.

Currently, you were sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, surrounded by brushes, palettes, half a makeup wipe, and your own crippling sense of inadequacy.

Your phone was propped up on a candle jar. Amy’s face appeared on the screen, slightly angled and very judgmental.

“Okay,” she said, squinting at you like you were a math problem. “Back away from the mirror. You’re too close. I can’t help you if I’m staring up your nostrils.”

You scooted back on your fuzzy rug and sighed dramatically. “I already forgot everything you taught me. This brush is the same size as the last one. Why are there fifty of them? Why do they all look like they could paint miniature horses?”

Amy ignored your spiral. “Show me what you’ve done so far.”

You held up the brush. Then the palette. Then your own barely-attempted eyelid, which currently looked like it had survived a light dust storm.

Amy winced. “Okay. First of all—that’s a blending brush, not a shovel. Stop packing on the pigment like you’re laying asphalt.”

You dropped the brush. “I’m panicking. I forgot the order of everything. Is it brown first? Then black? Where’s the ‘seductress but approachable’ shade?”

Amy flipped a page in a literal notebook and started going down a checklist like she was prepping you for a space launch. You could see the title written in all caps: OPERATION SMOKEY HOT BITCH.

“Okay. You have the dress?”

“Hanging on the door.”

“Earrings?”

“In a dish. Next to my sanity.”

“Perfume?”

“Already spritzed. I smell like danger and debt.”

“Backup heels in your bag in case you die in the stilettos?”

You blinked. “Wait, you packed me backup heels?”

“I’m not an amateur,” she replied, flipping another page. “Okay. Hair—you curled it this morning, right?”

“Yes. But it’s slowly turning into a soft wave of disappointment.”

“We’ll refresh with spray in a minute. Focus. Now—eyeshadow. Grab the warm brown shade we used yesterday. Light hand. Light. You’re not smearing Nutella on toast.”

You followed her instructions, holding your breath like you were disarming a bomb.

“There,” she said finally, nodding. “Now darken the outer corners. Just a smidge. And blend like your life depends on it. If I see one hard edge, I’m revoking your mascara privileges.”

You swirled and blended, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. “How do you make this look so easy?”

“Because I’ve done this a hundred times. Also because I have no kids and a supportive husband and an emotional support Starbucks within walking distance. You? You’re in the trenches.”

You laughed, then paused to look at yourself.

It was… not bad. Honestly? It was almost the same as last night. Maybe a little less “editorial photoshoot,” a little more “sexy villainess who gets a redemption arc,” but still.

Amy was nodding. “Good. Add eyeliner. Lashes. But no crying, or I swear to God I will teleport to your house and reapply it myself.”

You applied the mascara with surgical precision. “Are we good?”

She squinted again. “Hold up the clutch.”

You held it.

“Okay. Lipstick?”

“Same berry one. It’s already in my bag.”

“Do not put it on until after you drink water. Hydration is important, but blotting is key.”

You saluted her with your water bottle. “Thank you, General Beauty.”

Amy softened then. Smiled at you through the screen like a proud stage mom. “You’re going to kill him, you know.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“Mmmhmm,” she said, turning the page again. “Final checklist item: emotional damage immunity.”

“…What?”

“In case he says something like ‘you look… different’ or—worse—‘cool dress.’ We are not accepting bare minimum male commentary tonight.”

You snorted. “You really made a whole checklist?”

“I printed copies,” she said proudly. “Trish laminated hers.”

You couldn’t stop smiling. “Thank you, I love you. You know that, right?”

“I do. And you look like a goddess. Now go prove it.”

You nodded, nerves dancing in your stomach, adrenaline humming beneath your skin. 

× × × × 

You opened the door and promptly forgot how to breathe.

Not because of your own nerves. Not because you were internally cataloging whether your lipstick would survive a full meal. Not even because you were wearing heels that felt like baby deer training stilts.

No, you forgot how to breathe because Bucky Barnes was standing at your door.

Back turned, suit tailored within an inch of its life, head ducked as he spoke low into his phone. The kind of low that made your stomach swoop like a rollercoaster. His hand was in his pocket, jaw tight in concentration, voice steady—but there was the hint of a smile. Like whoever was on the other end had said something funny and he was too cool to admit it.

You were not okay.

He hadn’t even seen you yet, and you already felt like a defibrillator had been applied directly to your entire central nervous system.

You cleared your throat. “Bucky.”

And then—

He turned.

Slowly.

Like it happened in cinematic time.

Like God itself hit the slow-mo button just for you.

And his reaction?

Immediate.

His brows twitched. The phone slipped just slightly from his ear.

You watched the way his gaze swept over you—once, twice, like he couldn’t believe you were real. And then, as if his brain could no longer support basic functions, he hung up on whoever he’d been talking to. No goodbye. No explanation. Just thumb to screen and click.

And then—nothing.

He just stared.

Which was both flattering and also a little awkward, because now you were just standing there on your welcome mat, heart jackhammering in your chest, hoping your deodorant had done its job.

“I—uh.” He cleared his throat. “Hi.”

Hi?

He said hi?

You blinked. “Hey.”

He ran a hand down the back of his neck, clearly scrambling for something better. “Sorry. You just—you look…”

And then he trailed off. Like the word he wanted didn’t exist yet. Like Webster’s Dictionary needed to invent something new, something stronger than stunning or breathtaking or every thought I’ve ever had since puberty is now obsolete because you just broke my brain.

You could see it all written across his face.

Like he had genuinely believed he was prepared.

But now that he was seeing you in that black satin dress—with your hair curled and makeup done and your lips in that warm berry shade—he looked completely, utterly unprepared.

And weirdly? A little helpless about it.

“You look…” he tried again, but gave up and shook his head, smiling like someone who just lost a bet with God. “I didn’t know you could look more beautiful. I already thought…”

He stopped, eyes dipping briefly—neckline, waistline, back to your eyes.

“I’ve never seen you in a dress,” he said, quieter this time. “You’re usually in flats and office attire.”

You arched a brow. “So you do notice what I wear.”

He gave a short, breathless laugh and shook his head. “I notice everything about you.”

That?

Should not have hit as hard as it did.

You suddenly had to remember how legs worked, because standing under Bucky Barnes’ open, reverent gaze was starting to feel like being dipped in molten chocolate and rolled in praise kink.

“Well,” you managed, smoothing your hands over your dress like it was no big deal. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

And he did. He really, really did.

The dark suit hugged him in all the right places—broad shoulders, tapered waist, sleeves that hinted at forearms with enough power to bend physics. His hair was slicked back but still soft-looking, and the shadow of stubble on his jaw gave him just enough menace to make your knees whisper threatening things to your dignity.

He stepped closer, eyes still on yours. “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you said, locking the door behind you with fingers that maybe, possibly trembled just a little.

And when he held out his arm for you to take—

Like a freaking gentleman—

You slid your hand into the crook of his elbow, his warmth seeping through the fabric like a secret, and thought:

Oh my gosh I wanna squeeze his biceps.

× × × × 

You stood just outside the entrance.

A velvet rope. Soft lighting. Gentle orchestral music drifting from inside like the event was scored by a live soundtrack.

Your heart? Doing its own version of a drumline.

Bucky’s suit caught the ambient glow of the chandelier light above, and for a brief second, he looked like he belonged in a perfume ad. Or maybe a political thriller. Or maybe the private collection of a very specific Pinterest board you definitely didn’t have bookmarked under “Hot Men in Suits Being Inexplicably Affectionate.”

You fiddled with the tiny clasp on your clutch, not because it needed adjusting but because you needed something to do with your hands.

“Do you have any gum?” you asked.

Bucky’s gaze slid to yours, half-lidded and very not helpful to your nervous system. “No. Why? Did you need fresh breath for something?”

And then—that smile.

The one that curled into a wolvish one. The one that said, I know things about you, even if you don’t want to admit them out loud.

God, he was going to be the death of your ovaries.

“I chew it when I’m nervous. Or to help me concentrate,” you said, voice slightly tight as you looked away and pretended the potted plant beside the doorway was suddenly the most interesting thing on Earth. “Some of my best work has been done while chewing gum.”

“Sorry,” he murmured. “No gum tonight.”

He glanced toward the entrance.

Then back at you.

“Shall we?”

You inhaled slowly. “Okay.”

You nodded, your hand starting to reach for your clutch again—except he moved first.

Without hesitation, Bucky reached down and slid his fingers into yours.

You reacted like you’d just grabbed a live wire—jerking your hand back so fast you smacked yourself right in the mouth.

“OW.”

His eyes widened. “Did you just…?”

You covered your mouth with both hands, your lip already throbbing. “That really just happened.”

He exhaled sharply, somewhere between disbelief and long-suffering patience. “Are you going to keep jumping every time I touch you? It’s just me.”

That’s exactly the problem, it’s you. 

“No—I know,” you mumbled behind your hand.

“And now you’re injuring yourself.”

“I know.”

His expression softened a fraction. Just enough to make your lungs consider quitting. “You okay?”

You dropped your hands and nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, shaking his head. “I just—” he hesitated, searching your face. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to hold your hand.”

You looked at him.

And in that second, the noise in your brain—every insecurity, every mental spiral—just quieted.

“I’ll give you a warning next time,” he said with a small smile.

You let out a shaky laugh. “That would be great, thanks.”

And then he held out his hand again—deliberate, open, offering.

You hesitated for half a breath.

And then took it.

His fingers laced with yours like he’d done it a hundred times. Like he’d been waiting to. And then he gave your hand the tiniest squeeze.

The kind that said: I’ve got you.

You walked through the entrance like that. Side by side. Hand in hand.

A few people noticed you. Just a glance here, a flick of the eyes there. Some curious. Some surprised. A woman in emerald whispered something behind her flute of champagne. A man near the bar paused his conversation mid-sentence. It was more subtle—just that ripple of intrigue you get when someone walks in with the kind of quiet confidence that makes people wonder what the story is.

And more specifically—they noticed you with him.

And Bucky? He didn’t shrink from it.

If anything, he straightened a little more. His shoulders pulled back, posture tall, presence grounded. He wanted to be seen with you.

There was no awkward fidgeting. No looking around like he didn’t belong. No quick hand drops like some guys did when they got nervous about what others might think.

Bucky Barnes was standing beside you like he’d just won something. Like he’d earned something.

And then he looked at you.

That look.

You’d seen that look before. It was the same look you’d seen on men watching their teams win the Super Bowl. That deeply satisfied, slightly stunned pride. Like he couldn’t believe he got to be the one standing beside you.

Except it wasn’t about a game.

It was about you.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe he got to bring you here. Like someone had handed him the crown jewel and said go ahead, show her off. Like every other man in the room was going to have to deal with the fact that he was the one with you on his arm.

You caught a few stares.

You leaned in and whispered, “Do I have something on my face?”

“No,” Bucky said, eyes still on you. “You just look so damn good.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you had to look away before you did something idiotic like giggle.

“Shut up,” you muttered, nudging him with your elbow.

He only smiled wider, not even pretending to hide how smug he was. And you got the distinct impression he wasn’t going to shut up at all. Probably ever.

Then his gaze flicked over your shoulder—scanning, focused—and you could see the shift in his expression as soon as he spotted someone.

“There he is,” Bucky said under his breath. “C’mon. I want you to meet my friends.”

You blinked, a little caught off guard. “You do?”

He gave your hand another squeeze. “Yeah. I really do.”

You let him lead you across the room, weaving through soft pockets of conversation and the scent of champagne and expensive cologne. Up ahead was a group of people clustered around a tall, broad-shouldered man with a full beard and an even fuller laugh. The man—who you’d later learn was Alexei—was in the middle of some wild story, hands gesturing, accent thick and unapologetic.

Steve stood nearby, glass in hand, grinning at whatever Alexei was saying.

But then he looked up.

Saw Bucky.

And then—he saw you.

That was when his grin turned knowing.

“There he is,” Steve called out over the noise, lifting his glass a little. “And I see you brought someone special?”

The entire group turned their attention.

More like… interest. Like they’d all been waiting for this moment without even realizing it.

Your hand was still in Bucky’s, but suddenly you were very aware of the warmth of it. Of the fact that this wasn’t just a night out anymore.

When you and Bucky reached the group, Steve stepped forward without hesitation and offered you a firm handshake.

“Steve,” he said, still smiling. “So you’re the girl who had this guy calling me in the middle of the night.”

Your eyebrows lifted as you looked up at Bucky. “You did what?”

Bucky groaned. “Steve—man—”

Too late.

Steve just chuckled. “Yeah, like a week or two ago. Something about ‘I need an opinion, but if you laugh I’ll block your number forever.’”

You blinked. “What was the opinion?”

Bucky had already released your hand and was mock-wrestling Steve by the lapels, swatting him on the shoulder as if that would undo the betrayal.

Steve didn’t even flinch. “He made me rate your smile from a photo.”

“Oh my God,” you said, laughing and burying your face in your free hand. “What did you give me?”

Steve winked. “Twelve out of ten.”

“I hate both of you,” Bucky grumbled.

“And yet here you are,” Steve said, clapping him on the back.

Then Bucky straightened and gestured toward the rest of the group. “Alright, alright. Before Steve says anything else that makes me die inside—let me introduce everyone.”

He turned to you, still grinning like an idiot, then pointed as he went around the group.

“This is Sam,” he said, nodding toward a sharply dressed man with a killer smile and an energy that said I could charm your entire family without trying. 

Sam gave you a small salute and said, “Respect for pulling him out of the house. We thought he was going feral.”

“Natasha,” Bucky continued. She wore red, carried a glass of white wine, and raised one brow like she could read your soul in five seconds flat.

“Yelena,” Bucky added, motioning to the blonde beside her, whose smirk was almost identical but with an extra dose of mischief. 

“Hi,” she said, her voice dry. “He never brings anyone.”

“That’s Alexei,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the large man still chuckling into his drink. “He thinks he’s funny.”

“I am funny,” Alexei replied with a dramatic bow in your direction. “You just don’t have taste.”

Bucky ignored that. “This is Bob,” he said, pointing at the tall, quiet guy beside Alexei, who raised a hand in greeting and gave a polite smile.

“John,” Bucky added next—square-jawed, clearly trying to play it cool—and then, “Ava,” who stood between John and Yelena, wearing a silky green dress and eyes that tracked everything.

You gave each of them a polite smile, trying to lock in names and faces like you weren’t internally panicking about your heel strap digging into your foot.

"So, pretty girl," he said, voice booming with a thick Russian accent. “What you do? Hm? How you meet… uh…” he motioned vaguely at Bucky, “…Barnes?”

How do you explain that you first saw Bucky naked?

Like hello, SergeantBarnes on Pornhub, traumatized your search history forever naked.

You swallowed thickly, scrambling for a plausible answer that didn’t involve the words “stepbrother stuck under the sink.”

“Oh, uh… we live on the same floor,” you said quickly, voice pitching two octaves higher than usual. “Same apartment building.”

There was a beat.

And then—

“Aha,” Alexei grinned. “So he seduce you in hallway, yes?”

You let out a sheepish chuckle. “Uh… not exactly.”

“Oh, this is rich,” Sam laughed, clapping his hands together once. “You mean to tell me Barnes actually spoke to a woman in an elevator? I thought he only made eye contact with the floor.”

“I’m not anti-social,” Bucky scoffed, affronted.

“I bet he offered to help carry her groceries,” Yelena added with a sly grin.

Bucky snorted, clearly remembering something. “Actually… yeah.”

You whipped your head toward him. “That was not my grocery bag.”

“Aww,” Ava cooed, all faux sweetness. “He’s such a gentleman.”

Bucky rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes flicking between everyone, clearly trying to stay calm while mentally organizing their names in alphabetical order for future murder plans.

“Also,” Natasha said, her smile all teeth and glass-cutting precision, “you didn’t tell us she was this gorgeous. You undersold it.”

“Oh, he definitely did,” Yelena smirked. “He made her sound cute. This? This is not cute. This is problematic.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Bucky muttered—but the red dusting his ears betrayed him.

“Okay,” Bucky said dryly, crossing his arms, “let’s just go around the circle and list how many of you are single. Then we can revisit my ‘flirting problem.’”

“Oooh,” Sam said, clutching his chest. “He brought stats. I’m hurt.”

“I’m not single,” John offered, clearly lying.

“Bob’s a poet who refuses to ask for anyone’s number,” Bucky added helpfully.

Bob blinked slowly. “I don’t believe in digital intimacy.”

“There it is,” Bucky muttered under his breath.

Alexei shook his head and lifted his glass. “Still. Barnes not usually this… how you say… social.”

“That’s because none of you know how to shut up long enough to let me talk,” Bucky deadpanned.

Steve finally stepped in, grinning. “Hey—I’m just glad you finally took my advice and brought her flowers at work.”

You looked at Steve, then at Bucky. “Wait—him showing up with flowers every day for a week? That was your idea?”

“Yeah. . . But—” Steve blinked. “He came every day for a week?”

“What?” Your brows knit together. You looked back at Bucky.

Bucky stayed very quiet.

Sam lost it. “Ohhh. So that’s where you were all week. I thought you were secretly working a second job.”

Yelena looked absolutely delighted. “You took a sabbatical for love. I’m gonna cry.”

“I didn’t take a sabbatical,” Bucky muttered.

“You did,” Ava said.

“Barnes,” the guy said butting in, clearly someone important based on the tone alone. “Got a minute?”

Bucky straightened subtly, the shift in his body language almost imperceptible unless you were watching—which, of course, you were. He looked at you first.

His thumb rubbed against the side of your hand. “I’ll be right back,” he said quietly. “You gonna be okay?”

Your mouth opened to say yes, automatically. But something about the way his eyes searched your face made you pause.

Were you okay?

You didn’t really want to be left alone with seven people you just met. Not when every single one of them had seen through you in five seconds flat and teased Bucky with the skill of professional roasters. Not to mention your feet already hurt, you were positive you’d sweated off your setting spray, and the last thing you wanted was to stand here trying to remember whether Bob was the one who didn’t believe in digital intimacy or if that was John.

Still, you nodded.

Because he had to go. And because you weren’t about to be that clingy girl at a formal event.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, managing a small smile. “Go. I’ll be okay.”

Ava chimed in before he could say anything else. “Don’t worry, lover boy,” she said with a teasing grin, “we’ll keep an eye on her.”

She winked at you, slow and dramatic.

You blinked, equal parts entertained and terrified.

Bucky gave her a long, warning look.

Then glanced at you one last time—longer this time. Like he wasn’t quite ready to go. Like if the executive hadn’t called, he might’ve just stayed glued to your side the entire night. His thumb gave one last affectionate brush against yours before he let go and stepped away.

You watched him cross the room, shoulders squared, confidence back in full force as he approached the man in the suit. Just like that, he shifted into someone important. Someone focused. Professional.

And then it was just you.

And seven pairs of eyes staring at you like you were the opening act of a stand-up show they weren’t sure how to categorize yet.

You turned back toward them slowly, giving your best polite smile.

Steve cleared his throat and offered a charming, if not slightly mischievous, smile. “So… are you two official?”

You blinked. “Oh. No. I’m just his date tonight.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes slightly, the corner of her lip curling up. “Why? He looks like he’s into you. Like, genuinely into you. He hasn’t asked yet?”

You let out a small, sheepish laugh, suddenly hyperaware of how all their faces were now angled toward you with laser-focused interest. “It’s… complicated.”

“Ah,” John said, swirling his drink. “That usually means she wants us not to interrogate her about Bucky.”

“Oh, I’m still going to,” Natasha said breezily. “I just wanted to gauge her starting defenses first.”

Ava leaned in slightly. “Define ‘complicated.’ Like ex drama? Secret long-distance boyfriend? Weird emotional standoff?”

“Or,” Sam cut in, grinning, “maybe she’s just trying to protect herself. Barnes can be… intense.”

You opened your mouth to respond, then immediately closed it, because how were you supposed to explain that your first impression of him came with 4K resolution, suspicious camera angles, and way too much eye contact for a man who wasn’t looking at you in person?

“It’s just a little new,” you said carefully. “And unexpected.”

Steve nodded, expression gentler now. “Unexpected, sure. But he’s been different lately. Softer.”

“Obnoxiously softer,” Yelena added. “He helped an old woman cross the street last week and didn’t even glare after. I thought he was sick.”

“He made lasagna for Bob,” Natasha pointed out.

“And I didn’t ask him to, I just complimented his lunch. . . Once,” Bob added, deadpan.

“Yep,” Ava said, sipping her drink. “Lover boy mode: activated.”

“I swear he used to hiss when people mentioned feelings,” Sam added, eyes crinkling.

“He once threatened to fire me for putting a heart emoji in our group chat,” Yelena said.

You laughed, cheeks warm. “He didn’t actually—”

“Oh, he did,” John confirmed. “But then he panicked and re-added her twenty minutes later. Classic Barnes move. Grumpy, then guilty.”

There was a pause.

Then Steve smiled at you again, gentler this time. “It’s nice to see him like this. Happy.”

The conversation shifted easily once the spotlight moved off you. The group began trading stories about their workplace shenanigans—inside jokes, chaotic meetings, and a surprisingly heated debate about who had really broken the espresso machine in the break room last year.

You laughed when Alexei mimed the sound it made before sputtering its last breath, and Sam insisted it wasn’t him (“I don’t even drink office kitchen coffee, I’m bougie”), while Yelena swore she saw him pressing every single button like he was trying to hack into NASA.

The teasing, the banter—it was a rhythm they all clearly knew, one you didn’t quite belong to, but were being carefully folded into. Bit by bit, your shoulders loosened. You even caught yourself smiling at Natasha’s dry, one-liner comebacks.

It wasn't hard to like them. They were smart, quick, loyal in the way people only were when they'd seen each other at their worst and still decided to stick around. They bickered like siblings, interrupted each other constantly, and somehow finished each other's stories even when they contradicted the facts.

Still... every few minutes, your eyes drifted toward the crowd.

Scanning.

Searching.

Looking for him.

You hadn't meant to. You hadn't even realized you were doing it at first. But Bucky had been gone for a while now, and the part of you that had hesitated when he let go of your hand was starting to stir again.

You weren't uncomfortable.

Not exactly.

But the truth was-you just felt better when he was around.

Steve must have noticed, because his voice cut through the din—low, kind, threading through the laughter and clinking glasses like a safety line.

“Hey,” he murmured, leaning in just slightly, his breath brushing against your ear, “You okay?”

His hand hovered near the small of your back—not touching, but close enough that you felt the warmth of it there, like an unspoken offer of comfort.

You blinked, caught off guard by his quiet presence.

Then smiled. Just a little. “Yeah. Just… wondering where Bucky wandered off to.”

Steve’s mouth quirked, the corners of his lips tilting up in amusement. “Probably still stuck talking about something boring.”

He paused. “You want me to go check?”

You shook your head, brushing a hand down your dress like it was no big deal. “No—it’s fine. I’m good.”

You were still smiling faintly when Steve leaned back again, his hand dropping away as subtly as it had hovered. He didn’t push, didn’t press—just gave you space to exhale.

“You let me know if you change your mind,” he said, then tipped his head toward the group with a grin. “I’m pretty good at rescue missions.”

You laughed softly, the sound surprising even yourself. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You found yourself scanning the room again, heart skipping every time you thought you caught a glimpse of his broad shoulders through the crowd.

And then—there he was.

Coming back toward you through the sea of sequined dresses and sharp suits. Jacket unbuttoned now, hand tucked casually in his pocket. He looked lighter, freer, but focused—all business until his eyes landed on you.

And just like that—his whole expression shifted.

Because you were already looking for him.

Your gaze lifted across the crowd, found his, and stayed there.

You couldn’t help it—you smiled.

And Bucky? He froze for half a second, like the air had been knocked out of him, before his own mouth curved. Not the cocky grin you’d seen him use when he wanted to win an argument. Not the smirk he used when he was trying to charm his way past your defenses.

No—this smile was different. Softer. The kind of smile a man wore when he’d just spotted his favorite person in the room.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t barrel through. But his eyes never left yours—not once—as he crossed the space back to you.

And when he finally reached the group, he slid back into his place beside you so naturally it was as if he’d never left. His arm brushed yours, deliberately, and the corner of his mouth tipped even higher like he was relieved.

“Hey,” you said softly, a little breathless. “You were gone for a while.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes lingering on your face. “But I’m here now.”

“Shall I make it up to you?” he asked, his voice a low hum, lips curving like he already had the plan.

Your brow arched. “Make what up to me?”

“For leaving you here with this circus.” His eyes flicked once toward the group, then back to you, all warmth. “How about a dance?”

Your stomach flipped. A dance. With him.

You shook your head quickly, heat rising in your cheeks. “Oh, no. I’d love to, but I don’t dance.”

Bucky tilted his head, studying you like he could see past the excuse.

“I mean it,” you rushed on, lowering your voice. “I’ve got two left feet. It’d be a crime against rhythm. You’d regret it.”

The corner of his mouth tugged higher, slow and knowing, like he didn’t buy a single word.

“Doll,” he murmured, leaning just slightly closer, “something tells me you’d be worth tripping over.”

You laughed softly, caught between shyness and the sudden, terrifying desire to say yes.

And still, he watched you with that look—that soft, patient certainty—that maybe, eventually, you would.

And then, right there, he held out his hand.

Finally, you were the girl being asked to dance—the thing that had lived in your daydreams while you hummed along to radio ballads in your kitchen. And it did funny things to your stomach.

Against your better judgment, you took his hand.

Bucky’s smile deepened, and he led you onto the dance floor. The opening chords of Perfect by Ed Sheeran began to play, and the timing was so disgustingly cinematic you almost rolled your eyes.

He pulled you gently into his embrace, his right hand finding your waist, steady and warm. You looped your arms around his still-unfairly-sexy neck, trying not to hyperventilate at the closeness. Then he tugged your right hand down, twined his fingers through yours, and guided them to rest low between you. His left hand wrapped firmly around yours, and your breath caught.

“I know the last time you danced was probably at school,” he teased, leaning close enough that his breath tickled your ear, “but you’re not in seventh grade.”

You scoffed, cheeks burning. “What makes you think I even went? I told you—I don’t dance.”

A pause. Then a quiet sigh of surrender. “Okay, fine.”

There was no point in arguing—not when his grip on you made resistance impossible. Still, you clung to a shred of stubbornness. Because despite the way he’d assured you that you were safe in his arms, you felt too exposed. Too vulnerable.

But then he was swaying you to the music, slowly, gently, and it did feel a little like a seventh-grade dance. Only this was the adult version—with a very hot man who had his hand on your waist and his eyes never leaving your face, even though there were plenty of beautiful women he could have been staring at instead.

You willed your hands not to sweat. It wasn’t going well. His heat seeped through your dress, tingling through your body until it felt like even your cells were leaning toward him.

You needed a distraction. “Did you get in trouble with your boss?”

He chuckled low. “No. It’s about a promotion.”

Your brows lifted. “Oh really? Wow. Does that mean you’ll focus on this job more?”

It felt oddly surreal to be having that conversation in the middle of such closeness.

His fingers flexed against your waist. The smallest gesture, but it sent a burning ripple outward, every nerve on alert. He smiled down at you, almost like he wanted to say something—then didn’t.

“By your silence, I guess not.”

He laughed, hand tightening around yours, grounding you.

“What’s so funny?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “I told you—I can’t quit that easily.”

You squinted at him. “You’re not love-bombing me so I’ll agree to do a film with you, are you?”

Instead of answering, he spun you into a turn. You misjudged the distance and stumbled straight into his chest.

Firm, solid, warm.

For a beat, you didn’t move. Engulfed in electric flames, pressed against him, your entire body humming at the contact. His voice dropped low. “Of course not. I told you—I won’t force you to do anything.”

That only made things worse, your lungs refusing to remember how to work. You pulled back a step, discreetly sucking in air, but Bucky guided you right back into position, his hand steady as ever at your waist.

“You’re very suspicious, you—”

“Hang on.” His gaze flicked to your cheek. “You’ve got an eyelash.”

You held your breath as his fingers lifted, brushing your skin so lightly it felt like a spark had detonated under your skin. He plucked the eyelash, then held it up in front of your lips.

“Make a wish,” he said softly.

You were afraid to. Afraid because you knew what you wanted to wish for—and it had nothing to do with promotions or jobs. It was him.

Still, you closed your eyes, blew gently, resisting the wild, reckless urge to kiss the tip of his finger while it hovered so close to your mouth.

“So,” he murmured as he tucked the eyelash away, hand finding your waist again, “seems like we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

But his voice sounded a little off. Strained.

And then he stopped moving.

The world narrowed to the circle of his arms holding you in place. One hand resting at your waist, the other lifting to tuck your hair carefully behind your ear. His fingers lingered, brushing lightly over the outer shell before drifting down the slope of your neck, across your shoulder, trailing fire down your arm until both hands settled at your waist again.

Everywhere he touched burned.

And then, his voice quiet, husky, he asked, “What’d you wish for?”

You swallowed hard, already a pile of putty in his arms, the fire from his hands lingering on your skin like they’d branded you.

“If I tell you,” you whispered, breath shaky, “it won’t come true.”

“Of course,” he murmured, voice low and mesmerizing, rough and exciting all at once. “How could I forget?”

And while he spoke, he was pulling you closer. Closer until you were pressed fully against him, your body aligning with his in a way that made coherent thought impossible.

Then—God help you—he leaned his head down, lips grazing just shy of your ear, and in that gravel-and-silk voice, he quietly sang along with the song filling the room:

When I saw you in that dress, lookin’ so beautiful, I don’t deserve this… darling, you look perfect tonight.

The words tickled your ear, and you shivered, your entire body lighting up like struck matches.

You knew you should still have your defenses up. You knew you’d sworn to yourself that you were immune to him. But apparently your immune system had the strength of wet tissue paper, because you were ready to drag him to his bedroom like a woman possessed.

And worse? It wasn’t just the heat of his body or the magnetism of his touch that had you undone. It was that part of you—stupid, fragile, hopeful—that wanted this to be real. Wanted the man who introduced you to his friends tonight, who smiled at you like you were the only person in the room, to be genuine about all of it.

Your chest rose and fell too fast, every breath uneven. Everything was too tight—your throat, your lungs, your very skin—but at the same time, it all felt like it was about to burst. You caught it then: the faint hitch in his chest, the way he was breathing harder, too.

Would you call this a typical first date? Absolutely not. But then again, nothing about him was typical.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked suddenly, pressing his fingers into your back. Not harsh—just firm, grounding. Enough to send another wave of shivers racing down your spine.

And the real problem?

You were dangerously close to telling him the truth.

You looked at him.

And then looked away—because saying out loud what you were really thinking about? That was way too dangerous.

“I have a theory,” he said, voice low and deep, each word sliding across your skin like a shiver.

More than anything, you wanted to hear it.

“Uh-huh,” you managed.

His mouth curved in that way that spelled trouble. “…I think you want to be kissed.”

Another slam to your nervous system.

“Say I’m right,” he added boldly.

You scoffed, half a laugh and half a gasp. “Then… what do we do about it?”

Your head told you to stop. But your ovaries? They were making a very convincing counterargument.

“We should test my theory, don’t you think?”

“Here?”

“Not here.” His voice dropped, impossibly lower. And really—why, when the universe was handing out brains, charm, and abs, did it also decide Bucky deserved the world’s sexiest voice?

This was your chance. To tell him no. That you couldn’t do this. That it would be a mistake because you were scared.

Scared because some part of you knew that if Bucky Barnes broke your heart… it might never heal right.

“Where?” you whispered, breathless.

His eyes lit up. “Follow me.”

He took your hand and led you off the dance floor, threading through the ballroom and into a quieter hallway. He tugged on a couple of doors until one opened. A darkened conference room, long tables and empty office chairs.

He closed the door softly behind you.

And stood too close.

Not technically too close—if you were about to kiss, this was exactly the right distance. But for your peace of mind? Way, way too close.

This had to be meaningless. He couldn’t possibly know how badly you wanted him to kiss you. How many times you’d daydreamed about it.

You tried—pathetically—to push the thought away.

But he was right there.

Not touching. Just radiating that masculine warmth, making your skin ache with the phantom feel of him. He reached down, took your hand, and pressed a soft, hot kiss against your knuckles.

You had to press your other hand against his chest just to stay vertical, leaning into his strength while your brain threatened to shut off entirely.

“Y/n,” he murmured, his lips brushing over your skin, “the only reason we should be kissing is because you want to.”

“I do.” The words flew out before you could stop them, honest and raw. Your whole body ached with the weight of it. “For science,” you added quickly, because you refused to sound completely pathetic.

“For science,” he repeated, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Then he let go of your hand and cupped your face with both of his instead.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Some tiny part of your brain whispered again to run, to not let this happen. But the rest of you—the entire rest of you—was begging for it.

When your blood finally went back to its rightful places, you would regret this. Probably. But right now?

Right now the only thing you cared about was his mouth on yours.

“So many things to research…” he mused, his voice a sinful murmur as he dipped his head closer. “For science, of course.”

Your breath caught. If he didn’t kiss you soon, you were going to pass out.

“What does it taste like?” His lips hovered over yours, brushing but not pressing. “Strawberry? Cherry?” He shifted his head slightly, teasing. “Will it end up all over my lips?”

The suspense was torture. Sweet, thrilling, maddening torture. You looped your arms around his neck, clasping your hands behind him like you could hold him there forever.

He was teasing you—drawing it out.

And you couldn’t take it anymore.

Every nerve in your body vibrated, the air between you charged like lightning about to strike.

So you gave him what he wanted. What you wanted.

The truth.

“I want you to kiss me, Bucky.”

tags: @bohoooitsme @barnescamboy @strangefunthornqueen @mayusenpai666 @seven0714

@rabbitrabbit12321 @alexsl-universe @xunquish-blog @hzdhrtss @winchestert101

@alyana-luvs-u @itsbuckysworld @eternalwinters @am-3-thyst @vaneyvfs

@mochiclouds @yesiamthatwierd @skywalker0809 @19jammmy @quinquinquincy

@morganlolitta @openup-yourmind @urbanleftovers @fallout-girl219 @awenita

@red22wolf @lostboys1987girl @tenmaabnesti @elloredef @daddylorianisastateofmind

@leighta @formulas-bitch @waywardhunter95 @cereal6666 @gg-trini

@ohdrey89 @theboysfanficmaker @clintsupremacy @whatislovevavy @okeypoteto

@lilynotdilly @byunleedy @mrsalexstan @jamesbarneswife @chiseplushie

@antiartemis @imagoddessinmystories @let-it-sn0o0ow @mostlymarvelgirl @crdgn

[perfectprettypisces]

easy silence

(bradley bradshaw x reader)

When a car accident leaves you with custody of your three younger siblings, your world crumbles. Navigating your own grief, funeral arrangements, and the children depending on you - it feels like there's no way out. But if there's one thing Bradley Bradshaw knows about, it's loss. A new position brings him back to San Diego, and back into your life right when you need it most. (from this anon request)

warnings: parental death, angst, hurt/comfort, sad dad bradley, w/c: 10k

for my 1k follower celebration! thank you so much to everyone who's ever read and supported my fics <3

It’s been seven hours since your parents died. Seven hours since the truck collided with your dad’s Chevrolet, on a freeway just two miles from your childhood home. They had been going out for dinner, their first night alone since the twins had been born.

They were stopping off at The Hard Deck to drop a birthday present off for Maverick, neighbour and long-time friend, before heading across town to hit the new Thai place that had just opened up.

At least, that’s what the babysitter had told the cops.

Your mom had been coming to visit you in San Francisco just next weekend. Want some time with my biggest girl, she’d said. Especially since we haven’t been around much recently, what with Olivia and Molly.

But now they’re gone, and your entire childhood resides only in your memory.

Never again will you go to a concert with your dad, continually teasing about his teenage girl taste, and the fact that you’re pretty sure he likes Lana Del Rey more than you do. You’ll never have coffee with your mom, gossiping about distant family members who neither of you have seen in years.

In a single instant, life has become abstract - you’re not sure who you are without them. You’re not even sure you want to find out.

The traffic’s slowed down, now that it’s after midnight. You’ve been driving since you got the news, knuckles white as you grip the steering wheel.

One second you were applying lipstick, getting ready to head out for a date. You’d met the guy on Hinge, and it was unlikely to go anywhere, but you’d been trying to force yourself to get back in the game. It felt like all your friends were starting to settle down, find their person. You’ve not had much luck on that front. Three months here, six months there - it never went anywhere.

You weren’t committal enough. Too unwilling to change. You’d heard it all.

Now all you can think about is your horrifically inappropriate shade of lipstick, and the fact that you’re never going to see your mom again.

You think you might be sick.

*****

You had been an accident. And unfortunate, but indisputable fact. Sure, your parents loved each other - but they certainly weren't planning for a baby at eighteen.

Fresh out of high school, they’d made the best with what they had - a tiny house in the San Diego suburbs, all while scrambling to find jobs. It’s a decision that would forever intwine your lives with the Bradshaw family.

Living in the slightly better house at the end of the street, Nick and Carole Bradshaw were approximately a year ahead of your family. Eleven months earlier, they’d had Bradley, and while they were slightly older than your parents, they were very much all in the same boat.

You don’t have many memories of Nick. Dying just after Bradley’s fourth birthday, you were barely even three. The last time you’d seen him had been at Bradley’s party - you’d spent the entire last hour perched on his shoulders, giggling as he chased Bradley around the back garden.

He seemed like a good man. A good husband. A good father.

But life went on, and your parents stayed incredibly close with Carole. Eventually both of you moved to another neighbourhood in San Diego, beside Bradley’s godfather Maverick, and his wife and stepdaughter, Penny and Amelia.

Things were good.

You don’t remember exactly when you became aware of your parents trying for another baby. There had been vague references to getting a sibling throughout your childhood, but when nothing ever came to fruition, you just shrugged it off. Bradley didn’t have any siblings, and neither did you. You didn’t need siblings when you had each other.

Each day was spent in your backyard or the Bradshaw’s, playing make-believe until you were exhausted.

Even in the throes of puberty, where Bradley was finding his footing in high-school, while you were still in middle school, he’d always make time for you. Would never let his cooler, older friends make fun of you, or make you feel less than.

You’re sure he must have caught his own flack for it, but he didn't let you see it.

Your teenage years passed, and still no sibling. Eventually, words like ‘infertility’ and ‘IVF’ began to get thrown around. Suddenly, nights when your mom was inconsolable became far more understandable.

It seemed like you were meant to be a three-person family.

Finally, they got Adam. Born three months before your twenty-first birthday - the jokes had made themselves.

It had been the last round of IVF they were going to have. It was too taxing, emotionally and physically, to keep going. Especially when you were coming of an age where you might want your own kids in a few years. Your parents didn’t want your kids to have aunts and uncles their own age.

You loved Adam. You did. You do. It’s just always been quite difficult to bond with a kid twenty years your junior. You were across the country at college for all of his major milestones, barely seeing your parents, nevermind anyone else.

It was also at this point that you lost contact with Bradley.

He’d joined the Navy, hellbent on following in Nick Bradshaw’s footsteps after Carole’s death. You wrote occasionally, sent Christmas and birthday cards, but it was never like it used to be.

That had been enough for your parents. Your family complete, mom and dad content with a son and a daughter.

If the cards had fallen differently, Adam might have been your only sibling.

Against every single odd, your mother found out she was pregnant again on her forty-second birthday. After fifteen years of fertility treatments, they conceived naturally just two years after stopping trying.

Oh how funny the universe can be.

Shock had quickly multiplied when the first ultrasound scan showed twins. You wanted to be happy for them. Really, truly. Your parents were finally getting the big family they’d once dreamed of.

You just wished it didn’t feel like you were being replaced in your own home. Your childhood bedroom had been immediately converted to a nursery, like there was no longer a place for you.

You understood. After some tears, you came to the conclusion that if losing your bedroom in a city you didn't live in was the worst thing in your life, you should be grateful. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt a little.

Visits thinned, relegated to holidays and summers, even after college. You moved back to the West Coast, opting for San Fran over Diego, and life has been fine. A little boring, not so great on the dating end, but fine. When you’d hoped for a change, this had certainly not been what you were wanting.

At least the kids are okay. A brief reprieve amongst the chaos. You’ve been on the phone to Maverick - he and Penny are staying with them until you make it there.

“Bradley’s here too.”

There was a name you hadn’t heard for a while.

You're not even sure when you thought about him last.

The roads start to blur together, until finally you're on your street. You haven't been home since Christmas.

The door opens as you pull into the driveway. You half-thought the tears would come as soon as you saw the house, but everything seems dry.

Bradley steps out, making his way over to you. He pauses for a second, allowing you to make the decision, before you throw yourself into his arms. His hands settle on your waist, and you let out a small sob as you bury your face into the crook of his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” He murmurs, voice deeper than you remember. With all his deployments, the last time you saw him was Christmas a few years ago. His first after Carole had died.

Other than the occasional Instagram post, you have no idea what he’s up to these days. You hadn’t even known he was even living in San Diego again.

He looks good. Really good. Sporting a moustache that would look ridiculous on anybody else, he’s filled out in a way that makes your throat constrict slightly. The Navy has served him well.

“A-are the kids okay?”

“Penny and Mav put them to bed,” He replies. “The twins are fine, but uh… Adam was pretty upset. He knew something was going on from the babysitter - we wouldn’t have told him straight away otherwise, but things were so confused, and-”

“Thank you,” You whisper, pulling back. “For being there for them. I-I didn’t even know you were in town.”

“For the past few months. Moved into mom’s house.” He gestures at the near identical house next door.

It’s a horrible club to be joining. That of the dead parents. But the smallest, most selfish part of you is endlessly relieved that he knows how you feel. How he might be the only one who does.

“Was the drive okay?”

“Hm?” You murmur, distracted by the windows upstairs. So many memories flash through your mind - sneaking out to go to parties with Bradley at sixteen, sitting and stargazing with your dad on the 4th of July. Or that time Bradley fell trying to climb up, and had been in a cast all summer.

“The drive? You must be exhausted.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m okay,” You dismiss, making shaky steps into the house. It looks exactly as you remember it. Mav and Penny sit in the living room, faces grave. After Nick, and then Carole, you can tell they’re vastly unprepared to bury another set of friends.

“Oh, kid,” Maverick begins, wrapping you in a hug. “I’m sorry.”

Something about Maverick’s embrace, the way he cups your head against him reminds you painfully of your dad. “I-I don’t know what to do,” You cry. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Don’t worry about any of that right now,” Penny breathes, tears staining her own cheeks. “We’ll help you with whatever you need.”

A glass of water is pushed into your hand, a kiss pressed to your head, and you’re sat in the living room.

Chat is stilted, dancing around the obvious, and soon you begin to insist that they all head home, get some sleep. If it weren’t for the fact that they’re a maximum of fifty meters away at any given time, you’re not sure you would’ve been able to convince any of them to leave.

It’s only when you agree to Mav and Bradley coming over in the morning to help with arrangements, while Penny helps with the kids, that they filter out.

Soon, you’re alone, and the tears return in waves.

Choked sobs that had hidden themselves in the presence of others, now nearly bringing you to your knees.

This isn’t right.

Your dad should be on the couch, watching Cheers re-runs, while your mom knits and pretends that she isn’t watching (she always is).

The kids upstairs should have a real adult looking out for them. Not a girl, barely out of grad-school, who regularly forgoes breakfast because she can’t be bothered making it for herself.

You get very little sleep that night - wandering through to the kid’s rooms every hour or so to make sure they’re okay. Outside of the occasional babysitting gig as a teen, you have no idea what to do with anyone under the age of ten. You opt for the couch in your parent’s bedroom, rather than their bed.

Still unmade from the night before, you don’t think you can bring yourself to sleep in it just yet. It still smells of your mom’s shampoo, your dad’s aftershave.

It’s such a strange sensation, to be somewhere that should be so familiar. Instead, it’s like you’ve wandered into another universe, one where your parents are dead and nothing makes sense anymore.

*****

Adam’s forgotten about yesterday’s incidents by the time morning comes round. He prances into the bedroom, face dropping into a frown when he sees the bed empty.

“Hey, kid,” You murmur, opening your arms for a cuddle.

“Where’s Mommy?” He asks, chewing on one of his fingers as he allows you to pull him onto your lap.

You swallow, trying desperately to come up with a way to tell your four-year-old brother that both his parents are dead. “There was an accident yesterday, and Mommy and Daddy got really hurt.” A lump forms, and you pray that you can keep it together long enough to get through this. “The doctors weren’t able to help them, and they died.”

There’s a moment of quiet, as Adam considers your words. “They’re not here?”

“They’re not here,” You repeat quietly, a tear trickling down your cheek. “But I’m going to look after you and the girls, okay? And Aunt Penny and Uncle Mav. S’ okay to be sad.”

“Mommy’s not coming back?”

You shake your head, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “No, honey. I’m so sorry.” A whimper sounds from the nursery. The girls are waking up. “Why don’t you head downstairs, and I’ll grab Liv and Molly, and I’ll make you pancakes?”

Seemingly placated, Adam nods and heads downstairs, while you try and wrangle the twins. It’s a challenge, but you manage to get them into their highchairs, just as the door rings.

It’s Bradley, looking far too put-together for 6:45am. “I uh, saw that the curtains were open - figured you were up. How are you holding up?”

“I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet,” You admit, leading him to the kitchen. “Kind of just feels like I’m playing pretend.”

Bradley greets Adam with a wave, and drops a kiss to each of the girls’ heads. It feels so natural that a guilt tugs at your stomach. Bradley isn’t even family, and yet he feels far more familiar to these kids than you do.

“It’ll feel like that for a while,” He replies. “You want me to make breakfast?”

“Oh. I was just going to make pancakes.”

“Are you any better at cooking than you were as a teenager?” Bradley asks, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth.

Despite everything you laugh, shaking your head with your lip between your teeth.

“Got it. I’ll cook then.”

“I think I can survive pancakes,” You protest.

“Okay, grieving lesson 101. Learn to accept help.” His voice is firm, and you find yourself nodding. “Mav’ll stop by later - he’s got all the lawyer’s numbers, and funeral planning. Believe me, last thing you want to be doing is thinking about catering right now. Let us handle the paperwork, and we’ll ask you about anything important, okay?”

“Thanks, Brad.”

You’re overwhelmed by their presence, their willingness to drop everything to be here. A comfortable silence falls, Adam chattering nonsense in the background as Bradley cooks.

“Bradley?” You ask.

“Yeah?”

“When does it start to get easier?”

He looks over at you, with a candour that makes your heart sink. “My mom? I think it took me about a year.”

“That’s a long time,” You whisper.

“I know.” He reaches out, almost tentatively, taking your hand. His thumb rubs circles onto your palm. “But you’ll get through it.”

“Can you maybe help with changing Adam’s insulin sensor? It needs done every two weeks, but he doesn’t like swapping them out.”

Bradley nods. “Yeah, of course. What do you need me to do?”

“Just chat to him, keep him distracted.”

You and Bradley make an excellent team. Bradley keeps him talking about baseball the entire time, allowing you to swap his sensor with relatively few tears.

It’s one of the only things you feel like you can manage. Ever since Adam got diagnosed last year, your parents made sure that everyone in the family was up-to-date on what to do, how to keep him safe. Everyone knows where the insulin and glucagon can be found, and how often his Libre sensor needs changed.

In an attempt to get you all out of the house, Bradley suggests a walk to the local park. He’s got Adam on his shoulders, and you push the twins.

It gets your mind off of everything for a little bit, and for that you're grateful.

You wonder what it looks like from the outside. If people assume that you’re married, had kids straight out of college. You suppose they must. You don’t hate the idea as much as you should.

*****

“I guess, what we’re saying is that you have options,” The lawyer says, sitting back in her chair. You, Maverick, Penny and Bradley are crowded into the cramped office. “You’re the legal guardian of the kids, but we understand that’s a lot for a twenty-five-year-old to deal with. As you’ve discussed already, Pete and Penelope would be willing to take them-”

“I’m going to keep them,” You interrupt. It’s been a decision that’s eaten away at you for the past week. It was never a question of adoption - you couldn’t ever do that to your own siblings. But after a particularly hard night, when Penny had offered it to you, a tiny part of yourself had wondered.

Wondered if it would be so bad, for them to grow up with two parents, who were far more capable and experienced than you are. Penny’s a far better mother than you could ever hope to be - maybe you’d be doing them a favour?

Maybe everybody would be better off if you weren’t in charge.

Then you’d stood in the nursery, after the twins had fallen asleep, with tears streaming down your face, and realised that you couldn’t give them up. Not for anything. You owed it to them, and your parents, to try.

Maverick nods approvingly. “We’ll be here for whatever you need, kid. Whenever you need it.”

“I’ve got a permanent position in San Diego now,” Bradley adds. “I’ll still have to ship out occasionally, but I’ll be here too.”

The rest of the afternoon is spent going over will logistics, funeral arrangements, and adoption papers. Something about health insurance means you need to formally adopt the kids, a process that’ll take a while.

But with Adam and his diabetes, it’s something that has to be done.

Slowly but surely, things seem to be becoming a little more manageable. Maverick and Penny explained any of the financial aspects you don't understand, while Bradley's hand stays firmly on your knee the entire meeting, tracing soothing patterns onto your skin.

*****

You don’t fall apart until the tenth. Two weeks, four days and three hours after your parents die. The funerals are over, the flowers are dying, and now there’s just grief. Raw, unfiltered grief that’s been pushed under your need to care for the kids.

But tonight, Adam has been asking questions you don’t know how to answer. Crying tears you don’t know how to soothe, sobs only ceasing when Bradley arrives after work.

You busy yourself with the girls, trying to soothe Liv’s sore throat while Molly does everything she can to avoid a bath - all while pretending that Adam’s rejection doesn’t bother you.

The fact that Bradley’s the sun, moon, and stars to him - and you’re just the poor mother substitute. The perpetual bad guy. The one who won’t let him see Mommy and Daddy.

You hold it together for approximately ten minutes after the twins go down. Standing in the kitchen, leaning against the island, a small sob escapes as you wrap your arms round your shoulders. Trying to ground yourself, stop your head from pounding so viciously.

It’s only when you hear Bradley’s footsteps padding down the stairs that you swallow, turning to the mountain of dishes piling up in the sink and busying yourself. He’s just spent the last hour comforting Adam. You don’t want him to feel responsible for you too.

“Is he asleep?” You ask, voice far thicker than you’d like.

“Yeah - took some convincing, but he’s out.”

“There’s some pasta in the fridge, if you want to take it for dinner,” You manage, back still pointedly turned.

“You don’t want me to stay?” You wish you could unhear the hurt in his voice, the fact that he’s the only reason you’ve survived the past few weeks, while you can’t even look him in the eye.

There’s nothing you want more than for him to stay. To let this unsteady rhythm you’ve both concocted continue for as long as its able. Until he decides to move on.

Because he will. The kindness he’s shown you is immeasurable, and you’ll never be able to thank him enough, and yet you know it must be finite. One day, he’ll meet a girl, fall in love, and you’ll go back to just childhood best friend.

“Is everything okay?”

You’ve been quiet for too long. Bradley’s perceptive. He always has been. A normally endearing trait, you surprise even yourself when a cry slips from your lips.

A dam shatters, and the sobs wrack your body.

Bradley’s across the room in seconds, pulling you into him. His arms circle your waist, strong and steady as he keeps you upright. Just like he’s been doing since the crash.

“I don't think I can do this,” You whisper, voice hoarse. “I can barely look after myself. Nev-nevermind them.”

"I know it's hard," He murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple. "You're doing the hardest fucking thing in the world, kid. You've gotta give yourself some grace. They were your parents too."

"I-if I let myself feel it, I don't know where it'll end. I don't know if it'll end." Another cry bubbles up, and you bury your face in his shoulder. "I'm so scared, Bradley."

“Mav and Penny and I, we’re here for whatever you need, okay? Anything.”

You nod, trying to quell your tears. “Y-you’ve done so much already. I can’t ask you to do any more-”

“You aren’t,” He replies. “I’m offering. I love those kids, I love you all. I'd do anything for you.”

Your grip on him tightens just slightly, needing to ground yourself.

“Do you have the life insurance payout yet?”

You detach from him slightly, hands dropping to his forearms. “I used it to buy the house. There was still a lot of the mortgage to pay off. A-and I couldn’t afford the payments without it. The last thing they need is to be moved, on top of everything else-”

“Hey,” He interjects, voice soft. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, okay? You’re doing what you need to. Go run yourself a bath, try and relax for a bit.”

“I need to do the dishes, and make lunch for tomorrow-”

He shakes his head. “I’ve got it.” Your protests die on your lips. A bath does sound nice. “We can watch a movie or something, after you’re done.”

You wipe the last of your tears, and press a kiss to his cheek. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

He’s going to make someone incredibly happy someday.

The thought leaps into your head unprompted, and you swallow it back. You don’t need more reminders of how temporary this is.

*****

The next day is even worse. Adam’s doing his best moody teenager impression, while Molly’s contracted Olivia’s cold.

Penny spends the afternoon, and makes things slightly more bearable, but her and Maverick have theatre tickets that night. She offered to cancel, but you’d insisted they go. They needed some normality too. It’s easy to forget that Mav and Penny have known your mom and dad since their twenties. They’re grieving almost as much as you are.

You barely make it to seven before your tears start too. It’s all you can do to dial Bradley’s number.

“Is everything okay?”

“I-I,” You stammer, hardly able to even get the words out. “I don’t know what to do. T-the girls are sick, and I can’t get any of them down, and I don’t know what I’m doing-”

“I’ll be over in a second.”

The phone cuts off, and true to his word, the bell goes in approximately half a minute. You’ve never been more grateful to see someone in your life. You’re sure you must look like a total mess, hair unbrushed and mascara dripping down your cheeks, but Bradley doesn’t comment. Instead, he takes Olivia from your arms and presses a kiss to your forehead. He greets Adam, who looks considerably happier to see Bradley than he was to see you, and whispers a couple of words into his ear.

You can’t make out what he says, but Adam immediately softens, before approaching you and offering a hug.

“Why don’t you get Adam, and I’ll get the girls?” Bradley offers, and you nod gratefully.

Whatever Bradley said worked wonders, and Adam’s far more amenable to bedtime than he was before.

It takes Bradley a little longer, and a lot more sniffling, but forty-five minutes he appears down the stairs, and all is quiet again. “Come on,” He murmurs softly. “You’re exhausted.”

“It’s only eight,” You reply, voice barely more than a whisper. “I haven’t made myself dinner yet.”

“Sounds like a night for pizza in bed then,” He replies.

And so, twenty minutes later, Bradley’s tipping the delivery guy, before clambering into bed with you. It’s the best meal you’ve had in your life, tucked into his side as some cheesy rom-com plays in the background.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?” Bradley asks, eyebrow raised.

“How are you so good with them? So natural? It feels like I make the wrong choice at every possible turn.”

He shrugs slightly, pulling you in closer. “It’s easy when they aren’t yours. I’m a novelty to them - if they were my kids, you’d be the exact same.”

You’re not sure you agree, but you nod, placated with his answer.

It doesn’t take long to drift off to sleep, still curled up against him. And the next morning when you wake up to a solid shape beside you, an arm draped across your waist, your heart soars.

*****

You know you're being unreasonable. Bradley's been the best thing that's ever happened to the kids - endlessly patient, full of energy, always down to play. He's shouldered things you wouldn't expect from a close relative, much less a distant family friend.

When there was a problem with the house insurance, Bradley spent three hours on the phone to agents, working out a plan that worked best for you.

Every Saturday, when another week passes and your parents slip further from your grasp, he turns up at 7pm on the dot, armed with casserole and ice cream. He takes Olivia from your arms, and soothes them all to bed with his stories and tales, allowing you the briefest moment of reprieve.

For the first month, he'd end each night holding you while you cried, pressing soft butterfly kisses to your forehead as he promised better things. Promised that things would get easier, that he'd be there for whatever you needed.

But it can't last forever. Made starkly obvious by the woman in the park today.

You’d been having a picnic, while Bradley was continuing Adam’s baseball education. From your perspective, it was just throwing a ball back and forth, but they’d both insisted there was considerable technique and skill to it. You’d taken the girls to go get ice-cream, and had come back to a woman chatting to Bradley, while Adam busied himself with a mitt. You couldn’t hear what was going on, but Bradley smiled, shook his head, and she went on her way.

Turning back round, he was immediately by your side to help with the ice-creams, hand reaching out to push a stray hair back from your face.

You understand the thought process. She saw an attractive guy, with a cute kid, and no ring. You'd have taken those odds with Bradley if you were her.

And when he turned her down, you had no idea what to think. The last thing you want to do is hold him back. Keep him from any kind of happiness.

Even if it killed you a little, you'd be thrilled for him. Even if it meant you became relegated to his past, meant only for occasional visits and cards at Christmas.

Maybe you'd find someone else too. Someone that liked kids, didn't mind some baggage. Maybe this ache in your chest won't last forever.

You can tell he knows something's up when he slips into bed wordlessly, clicking the light off as he goes. You've been lying on the edge for the past twenty minutes, cheek turned out to the window as you try and quell the awful guilt festering low in your stomach.

Bradley's freshly twenty-six. The last thing he wants is to be tied down to three kids. To you.

You're being selfish with him. And it breaks your heart.

But he's in your bed tonight, and maybe that's enough for now.

When you shuffle over towards the midline, far closer to him than you've ever dared before, he finally speaks. "You alright?"

"Can't sleep," Is all you can muster.

"C'mere," He murmurs, voice gravelly as he reaches out for you. You let him loop a hand round your wrist, pulling you across the bed until you're settled against his chest. It feels so terribly right that you want to bawl. Instead, you press your face into the crook of his shoulder and let out a shaky breath.

His arm is draped across your waist, and you're almost chest-to-chest. It's the closest you've been since childhood.

"Better?"

"Better."

*****

Bradley gets orders to deploy the following week. It’s only three months, hardly anything by Navy standards, but the idea of going that long without him makes you feel a little ill. You don’t remember the last time he spent the night in his own house. Each night you somehow manage to get closer, waking up fully intertwined as the kids throw themselves on top of you both.

The house feels too big without him, even with three children racing around.

You both made the decision not to bring the kids to base to say goodbye. After the year they’ve had, neither of you want to make a big deal of Bradley’s leaving. Instead, last night he came home armed with three build-a-bears, each one with a sound-bite of him singing.

American Pie, Adam’s favourite song, much to Bradley’s delight.

Shake It Off for Olivia.

And that godawful new Benson Boone song for Molly.

The idea of Bradley Bradshaw standing in build-a-bear, singing quietly into a little machine, just so the kids have something to remember him by, makes you want to sob. If Bradley Bradshaw’s out to ruin all men for you, he’s doing an excellent job.

Penny said her goodbyes to Bradley at the house, before Maverick drove you both out to base. Now, you’re standing on the tarmac, watching on as Bradley and Pete say their goodbyes. As soon as Maverick’s pulling back, he suddenly spots someone across the lot that he’s got to go say hello to. A squeeze of your shoulder as he passes, and you’re left with Bradley.

“You'll write?” He knows the answer, but when this is the last time he’s going to see you until November, he’d like the reassurance.

“Every day,” You murmur. “I-we’re really going to miss you, Brad.”

He reaches out, pulling you in for a tight hug. “I’m going to miss you too. But it’ll be over in a flash. Promise.”

You somehow can’t imagine that being true. “Stay safe. Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

“When am I ever stupid?” He asks, smiling until he sees your expression. “Don’t answer that.”

Too quickly, it’s time for him to go. “See you soon, sweet girl.”

And then he’s gone.

Bradley wonders how you're getting on today. If Adam's talent show went well, or if the twins are still teething.

They'll be eighteen months by the time he gets back. Not much older, in the grand scheme of things, but he'll know.

At that age, consistency is everything. Adam's old enough to know Bradley, understand that he's going away for a little while - but Olivia and Molly? He might return a complete stranger.

Sitting in the barracks, head in his hands, he wonders if this is how his dad felt every time he left him and his mom behind.

He knows what Jake would say if he were here. Something snarky, probably. A comment about how they aren't even your kids, nevermind his. That Bradley Bradshaw must be the only bastard on earth who can land himself with diaper duties before first base.

He slips the picture out of his wallet. The one at the picnic. Nat had taken it, the five of you all crammed onto one blanket. Adam's clambering over Bradley's shoulders, and Olivia sits on his lap, reaching up for her brother. You've got Molly, smile wide as you watch the scene before you. Your eyes are on the kids, but his are very much on you.

A guilt festers in him, but he feels happier than he has in years. Ever since his mom died he’s felt totally aimless, drifting from one mission to another, little care as to whether he lived or died. Now, the idea of not going home to you all at the end of the day feels inconceivable.

It just makes him feel terrible that four people had to lose their parents for that to happen.

"Bradshaw," A voice greets, knocking him out of his trance. "How's it going?"

Seeing the picture clasped in Bradley's hand, Reuben steps forward to take a look. "Cute kids. This your first deployment since having them?"

They're not mine. They're my best friend's siblings, but I'm pretty sure I'm in love with her, and I think it would kill me if I don't get to see those kids grow up.

"Uh, yeah. It is."

“Ah, first one’s always the hardest. But it’s so much better getting to go home at the end of it. I used to go home to an empty house after deployments-” Other than a visit to Penny and Maverick, that had been Bradley’s experience with deployments. “-and let me tell you - going home to your kids after a few months? Best feeling in the whole world. I cried the last time I saw my wife on the tarmac.”

Bradley imagines what life would be like if you were his wife. If, when he gets home, he’d be able to pull you close, and kiss you until your lips are pink and swollen, before heading home to the kids.

He wonders what your own kids would look like. His and yours. He doesn’t even know if you’d want that now, not with the three you’ve already got, but he doesn’t mind. As long as you’re happy, he’d be happy too. In whatever form, whatever capacity that turns out to be.

*****

The babysitter’s left, and the house is quiet. You’d managed to transfer your work to the San Diego offices, but unfortunately that means two days a week in the office. You’re still grateful that you can stay at home with the girls most of the time, but you’re starting to feel it. Balancing work and the kids, all while worrying about Bradley every day is taking a toll.

All three of them are sleeping, totally exhausted after Uncle Mav decided that they should go to a local theme park first thing, before the babysitter arrived. You’ve never used her before, so Mav and Penny offered to take them in the morning to make her day a little easier.

You’re going to grab some leftover pasta for dinner, when you frown. Adam’s insulin is missing.

Pulling out your phone, you shoot a quick text to the babysitter.

You: Hey, have you seen Adam’s insulin anywhere? Green and orange pens.

Andie: it had fallen out of the freezer, so i put it back!

Your heart sinks. Frozen insulin is unusable. You must have knocked it out of the fridge this morning before work. Andie wouldn’t have realised, and just put it back in.

That’s a thousand dollars of medication down the drain.

You have no idea how you’re supposed to pay for more, if insurance doesn’t cover it. Hands shaking, you dial the number. Maybe you can catch them before they finish up for the day.

You get a polite but tired-sounding woman on the phone, who is very apologetic, but firm about the fact that they can’t do anything. You can only afford base coverage, and that doesn’t have any stipulations for accidents.

After the car payments, and school, and insurance, you’re running low. Really low. It’s not something you’d ever admit to Bradley or Maverick, unless the kids were at risk.

Maybe you can sell something. Your mom’s engagement ring, your dad’s watch - there has to be something you can do.

The tears come anyway, and it isn’t until your phone rings that you realise what time it is.

You let out a quiet curse. This is Bradley's call night. The single video call he gets for this entire month. After tonight, he'll be stuck with e-mails until he's home.

Four weeks of not seeing his face. You’re not sure how you’re going to cope. Hastily wiping at your eyes, you accept the call, and move through to the kitchen.

“Hi, Brad,” You smile, desperately hoping the camera doesn't pick up your tear tracks.

He looks tired, but happy. His hair is cropped closer than you like, an unfortunate side effect of military duty. But he’s okay, and that’s what matters. You can’t help the feeling of dread that seems to fester in your stomach each time you think about Bradley being somewhere in the middle of the ocean, doing things he can’t tell you anything about.

“What’s wrong?” He’s frowning immediately, and you want to curse yourself. You should’ve made more of an effort to freshen up before getting on the call.

“I-it’s nothing, just a long day at work.”

“Kid, you look like you're about to sob. Please tell me what's going on.”

“I dropped Adam's insulin out of the fridge today - i-it must've been right after I left for work, and the babysitter thought it was meant to go in the freezer. A-and all of his insulin for the month is ruined.”

“Did you call the insurance company?”

“They won’t cover it,” You reply, voice weak. “We don’t pay enough to get replacements - all we get is the base coverage. But uh, it’s fine, I’ll work something out. He has enough for tonight.”

“I can send you the money-”

“No!” You interject immediately. “God, Bradley, you’ve done too much. It’s okay, I can work it out to tomorrow - go to the bank, see what they can do-”

“Sweetheart, I really don’t mind. I don’t want you to have to sell anything, or take out a loan or anything. The money’s just sitting there in my account, anyway. I’d always rather it went to the kids, or you.”

“My dad has a watch, that-”

Bradley’s face falls, as he shakes his head. “Please. I’m not letting you sell your parent’s things. Let me send you the money.”

“I just- I don’t really want to talk about it, is that okay? Can we talk about anything else?”

He nods, eyes still concerned. “Of course. You decided what you want to do for your birthday yet?”

You shake your head. “Just a quiet day, I think.”

“What if I told you I had some Stevie Nicks tickets with your name on them? It’s the day after your birthday, so not quite-”

“You didn’t,” You gasp. “How the hell did you get them from Japan?”

“I left very detailed instructions with Mav and Penny. I think the seats are terrible, but we’ll have fun. It’s in LA, so I’ve booked us into the Garland too, so we don’t have to worry about the drive back.” Sensing the question on your tongue, he continues. “I’ve already asked Mav. They’ll stay with the kids.”

“You’re insane,” You laugh, still wiping at your eyes slightly.

“In a good way, I hope?”

“The best.”

“I’m glad. We can plan it properly when I’m back. Maybe catch lunch in the city beforehand, go to the pier? Whatever you want, honey.”

“You’re going to make me cry again,” You mumble, dabbing at your eyes.

“As long as it’s happy tears.”

“The absolute happiest.”

*****

Just minutes after you hang up, a notification comes through on your phone.

Bank transfer: $1500 has been deposited into your account ending in XXXX, from Bradley Bradshaw.

07/07. 21:37.

Dear Bradley,

You shouldn’t have sent all that money, it’s far too much! You’ve done so much for us already, I can’t even begin to thank you the way you deserve. But since I figure you wouldn’t take kindly to me sending it back, thank you <3 I think Adam’s insulin should be about 1k, so I can send the rest back afterwards. Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Missing you lots, and I’ve attached some pics of Adam’s last game - he insisted I send you some, so that you can see how he’s been practicing his throw! They lost, but it was a lot closer than it’s been recently. He attributes it all to you.

The girls are settling into daycare. I miss them during the day, but I really just couldn’t handle working from home and juggling them both at once. And the staff are so lovely - very hands-on, and they always come home with some kind of arts and crafts.

They’ve already decided that they want to go to the zoo when you’re back, plus a picnic. Sorry to start booking you in for social stuff before you’re even home.

Stay safe and thank you again x

07/08. 05:19.

Kid, I really truly don’t want to see that money back in my account. What’s the point of having it if you can’t use it for the people you love? Buy yourself something nice (and by that I mean by something for you, not for the kids).

Tell Adam he’ll be coming for the big leagues in no time, guy’s a pro! I think that calls for a new mitt when I get home. And I’m so glad Liv and Mol are doing well, I know you’d been worried about the time apart.

We’re about to go offline for a little while, but I’ll be in contact as soon as I’m able. Would you be able to send some more pictures? I have a few of the kids, but there’s only one with you. I don’t know, no worries if not - just missing all of your faces. There’s only so much of Reuben and Mickey that a man can take.

You’re doing so well, honey.

See you soon,

Bradley x

07/10. 18:03.

Hi Brad,

Hope you’re doing okay, and staying safe. As usual, we miss you loads. I got Adam’s insulin sorted, so we’re all good on that front. He says thank you, and I’ve attached a picture of the drawing he did of you both. You’re apparently on holiday in Paris - some not-so-subtle signals for after I get that promotion maybe?

Mav and Penny took the kids so that I could go to Nat’s birthday, which was really nice. They all send their love, and I sent a pic of everybody. I used most of the money left over for Adam’s baseball summer camp (I’m sorry! I know you said to use it on me, but you really should’ve known that was going to happen), but I did treat myself to a dress so you couldn’t be too annoyed. There should be a picture of that somewhere in the files too - I don’t know why I sent it really. Proof that I can spend money on myself? Anyway, feel free to discard.

Sent you a bundle - I didn’t really know what you wanted, so I thought too many was better than not enough. Please email as soon as you’re able - you know I worry.

Can’t wait to see you x

07/17. 03:58.

Hi honey,

That’s us just back to base - can’t tell you any more than that, but we’re all safe. Sorry for the stupid hour, but I wanted to reply before I went to bed.

The new dress looks beautiful. Really. Wish you’d spent more of the money on yourself, but I’ll take what I can get. Green is definitely your colour, though. I’m glad you had a nice time at Nat’s, and that the kids are still doing well.

I love Adam’s drawing, and it’ll get pride of place in my office back in San Diego. With the art and the baseball, I think we might have quite the ladies man on our hands in the future.

Can’t wait for these two weeks to be over, so I can come home to you all.

Love,

Bradley x

It’s the slowest two weeks of his life. Made bearable only by the photos you continue to send, he tries to have one on him at all times, slipped into his flight suit. More often than not, it’s the solo shot of you, in the floaty green summer dress that makes him feel dizzy each time he looks at it.

If Bradley Bradshaw were a smarter man, he’d realise that keeping your best friend in the crevice of your heart saved only for loves of your life is a very telling act. That you’re the first person he thinks about in the morning, and the last at night.

For the first time in his life, it’s not just Maverick and Penny waiting for him. As soon as Bradley’s feet are on the tarmac, he’s sifting through the crowds. Before he can even find you, a shape bursts forwards from the throngs of people, and Adam starts sprinting in his direction. Letting out a laugh, Bradley hoists his duffel bag higher, ready to catch him as he throws himself the final few feet.

“Bradley!” He exclaims, arms immediately wrapping around his neck.

“Hey, kiddo,” Bradley replies, arm tightening round the boy as he starts to move. “Long time no see.”

“We missed you.”

“I missed you too. Care to point me in the direction of your sister?”

Adam glances around, before offering a vague gesture to his left. Bradley follows his finger, and finally his gaze lands on you.

In the green dress.

Liv is balanced on your hip, Molly clinging to your leg. And when you smile at him, a lump forms in his throat.

He thinks he understands what Reuben was talking about now.

All of Bradley’s fears of the twins not recognising him evaporate when Molly smiles up at him, toothy and wide as he makes his way over. She takes some unsteady steps towards him, letting out a giggle when he scoops her into his arms.

Suddenly feeling left out, Olivia starts to reach out too.

“Let’s wait until Bradley puts the others down, okay-” You begin, but he shakes his head.

“Wait, hold on, I can make this work,” He murmurs, readjusting Adam and Molly as he takes Olivia, still somehow managing to find a way to hug you at the same time.

“Hi,” You breathe.

“Hi,” He replies, dropping a kiss to your forehead as he balances the three kids. Another second passes, and then Mav and Penny reach out to take the kids back, allowing you and Bradley a second alone.

“You’re okay?”

He nods, and then he’s hugging you again, far tighter than the one with the children. Your arms fasten round his neck, while his tighten round your waist, pulling you just off the ground as he holds you close. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too. Thank you for the money, Brad. You really saved us.”

“Don’t mention it,” He mumbles. “Really. I’d do anything for you guys.”

“Ready to go home?”

Home. Not his mom’s old house, but the one next door. The one he can’t ever imagine leaving. “More than anything, honey.”

*****

You muddle your way through dinner, having spent three months trying desperately to get better at cooking. While there’s a marked improvement, you’re not sure you’ll ever reach Bradley’s level. But the pasta was edible, and Bradley seemed to appreciate the effort.

Exhausted from welcoming Bradley back, the kids all go down relatively easy, and when Penny and Mav head back home, it’s just you and Bradley. You’ve worked your way through a bottle of wine, and are sitting far closer than you normally would.

Your feet are in his lap, his thumb stroking gently at his ankle.

“Listen, feel free to tell me if this is insane - but uh, I was thinking that maybe we should get married.”

You almost choke on your drink. “What?”

“I get really good health insurance with the Navy - i-if you wanted to, we could get married, and I could adopt the kids - and you wouldn’t have to worry about them.”

“Bradley…” You start, totally at a loss for words. “I-I can’t ask you to do that.”

“What if I want to?” He whispers, eyes earnest, and you can feel yourself welling up. It’s not how you imagined a proposal going, not by any stretch, but the tenderness in his voice makes your knees weak. It would be nice to not have to spend every month wondering if you’d be able to make the healthcare payments.

“Y-you’re sure?”

“Yeah. I am.”

Things move pretty quickly. Neither of you are sure when Bradley’s going to get deployed again, and he needs to have formally adopted the kids to get them put on his health insurance.

Adam is ecstatic with the news, and has already signed Bradley up to talk at career day about being a pilot. And the girls, while not quite at the speaking stage, adore him too. For the first time, you feel like you might be making the right choice.

It’s a tiny affair. Just you, Bradley, the kids, Maverick, Penny and Amelia. You’d agreed not to dress up, and Bradley had suggested your new green one. He’s wearing slacks and a shirt, hair bleached a little from the sun.

It takes everything in you to remember that this isn’t romantic. It’s a platonic wedding, happening only for the sake of the kids.

Something that becomes clear when it’s time to kiss the bride, and Bradley kisses your cheek. You’d been expecting it. Of course you had. The two of you aren’t together, and there’s no reason to believe that Bradley would choose a room with his family and the kids to make his first move.

But it reminds you of what today really is.

A duty. Nothing more.

You wait until Bradley’s distracted by the twins to sneak off to the bathroom, allowing a few tears to escape as you go.

This isn’t how it was meant to go.

For you or Bradley.

Bradley shouldn’t be caging himself in at twenty-six to three kids. This is your reality, but it doesn’t have to be his.

*****

The two of you settle into a rhythm in the house, cautious and a little awkward. It’s hard to think platonically about a man who you wake up next to every morning, who you raise children with. No matter how far apart you start the night, by morning there’s always a knee between your thighs, or his face pressed into your hair. Normally you can untangle yourself before Bradley wakes up. Makes things less weird for both of you.

He’s still your best friend, and you figure it’s probably a lot better than some of your friends who married for love.

So things move on, and while the grief is still very present across all your lives, Bradley alleviates it a little.

Right after Christmas, you get a wedding invitation from Jake, something Bradley had assumed he’d never see. Ever the eternal bachelor, it seems that he’s giving it up to settle down with his girlfriend, Bea.

With everybody now stationed in San Diego, you’ve spent a decent amount of time with them both. They’re a nice couple, they make a lot of sense.

And they’re disgustingly in love.

Like, more love than you could ever have expected Jake Seresin to be capable of showing.

Adam is Jake’s number one fan, and had been thrilled when they’d asked him to be the ring-bearer. Bradley had gotten a little huffy, put out at not always being his favourite anymore. He’d been pacified when Olivia had crawled onto his lap, wanting cuddles during The Lion King.

The wedding is beautiful. Standing in a new dress that Bradley had insisted you buy, after he had seen you hovering over it online one too many times, you feel pretty for the first time in months. His arm has been settled on the small of your back all night, and you’d teased him relentlessly for crying when Adam walked down the aisle.

You can’t help but feel like this is what Bradley deserves. Someone like Bea, whom he can love completely and openly. Not you, riddled with trauma and baggage that would make even the most experienced therapists wince.

He deserved a wedding like this. Not a court-house cheek kiss, full of adoption papers.

“What are you thinking?” Bradley murmurs, lacing his fingers through yours as you watch Jake and Bea have their first dance.

“I-I was just thinking about our wedding,” You reply, trying desperately to keep your voice steady.

“Yeah? What about it?”

“I don’t know, it’s stupid,” You dismiss, feeling the familiar prick of tears in your periphery. You won’t cry today. You won’t make Bradley feel worse than he probably already does.

Sensing the tone, Bradley drops it, pressing a quick kiss to the back of your knuckles. “Can’t believe Jake’s getting married. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“I thought for sure Bob would get married first out of all of you guys - he’s been with Chloe for so long.”

“Did I tell you they were talking about getting married in London, to be near Chlo’s family? Would maybe be nice to make a holiday of it. Take the kids, do Scotland-”

He’s cut off by the DJ asking for couples to get up and join the Seresins. Bradley’s immediately on his feet, offering you his hand.

“Oh, Brad, I don’t know-”

He doesn’t reply, just laces his fingers through yours, and pulls you to the dancefloor. Holding you tightly against him, you rest your head on his shoulder as he starts to sway.

A Frank Sinatra ballad plays in the background, and you try and keep your attention focused solely on Bradley. This is a happy occasion. You shouldn’t be ruining it with all this over-thinking.

“You look really beautiful,” He murmurs, head dipped to speak directly into your ear.

“You don’t look half-bad yourself.”

“No, I mean. You look really beautiful. Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

This feels like dangerous territory, and you swallow. “Brad-”

“I wish I could’ve given you something like this, like today.”

His words tip you over the edge, and a small sob escapes. Eyes widening, Bradley pulls back to look at you. A few of the nearest couples on the dancefloor also turn, concerned. “Oh, kid. I’m sorry- wait, fuck. Hold on.”

He’s leading you outside, pointedly ignoring any attention you’re both receiving. It’s colder than usual for San Diego, and he drapes his suit jacket over your shoulders, thumb reaching out to wipe at your tears.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“I’m sorry,” You cry, chest heaving as you try and regain control of yourself.

His arms are gripping yours, almost as if trying to keep you upright. “Don’t apologise, sweet girl. Was it talking about the wedding?”

“Y-you deserve better than this.”

“What?”

“You deserve a wedding like that. A wife like that. Not… whatever this is.”

Everything is pouring out. All the doubts of the past year, every insecurity, all the guilt about trapping Bradley. You don’t think you could bottle it up now if you tried.

“We’re holding you back.” Your voice is miserable, full of terror that he’ll agree. That he’ll leave, and you’ll be alone again. “That should be you in there. With someone that you love.”

“With you-” He begins, but you cut him off, another sob bubbling up.

“You don’t have to keep pretending, it’s okay.”

“Sweet girl, when I think about the rest of my life, all I can see is you. You, and the kids, and 23 Ridgemont Lane.”

The tears continue to trickle down your cheeks. “Bradley, you’re so young. What about if you meet someone, down the line-”

“That’s not going to happen-”

“You might want more, more than this - and I wouldn’t blame you-”

“Sweetheart, please let me talk for just once second-”

You’re spiralling. You know you are. But something about watching Jake and Bea in there makes you want to sob. That might not be in the cards for you, but you want it desperately for Bradley.

“I don’t want you to hate me one day.” The shake in your voice is borderline pathetic. It’s an admission. One you haven’t been sure you’re strong enough to make. That Bradley holds your heart in his hands, and he can do whatever he pleases with it.

“I could never hate you,” He whispers, reaching up to cup your cheeks. “God, kid, no. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You’re about to protest, when he closes the distance and presses his lips to yours. Your eyes flutter closed in surprise, hands resting on his chest.

He’s softer than you imagined, the slight scratch of his moustache the only friction.

It’s a kiss that knocks your world off its axis. One that you’re pretty sure would knock you off your feet were it not for Bradley’s arms holding you up - one curling at the nape of your neck, the other dropping to your hip, bring you closer, ever closer.

It’s a little uncoordinated, and it’s only when his nose bumps yours that you begin to realise that this is real.

You’re kissing Bradley, and he’s kissing you, and you’re not sure you ever want it to end.

He's smiling against your mouth, pressing you into the wall of the venue.

You’re not sure how much time has passed when he pulls back. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. “I love you,” He murmurs, nose brushing yours. “So much it kind of terrifies me.”

You let out an almost incredulous laugh. “I love you too.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, leaning in to kiss him again. “Can’t tell you how bad I’ve been feeling these last few months, thinking we were holding you back.

He’s shaking his head. “I'm right where I want to be, sweet girl. I want to be there for Adam starting elementary school, and for the twins starting to talk more. I want to fix up the basement, so that the kids have a playroom, and I want to build you one of those shed-things that give you a little peace and quiet after a long day.”

“You’ve thought about this a lot, huh?” You mumble, pressing butterfly kisses all over his face.

“I want to make sure the girls know that there’s no guy out there who will ever be good enough for them, and I want to teach Adam to play the guitar. Acoustic, not electric, for the sake of all our ears. But mostly, I really, really want to love you the way you deserve. I want to be a comfort during the bad times, and celebrate the good, and the rest of the time I just want to be near you.”

His arms are wrapped around you again, pulling you in tightly as you cry into his shoulder.

“What do you say?” He breathes. “Want to get married for real this time?”

How lucky you are to have Bradley Bradshaw in your life.

taglist @theskytraveler @alelo23 @kaz11283 @t-rexs-world @mrsjobarnes @tgmreader @katfanfic @callsignmagnolia @midnightmagpiemama @sunsetmaneuver @silentlysurffering98 @findthebeautyinbreakdowns @fogle97 @avengersfan25 @cherrycola27 @thelittlebirdwriter @khaylin27 @isthiscoinsidenceorasign @lomlbuckybarnes @elenavampire21 @spicytomatos @smurfettes-stuff @discomago @sage-burrow @butdaddyilovehim1 @gretagerwigsmuse @rascallyrascals @grimpowrrs @bella-the-proud-fangirl @littlealchemynovice @hopeless-romantic-baby @nnatel @sparkles121127 @emilyoflanternhill @mini-bee-bee @impossibleblizzardstudentposts @quietstormmess @bellaireland1981 @shamelessghostwagonwobbler @letlly @thetorturedpoetcalleddez @callsignginny @theskytraveler @bodhiscurls @kaybuijs @insomniactiefling @zuggarsblog @voidsxntry @victory-in-my-veins @lilmonstrpixie

[perfectprettypisces]

The Pink Star

pairing | new!avengers!bucky x new!avengers!reader

word count | 8.8k words

summary | when a world-famous diamond vanishes during a mission, all eyes fall on you—former jewel thief, current new avenger, and the possessive obsession of bucky barnes—who will defend you to the grave, whether you're guilty or not.

tags | (18+) MDNI, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, mutual masturbation, unprotected sex, oral sex (f!receiving), vaginal sex, praise kink, dirty talk, POST-THUNDERBOLTS, protective!bucky, soft!bucky, mean!reader, lowkey brat!reader, established relationship, possessive!bucky barnes, jealous/obsessive behavior, emotional vulnerability, nighttime confessions

a/n | i swear to you, chat, I really really tried to make this 4-5k words, idk wtf happened

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @uzmacchiato

“Do you always shuffle like that, or is that just for show?”

Alexei’s voice boomed across the living room like it had nowhere better to be. He leaned back in the leather chair with a grin too wide for someone three rounds down.

You didn’t look up. Just slid the cards through your fingers with practiced ease, the movement smooth, fluid — sensual, even, if you did say so yourself.

“I find the theatrics help distract lesser players,” you said, cutting the deck without so much as a glance at him. “Consider it a handicap, sweetheart.”

From her spot on the couch, Yelena snorted, one knee pulled to her chest, tablet glowing faintly in her lap. “More like an ego massage.”

“She has to entertain herself somehow,” Ava added, eyes still glued to the book in her hand. She hadn’t looked up once since you'd started the game, but somehow still managed to insert herself exactly where it annoyed you.

You dealt the cards slowly, deliberately, letting the silence hang just long enough to feel like power.

“Jealousy’s not a good look on either of you,” you replied mildly, flicking the final card across the table toward Alexei. “But keep talking — I win faster when I’m being underestimated.”

Alexei picked up his hand like he was holding a newborn. “You know, in Soviet Russia, we play with knives. Much more interesting.”

“I’m not opposed,” you said, crossing your legs, silk robe falling open just enough to make Alexei blink. “But then I’d have to clean blood off the carpet. And I’m allergic to manual labor.”

Yelena cracked a lazy grin. Ava turned a page.

The Watchtower’s common room was dimly lit, warm from the flickering fireplace that Yelena insisted made the place feel “less clinical.” The rain outside painted slow-moving shadows across the hardwood floors. No one else was around — just your little core, spread out like some mismatched after-hours club.

You leaned forward just enough to reach for your bourbon — untouched, but placed with intention. Every move was deliberate. You’d worn the silk for yourself, technically, but you knew exactly what it did to the room.

Alexei scratched his beard. “One of these days, you’re going to lose. And when you do—”

You cut him off with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “When I do, you’ll still be boring, and I’ll still be beautiful. It’ll be tragic, truly.”

Yelena let out a low whistle, muttering something in Russian under her breath.

Ava finally looked up. “Honestly, I’m just impressed you’ve managed to drag her into something that doesn’t sparkle.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” you said, “Not everything has to sparkle to be valuable.”

Footsteps echoed from the kitchen.

“Oh, you guys are playing?” John's voice cut through the warmth of the room like wet socks. “Deal me in.”

You didn’t even look up. “No.”

Alexei chimed in at the same time. “Nyet.”

Walker stopped mid-step. “Seriously?”

Alexei gave a lazy shrug, raising his glass like it might soften the blow. “Room already has enough energy. Don’t want to shift vibe.”

You finally lifted your gaze, eyes raking him up and down with a slowness that bordered on cruel. “Besides, I don’t play games with men who can’t take losing. And you, Boy Scout Barbie, are a sulker.”

Walker blinked. “I’m not a sulker.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Yelena muttered.

He muttered something under his breath and made his way toward the other end of the room, slumping into the seat next to Bob like a moody teen. Bob immediately stiffened like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Probably breathing too loudly.

“I mean,” Walker called out again, clearly not done, “what are you guys even playing for, anyway? Bragging rights?”

“No,” you replied, slow and dry. “We’re playing for dignity. You wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

Yelena snorted. Bob looked like he wanted to disappear.

Alexei chuckled beside you, swirling the last of his drink. “So, what I get if I win, devushka?” he asked, eyes narrowing with faux confidence. “Something real. Something good.”

You tilted your head, lips pursing. “If you win…” You let the pause stretch, dragging the silence like velvet. “You get to say you beat me. Once. And then I’ll let you frame the cards.”

Alexei groaned. “Bah. No fun. Okay, okay—what you want if you win?”

You leaned back in your seat, stretching your arms overhead just enough to make it distracting. “Hmm. What do I want from a man who has nothing I need?”

Alexei leaned forward on his elbows, cards fanned lazily in one hand, smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. “Okay, devushka. If you win… I get you something made of vibranium. Real Wakandan stuff.”

You scoffed, slow and unimpressed, barely glancing up from your hand. “I already have something made of vibranium.”

Walker twisted from his spot on the couch, scoffing. “No, you don’t.”

You turned your head toward him, the motion fluid, calculated. “Yes, I do.”

He raised a brow. “What, like jewelry? Pretty sure that’s not on the market for—”

“No,” you cut in, voice syrupy with disinterest. “Unlike you… with your cheap excuse for a shield.”

Bob blinked next to him. “Damn.”

Walker bristled. “My shield is—”

You held up a hand. “Please don’t embarrass yourself further.”

Ava didn’t even look up from her book. “Secondhand symbolism isn’t a personality trait.”

Walker opened his mouth again, then promptly closed it.

Alexei chuckled, sipping his drink. “So, what is mystery vibranium treasure you claim to own, hm?”

You looked at him over the top of your cards, shrugged one shoulder, and said casually, “James’ arm.”

There was a full beat of silence.

Yelena lowered her tablet slowly, blinking at you like you’d just recited an entire monologue about tax law. “I want you to really hear what just came out of your mouth,” she said flatly. “You just… took ownership of someone else’s arm.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Whatever’s his is mine.”

Simple. Like gravity.

Ava turned a page with a deliberate flick. “So, whatever’s yours is his, then?”

“I never said that.”

That earned a huff from Yelena, who muttered something in Russian under her breath that sounded vaguely like delusional but committed.

Walker looked between you all like someone had changed the language setting on the conversation.

Alexei exhaled, long and put-upon, setting his cards down as if they weighed something. “Okay, okay… what do you want, then?”

You tilted your head, lips curving slow, deliberate — the kind of smile that meant trouble and absolutely no regret. Feline and dangerous.

“The Orlov diamond.”

There was a beat of silence.

Alexei turned to look at you fully, eyes narrowing like he was sure he’d misheard. Yelena’s tablet dropped to her lap as she cut you a sidelong glance, brows raising.

You just blinked, perfectly serene.

“You’re not serious,” Alexei said finally, half-laughing like he hoped it was a joke.

“You asked what I wanted,” you replied, your voice light, almost bored. “I answered.”

Alexei sat up straighter, suddenly far more animated than any poker game warranted. “That is Mother Russia’s diamond,” he declared, gesturing like he was rallying a crowd. “It belongs in our history, our legacy. It is symbol of strength—of endurance! Stolen by the West, admired by the world, but born of Russian greatness—”

You didn’t even lift your head. Just slid a glance toward him, eyes half-lidded, unimpressed. “It’s originally from India.”

He blinked. “What?”

Yelena let out a sharp laugh, hiding her grin behind her hand. Ava didn’t even bother pretending not to smirk.

Alexei sputtered for a second, searching for a comeback. Finally, he puffed up his chest with exaggerated pride. “Well then, I simply make sure you don’t win.”

You gave him a slow, sweet smile. “You can try.”

And then, with your eyes locked on his, you slid another chip into the pot.

Alexei cracked his knuckles. You tapped your fingers against your knee, calm but coiled. The game shifted. The easy banter faded into something quieter, more serious — the room narrowing down to the felt, the cards, the chips.

Everyone else had settled in to watch.

Bob sat hunched over on the armrest of the couch, eyes flicking between the two of you like he was observing a bomb defusal. Walker sat stiff beside him, arms crossed, a faint scowl pulling at his mouth.

Ava leaned back in the corner, legs stretched out, expression unreadable behind her book. Yelena was the only one who looked remotely entertained, chin on her fist as she watched with open amusement.

The pile in the center of the table grew. Slow. Deliberate. Neither of you moved quickly now.

Alexei furrowed his brow as he looked down at his hand, chewing the inside of his cheek. You sat still, legs crossed, a fingertip trailing the rim of your untouched glass. Your eyes never left his.

He blinked. Put down one card. Drew another. Tried not to flinch.

You played your move a moment later — no theatrics. Just quiet, smooth certainty. You placed your final bet, then leaned back, completely relaxed. The kind of calm that made people nervous.

Alexei hesitated. Looked at you. Looked at his cards again.

He sighed through his nose. “I regret offering anything.”

“Everyone regrets something,” you said, your tone light.

Finally, he matched your bet.

Cards were laid.

Alexei’s face fell before the last one even hit the table. His shoulders slumped, and he gave a groan like he was genuinely in pain.

You only smiled.

“You’re kidding me,” Walker muttered.

Bob made a small, strangled sound that might have been applause or shock — hard to tell with him.

Yelena just shook her head. “Of course she won.”

Alexei leaned back in his chair, defeated, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was pure luck.”

You gathered your chips with graceful efficiency, not bothering to hide the satisfied glint in your eyes. “Mm. I don’t believe in luck.”

Alexei gave you a side-eye. “So you really want diamond?”

You stacked the final chip on the pile, then leaned your elbow on the armrest and rested your chin on your hand, gaze cool and certain.

“I want it,” you said. “By the end of the month.”

Alexei groaned again. “Ridiculous.”

Watchtower — Conference Room, One Week Later

Everyone hated when Val came to the Watchtower.

She never arrived quietly. Always in heels, always carrying too many opinions and too little respect for the people who had enough evidence to lock her away forever. If she wasn’t here to corner them into another PR gala or some glossy photo-op for the press, then she was here to rip someone apart with thinly veiled passive aggression and backhanded insults dressed up like “feedback.”

This morning was no different.

You were seated next to Bucky, like always, mind somewhere else entirely as she paced in front of the projection screen, throwing her usual mix of threats and barely tolerable sarcasm around like rice at a wedding.

You had one arm looped casually through his, hand resting lightly on his forearm. Your legs were crossed, posture relaxed, entirely unbothered by the stiff tension that filled the room like smoke.

It had become routine. You in his space, wrapped around him like a claim. Him, settled beside you like he belonged there.

“Hong Kong and Japan are furious,” Val announced, clicking her remote like it owed her money. “You know, the kind of fury that comes with lawsuits, diplomatic tension, and entire governments not returning our calls.”

Yelena arched an eyebrow from her seat beside Ava. “So, same as last time.”

Val didn’t bother dignifying that with a response.

Walker leaned back in his chair with a shrug. “We literally saved Tokyo from a nuclear detonation last week. They could’ve had another Hiroshima and Nagasaki on their hands.”

Silence.

It was instant. Heavy.

Even the hum of the projector felt loud in comparison.

Ava looked up slowly. Bob blinked. Yelena tilted her head at him like she was trying to figure out how much brain damage a person could suffer and still hold a government clearance.

Walker glanced around. “Was that too soon?”

You didn’t even blink. “It’s centuries too soon to make a joke like that.”

His jaw twitched, but he didn’t respond.

Val sighed, like she wasn’t even surprised. “This,” she muttered, waving a hand vaguely at Walker, “is why you guys need media training.”

She clicked through another slide she wasn’t even pretending to care about. The projector whined against the silence.

“And now,” she said, tone sharpening, “we have a completely separate mess to clean up — one that’s about to make headlines if we’re not careful.”

Yelena sighed audibly. “You say that like it's new.”

Val ignored her. Of course.

“Same day you all landed in Tokyo,” she continued, her eyes sweeping the room slowly, “something else went missing halfway across the world.”

She clicked again. The screen lit up with a high-resolution image — the glint of light catching on flawless facets.

“The Pink Star Diamond,” she said. “Gone. From its private exhibition in Hong Kong. Security footage? Wiped. Guards? Drugged. No signs of forced entry.”

The room went still.

And then — every head turned.

Toward you.

Slow. Simultaneous.

Ava didn’t even try to hide her stare. Yelena gave a soft snort. Bob blinked like he wasn’t sure if he should make eye contact or duck for cover. Walker just sat there, frowning.

You didn’t react. Not even a twitch.

Val folded her arms. “Coincidence?”

You finally turned to her, face cool, mouth poised in that bored sort of half-smile. “Absolutely.”

Alexei leaned forward slightly. “We were in Tokyo.”

You leaned forward slightly in your seat, arm still threaded through Bucky’s as you rested your other hand on the table, fingers tapping once — slow and deliberate.

“I was never in Hong Kong,” you said smoothly, voice level. “I didn’t leave Tokyo the entire time we were deployed. Ask the field team. Ask Ava. Cross-reference satellite data. Internal comm logs. Flight manifests. Movement trackers.”

Ava didn’t deny it — just narrowed her gaze slightly, studying you with that unnerving, analytical expression of hers.

Val arched a brow. “The diamond was taken by someone who avoided every sensor in a high-security vault. Who moved with precision and didn’t leave a single trace.”

Yelena gave a small shrug. “I mean… she didn’t leave the drop zone. That I saw.”

Walker snorted. “Please. You’ve snuck past tracking before. No one’s doubting your ability, that’s the problem.”

You looked at him like he was gum on the sidewalk. “If I’d stolen it, you think I’d be dumb enough to let it get traced back here? Have some faith in my standards.”

“Oh, we have faith,” Ava cut in, folding her arms and staring you down. “Just not the kind you’re hoping for.”

You arched a brow, waiting.

Val took a step closer to the head of the table. “You were a jewel thief when I found you. Let’s not rewrite history. You were halfway through smuggling the Laurent Emeralds out of Geneva when I made you an offer.”

You smiled slowly, almost sweetly. “Correction. I was halfway out of Geneva. The emeralds were already in Paris.”

Bob blinked like he wanted to take notes.

“Let’s talk logistics,” you added, sharper now. “You think I snuck out of Tokyo in the middle of a live operation, somehow got to Hong Kong, cracked a vault with no gear, took a priceless diamond, and made it back — all without being seen or throwing off the mission timeline?”

Silence.

Then, “…Yeah, kind of,” Walker muttered.

You stared at him. “You can’t even open your own locker without help.”

Yelena snorted again.

Ava narrowed her eyes. “Just because we can’t prove it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“You act like this is personal,” you said, eyes skating over the room. “It’s not. It’s logistics. And none of you have a leg to stand on.”

Yelena didn’t even look up from her seat. “I can’t trust someone who doesn’t own a single pair of sweatpants.”

You turned to her with a lazy blink. “And I can’t trust someone who surrounds herself with rodents.”

Her head snapped toward you. “He’s not a rodent, he’s a hamster, and his name is Nathaniel. And you better keep that white she-devil away from him.”

Bob whispered, “I think Nathanial and Alpine are both adorable…”

Walker cut in, loud and self-righteous. “You’re a kleptomaniac. Just admit it already.”

“I’m selective,” you corrected. “There’s a difference. If I were a kleptomaniac, your watch would be missing.”

Walker looked down at his wrist instinctively.

Val stepped forward again, clearly running out of patience. “If you have the diamond, just give it back. We can clean this up before it escalates.”

You stared at her, jaw tight, smile gone.

“I’m not giving it back,” you said evenly, “because I don’t have it.”

“You know what?” Ava said sharply. “Even if you didn’t take it — which, let’s be honest, is a stretch — you still act like this team’s your personal playground.”

You didn’t respond.

“You don’t answer to anyone,” Walker snapped. “You don’t follow protocol. You steal. You lie. And we’re just supposed to deal with it because Bucky lets you crawl into his lap like a damn—”

Your head turned.

Eyes on Bucky.

No words this time. Just a look.

And that was all it took.

He stood like someone had flipped a switch — slow, calm, but absolute. A wall rising between you and the room.

“That’s enough.”

His voice cut through the air like a blade.

Everyone went still.

Bucky looked around the table, one hand still resting gently over yours, the other loose at his side — but the tension in his shoulders said he was ready.

“You’re accusing her with nothing. No proof. No data. Just gut feelings and guesses because you don’t like how she operates.” His voice stayed steady. “She’s not obligated to win you over with small talk and trust falls. She gets the job done. Every time. And if you can’t keep up with how she does it, that’s on you.”

Yelena opened her mouth, but he didn’t give her the chance.

“She was accounted for. We all saw it. And unless someone here can produce actual evidence that she left the mission zone, I suggest you stop throwing accusations like you’re on trial for your own insecurities.”

The room was dead quiet.

You sat back, watching the way his shoulders rose and fell, the way his jaw stayed tight.

Yelena leaned forward, voice sharp. “That’s so unfair.”

You blinked, tilting your head with faux innocence. “What is?”

“That.” She pointed toward Bucky — now standing like a sentinel at your side. “Every time we call you out, you don’t have to defend yourself. You just look at him like a Disney princess and suddenly he’s barking at all of us.”

You raised your brows, lips parting slightly. “Are you suggesting I’m not a princess?”

“We’re suggesting he’s your guard dog,” Ava muttered. “Trained, loaded, and ready to bite.”

Walker scoffed. “You say ‘James’ and suddenly we’re all the enemy.”

“Maybe don’t act like enemies,” Bucky said flatly, still standing tall beside you.

You let out a quiet hum, fingers gently brushing along his forearm. “You all seem very emotional about this.”

Bob, barely breathing at this point, whispered, “She’s doing the thing again where she pretends she doesn’t know what’s happening…”

Val looked like she wanted to rip her own hair out.

Alexei finally spoke, voice low and deliberate. “You say you want me to steal Orlov diamond for you — and we all laugh. But then Pink Star goes missing and suddenly it’s out of question?”

You gave him a look like he’d just said something painfully unoriginal. “It was a joke,” you said coolly. “One you're all now taking way too seriously.”

“Because it’s not unbelievable,” Ava shot back.

“And yet, still unproven,” you replied, voice even, unbothered. “So what are we really doing here? Group therapy?”

Bucky let out a quiet breath and finally lowered himself back into his seat beside you, arm brushing yours.

“The conversation’s over,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “She didn’t steal the diamond.”

A pause.

“Very sorry for Hong Kong,” he added, almost deadpan. “But that’s their own fault for losing it.”

Yelena threw up her hands. Walker stared at the ceiling like he was praying for divine intervention. Ava just blinked slowly, lips pressed into a thin line.

Val looked around the room like she was considering setting the whole table on fire, but finally closed the file in her hand with a tight snap.

“Fine,” she said, “Whatever.“

And no one argued. Not after that.

You leaned into Bucky just slightly, your tone airy as ever. “I thought I handled that well.”

He didn’t smile—not really—but you felt the way his hand found your thigh under the table.

“You always do,” he murmured.

Your bedroom, That night

“James, you’re not admiring me enough.”

Your voice came out in a lazy drawl, like it wasn’t the first time you’d said it tonight—or ever.

Bucky didn’t look away from you, not even for a second. “I am, baby.”

His voice was quiet. Rough. The kind of hoarse that came from restraint, not disinterest.

He was seated in your vanity chair, his long legs spread wide, arms resting on his thighs. The golden light from a dozen candles danced across his face—across the sharp set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his throat bobbed when his eyes dropped lower.

The room smelled like rose oil and candle wax. The windows were cracked open just enough to let the cool New York summer air creep in, stirring the silk curtains. The rest of the Watchtower was asleep—or pretending to be.

You were stretched across your bed like something out of a painting, legs bare, skin glowing under dim candlelight. The rose gold silk of your nightgown clung to you like it was made for this moment, slipping dangerously off one shoulder.

And on your right hand—on your ring finger—the Pink Star Diamond glittered in a way that could never be mistaken for synthetic.

It sparkled as you moved, slowly dragging your hand down the curve of your own body, letting the diamond catch the light—your collarbone, your sternum, the dip of your waist.

Bucky's jaw clenched.

“Do you like it?” you asked, eyes meeting his through your lashes.

“You know I do,” he murmured.

“Mm. You haven’t said it.”

“Sayin’ it doesn’t do shit compared to what I wanna do, sweetheart.”

You stretched just enough to shift the way the silk slid over your skin, the gown riding high over your thigh as you tilted your chin toward him. The diamond caught another sliver of candlelight as you turned your hand, admiring it like it was a museum piece.

“I think it pairs nicely with this,” you said, voice honeyed, fingertip grazing the diamond choker around your neck — icy white, square-cut stones sitting flush against your collarbone.

Bucky’s gaze dropped instantly, breath catching in his throat.

“This one,” you murmured, drawing your hand slowly down between your breasts, “I stole in Prague. Four years ago.”

His tongue swiped along his bottom lip. His fists clenched on his thighs.

You watched him watch you. Watched his restraint unravel one breath at a time.

The gown dipped as you rolled one shoulder forward, then the other. Silk slid down your arms, slow and fluid, catching briefly on your wrists before slipping away entirely.

The fabric pooled at your waist.

You made no move to cover yourself.

Instead, you lifted the hand with the Pink Star and cupped your breast — a subtle arch of your back pressing into your own touch, thumb brushing lazily over your nipple as you let out a soft, unaffected hum.

“I think it looks best like this,” you said, eyes locked on his. “Don’t you?”

Bucky looked wrecked.

Absolutely still.

Like touching himself would be a sin, but staying still was agony.

His voice broke low. “Jesus, baby…”

You adjusted your hand slightly, the Pink Star flashing as your fingers squeezed around your breast just enough to make him twitch in his seat.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Just stared — like you were sacred and obscene all at once.

“You’re being very well-behaved tonight, Jamie.”

Your voice was soft, mockingly sweet — the tone you used when you wanted to draw blood with sugar. You dragged your thumb in a lazy circle, making your breath hitch just slightly, enough for effect.

“Is that for me?” you asked, tilting your head, eyes dropping briefly to the very obvious, very strained bulge in his pants. “Or are you just always that hard when you see me with something expensive on my body?”

His jaw flexed, a vein in his neck twitching. He still didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

This wasn’t new. Not for either of you.

Every time you acquired something rare — something stolen, expensive, yours — you made him sit like this. Made him watch as you modeled it, draped in nothing but luxury and intent. A necklace, a bracelet, a pair of earrings you'd lifted off a diplomat's mistress in Vienna.

Your thumb dragged over your nipple again, slow, absent, like you were just adjusting—like you hadn’t just knocked the breath out of him. The diamond on your finger flashed with the movement, sharp and pink and impossibly perfect.

“I think,” you said softly, “it deserves to be seen on something beautiful.”

Bucky was dead silent. Tense. Hard. Eyes fixed to your chest like he couldn’t look anywhere else.

You pinched your nipple between two fingers and let out a quiet, breathy sound that wasn’t quite a moan—just enough to let him feel it. His throat worked as he swallowed hard.

You let your hand trail down the center of your chest, past the soft dip of your sternum, fingers skating over your stomach before curling over the edge of your thigh. The candlelight made your skin look warmer, shinier—like satin layered over heat.

You shifted on the bed, spreading your legs just enough for the silk to fall open between them.

And then you smiled — slow, satisfied, dangerous.

“Don’t worry,” you purred, lifting your chin slightly. “You’ll get to touch.”

A beat.

“When I say.”

You watched his throat bob, the way his metal hand gripped the arm of the chair like it might snap.

You bit your bottom lip and let your legs fall a little wider.

“But for now…” your fingers ghosted across your inner thigh, just high enough to make his breath catch again, “you can keep watching.”

You let your knees fall wider, silk gathering at your hips, the cool air licking at the wet heat between your thighs. You could feel how soaked you already were—just from him watching, from the look in his eyes like he was praying and dying at the same time.

His breath was shallow now. Barely held.

You brought the hand with your diamond down, the weight of it glinting across your knuckles as your fingers brushed through your folds, slow and slick.

Bucky exhaled like he’d been punched.

You dragged your middle finger through your wetness again, slower this time—gathering everything at your entrance before circling your clit with the kind of practiced ease that made you hum in your throat.

“See?” you murmured, eyes locked on his. “Looks good with everything.”

Your finger dipped lower, slid inside—just the tip—and then pulled back out, glistening under the candlelight. You let him see it, held it up briefly like you were about to taste yourself, before trailing it back down again.

His legs shifted like he might stand, but you shook your head once, gently. “Stay.”

He froze. Swallowed hard.

You pushed two fingers in this time—slow, deep, your wrist angling to curl against that soft spot that always made your thighs twitch. You let out a quiet breath and arched, back pressing into the mattress as your palm flexed against your own heat.

The diamond caught the candlelight again as your hand moved—subtle, steady, your breathing picking up as the slick sound of your fingers filled the room.

“Do you know what turns me on the most?” you said softly, your voice catching on a gasp as you pressed deeper. “Knowing you’re sitting there, aching, while I get myself off with your favorite view in the world.”

Bucky’s hands gripped the chair again—one flesh, one metal—white-knuckled and silent, his eyes glued to your fingers moving in and out, knuckles glistening, thighs flexing.

You rolled your hips into your hand, thumb circling your clit now, pressure building fast.

And still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You looked at him—sweaty, wrecked, waiting.

And you smiled.

“Good boy.”

You barely had time to pull your fingers out before he was on his feet.

The chair scraped back against the floor, and then Bucky was moving—fast, silent, like a man pulled off a leash. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, hands braced on either side of your thighs, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he’d been running.

You tilted your head, smug even now. “Took you long enough.”

He didn’t respond.

He just hooked his hands under your thighs, yanked you closer in one hard pull, and buried his face between your legs.

Your gasp hit the ceiling.

His mouth was hot, wet, desperate. There was no easing into it—no slow, teasing warm-up. He licked you like he needed it, like he’d been starving for it. Tongue flat at first, dragging up your folds, collecting the mess you’d made on your fingers. Then he sucked your clit into his mouth, slow and firm, moaning like he was the one getting off.

You fisted the sheets, eyes slamming shut as your hips jerked up into his face.

“Fuck—James—”

His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you still, dragging you closer, his nose pressed right against you as his tongue worked in tight, devastating circles. The stubble on his jaw scraped against your skin in the best possible way. Your breath hitched with every pull of his mouth, every little sound he made like he was drunk on the taste of you.

And when he shifted lower, dragging the tip of his tongue down to your entrance, you felt him moan—felt it, the vibration of it buzzing right through your core as he fucked you with his tongue, messy and slow and deep.

“James—” you breathed, your voice breaking. You reached down, hand tangling in his hair, diamond flashing as your fingers curled against his scalp.

He groaned again, the sound raw, needy, and gripped your hips tighter, rutting his face into you like he was trying to drown. One hand slid up—flesh—and pressed down firmly on your stomach, pinning you to the bed like he knew you were about to come.

And he was right.

You shattered in seconds.

Your thighs clenched around his head, your hand dragging through his hair as your orgasm ripped through you sharp and fast, your hips jerking under his mouth as he kept going, licking you through it like he needed to make sure you felt every second of it.

He didn’t stop until you pushed at his head with a shaking hand, breathless and ruined.

Even then—he kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry. Your slick was smeared across his chin, his lips red and glistening.

“Fuck,” you murmured, voice hoarse.

He looked up at you like you were holy. “Now let me fuck you.”

You lay back against the pillows, your thighs slick and parted, the diamond catching flickers of candlelight as your hand dropped to your side. Breath steadying. Body humming.

Bucky stood slowly, still panting slightly, eyes never leaving you. You watched him reach for the hem of his shirt, grip it tight, and pull it over his head in one smooth motion.

You always loved watching him strip.

It wasn’t even about the muscle—though that was perfect too, buff and scarred and solid—it was the way he offered himself. Like the moment his skin was bare, he belonged to you again.

He unbuckled his belt next. His pants hit the floor in seconds, and your eyes dropped to his cock—already flushed, thick, twitching, and leaking for you.

You bit your lip, letting your legs fall wider.

“Come here.”

He climbed onto the bed without hesitation, crawling between your thighs with a low grunt, hands already spreading you open again like he couldn’t get enough.

But he didn’t line up just yet.

No—he stared.

Then he reached for your cunt with his flesh hand first, sliding two fingers through your slick, watching them glisten. He dragged them up, circled your clit lazily, and then brought them back down to tease at your entrance—slow, just enough to make you twitch.

“Still so wet,” he rasped, his voice thick with awe. “Fuck, baby…”

You lifted your chin, smirking through your haze. “That’s what happens when you use your mouth instead of your attitude.”

He huffed a laugh against your inner thigh, then pushed his fingers in—two at once, filling you with ease. Your back arched slightly, the stretch so much bigger than your own touch had been.

He curled them just right. Pressed deep. His thumb rubbed at your clit again in tight, controlled circles as he watched your face like it held all the answers.

You moaned, soft and breathy. “Just like that. Fuck—James.”

He groaned, forehead pressing to your thigh for a second, then looked back up at you, pupils blown wide.

“I can’t wait anymore,” he said, voice rough, honest.

You just smiled and tilted your hips toward him, cunt still fluttering around his fingers. “Then don’t.”

Bucky pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way your cunt clenched even after they were gone. You were still dripping, the insides of your thighs slick, the scent of your arousal thick in the air.

He shifted forward on his knees, hand wrapping around the base of his cock.

Thick. Hard. Heavy. The head flushed, already leaking pre-come.

He didn’t thrust in right away.

No.

He dragged the tip through your folds first, slow and deliberate, groaning low in his throat as your slick coated him. Up and down, again and again, catching on your clit just enough to make you jolt.

You sucked in a breath, thighs twitching, but didn’t tell him to stop.

He pressed his cock against your entrance—not pushing in, just resting there, teasing you with the weight of it—then pulled back to glide through your heat again, slower this time.

“Fuck,” he breathed, jaw clenched. “You’re so wet. I could slide in without even trying.”

You grinned, your voice low and mocking. “Then stop trying so hard.”

He huffed a laugh, his free hand gripping your thigh, holding you open.

Another slow grind of his cock through your folds.

And then—

He lined up properly. Pressed forward.

And sank into you.

Your mouth dropped open, a breath catching deep in your chest as he filled you in one steady, unforgiving thrust. No rush, no hesitation—just a smooth, deep slide that had you gasping by the time his hips met yours.

“Fuck—” he groaned, head dropping for a moment, his forehead brushing yours. “You feel like heaven.”

You clenched around him, pulling him deeper, dragging your nails across his back.

“You feel like mine,” you whispered.

And then he started to move.

He started slow—just for a second—dragging his cock out until only the tip remained inside you, then slamming back in with a force that knocked a sharp moan out of your throat.

Then again.

And again.

And again.

Relentless. Deep.

The sound of his hips slapping against your ass filled the room, loud and filthy, mixed with the wet drag of your cunt pulling at him like your body knew it was built for this.

You gripped his arms tight, nails digging into muscle and metal— and for a split second, your eyes caught on the contrast of your hand against his vibranium bicep.

The Pink Star flashed.

The diamond, shining and delicate, pressed against matte vibranium.

“Oh,” you gasped, laughing breathlessly even as he fucked you through it, “that looks so good together—”

Bucky grunted above you, hips stuttering just a bit. “Baby—”

You squeezed tighter, legs wrapping around his waist, dragging him in deeper, tighter. “Don’t stop. Just—god, sweetie—look at it.”

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

His face was buried in your neck now, teeth scraping your skin as he rutted into you, desperate, panting, gone.

“Fuck, you feel so good—so fucking tight, always—can’t—”

You clenched around him on purpose, smiling through your moans. “You gonna come already, baby? Or do I have to ride you ‘til you cry?”

He groaned—deep and broken—his thrusts growing erratic, harder.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”

You arched beneath him, the diamond catching one last flicker of candlelight as he slammed into you over and over, the bed creaking, your body singing.

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Yours, baby. Just don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

Not until he was buried so deep inside you it felt like you were one breath away from breaking apart completely.

His vibranium hand pinned both your wrists above your head, the cool metal firm against your skin, holding you open, helpless beneath him—not that you ever minded. You loved when he held you like this. Controlled you like this.

You felt his rhythm stutter for just a moment—his breath catching as his eyes flicked up, just barely—

To your hand.

To the Pink Star glittering on your ring finger, pressed tight beneath his palm, your fingers flexing under his grip every time his cock punched into you deep.

“Yeah,” he rasped, letting out a breathless, wrecked laugh. “You’re right, baby. That does look good.”

Then he slammed into you, harder, rougher—dragging a cry from your throat as your back arched off the bed.

“Fuck, baby—this pussy’s mine,” he gritted out, jaw tight, fucking you like he needed to brand it into your body.

“You are mine,” you panted, breath breaking into soft, frantic sounds as your orgasm coiled sharp in your gut. “All of you—this cock—your mouth—your fucking arm—mine.”

His head dropped to your shoulder as he groaned, full-body shaking, thrusts messy now, erratic, hips slamming into you over and over. The head of his cock dragged right against that perfect spot inside you, over and over, until your legs trembled and your cunt clamped around him—until suddenly he pulled out, slick and heavy, leaving you gasping at the loss.

You didn’t have time to complain.

He grabbed your hips, hands rough and urgent, flipping you with practiced ease. His metal hand pressed into your lower back, firm but not harsh, guiding you down to the mattress until your spine arched perfectly, ass up, face against the sheets.

You loved when he got like this.

When the control slipped just a little. When his restraint cracked open and you could feel the desperation underneath.

“Just like that,” he muttered, voice hoarse, reverent. “God, look at you…”

You felt him stroke the head of his cock through your folds again, dragging it through the mess between your thighs.

Then—he slammed back in.

Hard. Deep.

You let out a choked moan, fingers clutching the sheets as he gripped your hips and fucked you harder than before. The angle was brutal — his cock hitting deeper, faster, the sound of skin on skin now filthy and loud.

“Fuck, darlin’, you’re so tight like this,” he growled, pounding into you with sharp, perfect thrusts. “You love it—don’t you? Letting me bend you. Letting me take you.”

“Yes—yes, James—fuck, don’t stop—”

He grunted, grabbing a fistful of your hair with his flesh hand, pulling you up just slightly, your back still arched, mouth slack and moaning. His other hand stayed locked on your hip, keeping you in place, keeping you right where he wanted you.

Your whole body was shaking, orgasm coiling tighter, your cunt clenching around him again and again.

“You gonna come for me like this?” he rasped against your shoulder. “Bent over like my perfect fuckin’ toy?”

You nodded, nearly sobbing, hips pushing back against him. “Yeah—I’m—fuck, James—I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he growled. “Do it for me.”

And you did.

Your orgasm hit hard, but Bucky wasn’t finished.

Not even close.

He pulled out just long enough to haul you back against him — one strong arm wrapping around your waist, the other anchoring your thigh as he dragged you into his lap. Your back met his chest, slick skin to slick skin, his cock sliding between your folds again as he settled you down on top of him.

You let out a sharp gasp as he thrust up into you from below—hard and deep—the new angle making your whole body jerk, your cunt already pulsing from how wrecked you were.

He held you there, tight against him, your legs spread wide across his thighs, his metal hand gripping your jaw as he turned your head.

You didn’t resist.

Your mouth found his in a hungry, desperate kiss — your tongues tangling immediately, breathing each other in like you needed it. His kiss was filthy and soft at once, the kind that tasted like devotion wrapped in lust, the kind that said I’d die for you, but first I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name.

He fucked up into you hard and fast, your bodies slapping together, your breasts bouncing with every thrust as he moaned into your mouth.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, lips dragging to your jaw, your neck, kissing everything he could reach. “You take it so fucking good… tight little cunt just pulling me in—fuck—I’m so close—”

You could barely breathe, your head dropping to his shoulder, one hand gripping his thigh, the other tangled in his hair as he fucked you through another aftershock, your body shaking in his arms.

“James—fuck—I want it—want you to come inside me—”

His whole body jerked.

And then he did.

With a broken groan against your neck, his cock throbbed deep inside you, pulsing hard as he spilled into you, hips stuttering with each twitch, his arms wrapped around your waist like he couldn’t bear to let go.

He held you there. Still. Breathing hard.

Your cunt still fluttered around him, your whole body sticky and spent and trembling.

You smiled against his shoulder, breathless, boneless, full.

And he kissed the side of your face like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then his breathing slowed, heartbeat thudding heavy against your back as the last few pulses of his orgasm faded. You stayed there, slumped against him, skin sticky with sweat, his arms still locked around your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go.

But then he shifted — carefully, gently — kissing the curve of your shoulder as he pulled his cock from you, slow and deliberate.

You whimpered softly at the loss.

The stretch, the heat, the fullness—all of it slipping away as his cock slid free, dragging through your soaked folds one last time.

And then you felt it.

Warmth.

His come leaking out of you, thick and heavy, trickling slowly down the inside of your thigh.

You sighed, content. Possessed. Ruined.

Bucky let out a soft, wrecked sound behind you—half groan, half awe—as he looked down between your bodies and saw it.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice low, reverent. “Look at that.”

His metal hand drifted down your stomach, tracing over your pelvis before his fingers slipped lower—collecting his own spend as it spilled from your cunt.

He rubbed it in. Slow. Gentle. Almost like he was marking you with it.

“Messy girl,” he murmured, kissing the side of your neck. “You love when I fuck it this deep, don’t you?”

You let out a soft, satisfied hum, still dazed, your hand reaching back to curl around his thigh. “Just like I said…” you whispered, voice lazy, lips curling into a small smile. “Everything that’s yours is mine.”

His chest rumbled behind you. And he didn’t argue.

You exhaled slowly as you slid off his lap, your legs wobbly, your thighs still sticky with him. He caught your arm gently to steady you, but you were already shifting back onto the bed, sprawling lazily across the sheets like a queen returned to her throne.

You stretched, just a little, then sighed.

“Run me a bath,” you murmured, voice hazy but firm. “And bring me another nightgown, please. One of the white silk ones.”

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question.

“Yes, baby.”

He leaned down to press a kiss to your shoulder, then stood — naked, flushed, his cock still glistening with you as he padded toward the bathroom first to start the water.

The soft sound of running water filled the space.

Then he disappeared into your closet.

The doors opened into a space almost as large as your bedroom — walls lined with mirrors, plush carpet underfoot, the scent of your perfume hanging faint in the air.

One side was filled floor to ceiling with clothing: dresses, robes, gowns, coats arranged by fabric and color. Beneath them, rows of heels, boots, and custom shoes in velvet-lined cubbies.

The other side?

Glass cases and open displays sat under soft lighting, each one housing a piece that could bankrupt a small country. Famous jewels that had vanished off the face of the earth—now resting silently in your private gallery.

The Luxembourg Sapphire.

The La Peregrina Pearl.

The Florentine Diamond.

Bucky walked past it all with the quiet, familiar interest of someone who’d seen it all before… and still felt like he wasn’t supposed to.

He didn’t touch anything.

He just found the white silk nightgown you asked for—thin, sleeveless, soft enough to slide over your skin like water—and brought it back to you.

You were still on the bed, eyes half-lidded, legs open, the candlelight dancing on your still-exposed skin.

“Bath’s almost ready,” he said softly, offering the gown.

You took it without a word, slipping it on slowly, deliberately. And smoothed the silk down over your thighs, the fabric catching just slightly where your skin was still sticky and flushed.

You looked up, and there he was.

Still watching you.

His body was relaxed, but his eyes were locked on yours — heavy-lidded, reverent. Like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to touch you again or just stand there and thank god you let him breathe the same air.

You lifted your arms slowly, languidly, wrists loose, fingers curled just slightly.

“Take me to my bath?”

Your voice was low. Barely a question.

His mouth twitched, lips curling into something soft, a little wrecked.

“‘Course, darlin’,” he murmured.

And then he stepped close, bent down, and slid his arms under your legs and behind your back — lifting you like it cost him nothing.

You sank into his hold, arms curling around his shoulders, nose brushing his neck as he carried you into the bathroom.

Later That Night

The room was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the city through the barely cracked window and the occasional creak of the bed shifting under your bodies.

The candles had mostly burned down, little pools of wax cooling in their glass bases, shadows soft and heavy across the walls. The sheets were a mess beneath you—kicked halfway off the bed, damp with sweat, and still carrying the scent of sex and silk.

You were naked again, your white nightgown discarded somewhere on the floor after round two had turned slow and rough—deeper, more desperate.

Now, you were draped half on top of him—chest to chest, your thigh slung over his hips, toes brushing his shin. His cock lay soft and spent between you, trapped under the weight of your thigh, resting against the hard plane of his stomach, still tacky with the evidence of just how hard he’d come inside you.

Your cheek was pressed to the side of his throat, your nose brushing lazily along the sharp line of his jaw as your lips planted slow, wandering kisses.

His arms were around you, one hand splayed wide on your lower back, the other lazily gliding up and down your spine—not really comforting you, more like soothing himself. Like keeping you close was the only thing holding him steady.

Your fingers toyed lightly with his hair, the weight of the Pink Star still glinting faintly in the low light as it caught against the strands at his temple. You hadn’t taken it off.

You never took your newest prize off the first night. It was a rule. Possession needed to be felt after all.

But this?

This was the part of the night no one else ever got to see.

No cruelty. No teasing. No commands.

Just you. A little sleepy. A little warm. Nuzzling his neck like a cat in her favorite sunspot, soft kisses trailing down his pulse point.

Bucky didn’t speak. He never did first. He just let you have this—his body, his warmth, the silence.

Because this was the closest thing you ever came to asking for comfort. And he knew that.

Your lips brushed his neck again, slower this time—less a kiss, more a lingering press of your mouth against his pulse. Your breath was warm on his skin, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of his jaw.

You didn’t lift your head. Didn’t change your tone. Just whispered.

“You won’t make me give back my diamonds… will you, James?”

The question hung in the dark between you—delicate, heavy, threaded with something that wasn’t quite fear but not far from it.

It wasn’t about the Pink Star.

Not really.

It was about the whole closet of them. The ones you stole before you met him. The ones you wore like armor. The ones no one ever understood. The ones that made people think they knew you—when they didn’t.

But he did.

You didn’t look at him as you said it. Just buried your nose in the crook of his neck, lips brushing his collarbone as you pressed another soft kiss there—almost like an apology.

He was quiet for a moment.

Then his arm curled tighter around your back.

His vibranium hand slid up the length of your spine with that same slow rhythm, fingertips dragging gently, almost reverently, like he was tracing the edges of something precious.

“No, baby,” he said softly. “I won’t make you give back anything.”

Your lashes fluttered against his skin as you breathed him in—warm and steady and always there. You didn’t answer his words. Didn’t say thank you. You just pressed another kiss to the hollow of his throat, your hand now lazily tracing down the slope of his chest, not teasing—just feeling.

It was quiet again.

But you weren’t done. Your voice was barely more than a whisper.

“You love me, don’t you?”

It wasn’t coy. It wasn’t playful. Just soft. Raw. Honest.

Like if he didn’t answer, the silence might fill with something too sharp to swallow.

He turned his head just slightly, lips brushing your temple, breath fanning across your hair.

“I do,” he whispered. “God, I do.”

Your hand stilled against his chest.

Then, a little quieter—

“You need me?”

His grip on your back tightened for just a second, like his body responded before he could.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispered. “More than anything.”

You didn’t speak right away. Your mouth just trailed lower along his jaw, pressing the kind of kisses you never gave anyone else. Slow. Thoughtful. Like you were imprinting yourself into his skin.

And then—

You breathed it into the space between his throat and shoulder. Quiet. Dangerous.

“You’ll never leave me…?”

His hand lifted to the back of your head, cradling it gently, thumb brushing your hairline.

“Never.“

His voice was firm now. Steady. Certain.

“Even if the whole world turns on you,” he murmured, “I won’t. I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

You didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to.

His hand stayed at the back of your head, stroking slow, mindless circles as your body finally started to sink against him—your breathing evening out, your leg still thrown over his hips like you were anchoring him to the bed.

The Pink Star glinted faintly in the low light, still on your finger, resting against his ribs as your hand settled over his heart.

And somewhere, in that half-conscious haze between desire and sleep, your mind wandered.

Diamonds.

You had hundreds of them.

Tucked away in velvet and glass, sealed behind locks and systems no one could break.

Each one rare. Priceless. A little dangerous.

But none of them compared to him.

He wasn’t flawless. Wasn’t carved or polished. He was scarred. Weathered. Real.

And he was yours.

Your most precious diamond.

You wouldn’t give him back either.

Ever.

Not even if the whole world demanded it.

You smiled against his neck, the last of your thoughts slipping into sleep as his arms tightened just slightly around you.

And you didn’t need to say you’re his.

That part was obvious.

Bucky when his girl is so obviously guilty and in the wrong:

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @ozwriterchick

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[perfectprettypisces]

danny and lewis to star in ‘the juice’ together!

[perfectprettypisces]

go save the world, i'll be around (Clark Kent x Fem!Reader) -- one shot

I have not watched Smallville and this is purely inspired by the scenes with Ma and Pa Kent and me missing my grandparents' farm. Also I'm posting this while tipsy bc sober me didn't think I should post it xoxo

Warnings: uh so much angst, but also lots of fluff, matchmaker!Krypto, major movie spoilers, genuinely that might be it!!

Summary: You and Clark are childhood best friends, growing up just across the field from one another. When he moves to Metropolis and announces himself as Superman, it causes a rift so large that you aren't sure you'll ever cross it. Until Superman comes home, sick and out of his mind, and only two things can help: sunlight and you.

WC: 7.7k

After a taxing day of farm chores, despite enjoying every second of it spent with the Kents, you’re finally lying down in your bed, ready for an entire night’s sleep.

Except, you don’t make it that far, because your eyes are just about to close when you hear a soft whirring outside, followed by bright lights hitting your window. Car headlights, you think at first, but then you realize they’re too high up. They’re coming from the sky? 

“What the hell?” you mutter, slowly crawling out of your bed and peering through the blinds.

It’s… Well, you have no clue what it is, but it’s not a helicopter. You’re tempted to go back to bed when you spot two figures rushing through the field that look a lot like Martha and Jon.

You don’t care that you’re in your pajamas -- a Mighty Crabjoys t-shirt that Clark let you borrow years ago and sleep shorts that you’ve had to patch holes in three times now. You scramble and nearly trip as you shove your feet into your boots by the front door before hauling ass across the field.

It’s been years, your heart warns you. But who else would it be, coming in here on something like that? Your brain responds.

And too, you’ve seen the news recently. Superman has been at the heart of a lot of controversy with Boravia and Jarhanpur -- nonsense, as far as you’re concerned, because there is no way in hell that Boravia, of all places, is trying to help the Jarhanpurian people. 

But a lot of people think he shouldn’t have intervened, especially after the Hammer of Boravia showed up in Metropolis and beat Superman pretty decisively. And to make matters worse, a private video of Clark’s biological parents leaked, and apparently what they had in mind for him is not at all what he has thought. 

Last you heard, he turned himself in -- because of course he did -- and it’s had Martha and Jon worried sick ever since they saw the footage of his arrest.

All of it makes your heart ache for him, even more than it usually does. 

But you can’t think about that right now.

Your feet slow as the flying craft lands and a door opens, stairs unfolding. Clark-- Superman walks down them, held up by…a woman.

Your heart lurches into your throat, your feet rooting themselves in place.

No one has seen you yet. You can easily turn and go back home and go right to sleep. Show up for work tomorrow at the Kents’ farm and play dumb, pretend you didn’t hear or see this random flying craft in the yard.

But you can’t. You won’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t go see if he’s okay, or if there’s anything that you can do to help.

You trudge forward, putting your feelings about Clark aside. It’s been years. He hasn’t been back here, aside from what you’ve heard to be brief and secretive trips -- as in, he’s dropped in for about fifteen minutes for his Ma and Pa’s birthdays, and then gone away again. You get it. After announcing himself as Superman, albeit still keeping him separate from Clark Kent, he wants to protect his Ma and Pa as much as he possibly can. It just means that, well, you haven’t seen him, the two of you haven’t talked, and the last words you ever said to each other weren’t exactly nice.

When you finally make it to the Kents’ house, the front door is wide open, save for the screen door that creaks loudly as it opens. Still, you call out to them to let them know you’re coming in.

“We’re in Clark’s room!” You hear Martha call back before she says something else, and you think you hear your name.

You brace yourself for meeting Clark’s girlfriend -- because that’s who she must be, right? -- as you walk down the hallway. You’d know the way even with your eyes closed.

You step hesitantly into the doorway of Clark’s room, your breath catching in your throat when you see him. Clark’s Pa kneels beside the bed, his palm on his son’s forehead. Clark is sweating, he’s shivering, his eyes are closed and he’s mumbling something, something about his parents and their message and how it’s all wrong. 

Martha turns to greet you, squeezing your elbow lovingly. At the foot of Clark’s bed -- his tiny, twin-sized bed that he stopped properly fitting on when he was fourteen but insisted on keeping -- stands one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.

She sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Lois.”

You take her hand and offer a smile, introducing yourself. “Lois…Lane, right? I’ve read your stuff in the Daily Planet.” You haven’t, not entirely. You’ve just heard a lot about it because it’s all Martha and Jon talk about.

“Oh,” Lois smiles. “Thank you.”

“And thank you for bringing him home,” you say, casting a quick glance at Clark where he lies still now, his mumbling stopped. “Is he…Is he gonna be okay?”

Lois nods firmly. “Yes. Mr. Terrific says he’ll be fine, he just needs to rest.”

Mr. Terrific. A member of the Justice Gang. Someone you’ve only seen on the box, and Lois has met him. She’s talking like this is normal, like she fits in.

Because she does, you realize. You remember the way you left things with Clark and you remember that it’s you. You’re the one that doesn’t fit.

Tears well in your eyes when you look at him, noticing the black lines where blueish-green veins should be. What happened to him? You don’t even know if you want to know, if you can even stomach it.

“Is there anything I can do?” you ask, turning toward Martha.

She reads you like an open book, she always has. “Oh, honey,” she says, rubbing your arms. You know she can tell you’re restless, which means you know what she’s going to suggest. “Why don’t you go home and get you some sleep? You helped us all day.”

You take in a deep breath, glancing at Clark again. Jon runs his fingers through Clark’s curls, silent tears falling down his cheeks. You don’t know what it is. You don’t want to leave Clark, even though he’s got everyone he probably needs, and that there’s no guarantee he’ll even be happy to see you if he-- when he wakes up.

“How about you take the guest bed tonight?” Martha says instead, catching your attention with another squeeze to your elbow.

“Oh, I don’t-- I mean,” you pause, wiping your nose. “If Lois is staying, I don’t want to put her out.” You turn to look at Lois, to see what her verdict is, but she’s staring at her phone with wide eyes.

“Sorry, I need to make a call,” she says. “It’s-- It’s important, I swear, but I don’t think I’ll be able to stay the night if this is what I think it is.”

Your eyebrows furrow as you and Martha watch her dart down the hall, pressing her phone to her ear.

“Come on,” Martha rubs your arms, grounding you. “Let’s get you to sleep.”

You know better than to argue with Martha Kent twice, so you let her walk you across the hall to the guest bedroom, the same one you used to sleep in when you and Clark had sleepovers. There was no way you’d be allowed to sleep in his room -- not that the both of you would’ve fit on his bed anyway. And sometimes, you and Clark still whispered across the hall, or more often than not, Clark would make stupid faces in the moonlight, causing you both to giggle and never get enough sleep before a day of romping around in the sun, helping Ma and Pa with farm chores.

You take midday naps in here now mostly, since you’re up and working on the Kents’ farm before six almost every morning. Taking cat naps here before the evening work has become routine. So it feels weird now, to be sitting on the bed with Martha next to you, in the dead of night.

You also just don’t understand why she’s next to you.

“Go be with your boy,” you nudge her side, kicking your boots off and pushing them under the bed. “I’ll be fine.”

“I can see him from right here, and his Pa’s got him,” she argues, patting your knee lovingly. “Now I’m worryin’ about you.”

You knock your shoulder into hers affectionately. “Don’t worry about me, I’m okay.”

She absolutely does not believe you, and you don’t blame her.

“Listen,” she says softly. “I know how you feel about Clark.” She waits for you to look at her. “And I know the two of you didn’t leave off on the…best of terms.”

“It’s water under the bridge,” you assure her, even though it’s not. It’s water over the bridge, all the time. You’re never not thinking about Clark, though it’s not like you even try, since you’re spending all your time with the Kents. But you don’t want her worrying about you like this, not when her son is just across the hall in much worse shape than you.

“Maybe when he wakes up, the two of you can talk,” she says. “It’s long overdue.”

“Maybe,” you tell her. Because while you agree it’s long overdue, you highly doubt the two of you will talk. He’ll probably leave the second he feels just a little bit better. There won’t be any time for talking or reminiscing with an old friend.

Which, the more you think about it, might be for the best.

+++

Your sleep is restless and fitful. Whenever you think you’re about to finally fall into deep sleep, you jolt awake, looking across the hall to see if your mind is playing tricks on you. Or if that really is Clark, lying in his bed again, in his Superman suit.

One time when you wake up with a start, it’s because something is licking your face. Martha and Jon don’t have any dogs, so imagine your surprise when you see a fluffy white dog right in front of your face, ears perking when he sees you looking at him.

You squint your eyes, realizing he’s…wearing a cape. The dog is wearing a Superman cape.

You can’t help it, you actually laugh out loud.

“What’s your name buddy?” you whisper, turning over the Superman pendant on his collar. “Krypto. I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you belong to Mr. Sleeping Superhero over there.”

Krypto jumps happily on your chest, knocking the wind clear out of you before he launches off the bed and floats onto the floor. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s not even six yet, and the sun has just barely started to rise.

“Do you need some food? Water?” you ask, standing up. “I’m following you, bud.”

Krypto barks and you immediately shush him, as if doing that is any quieter, but at least he only barks the one time.

You expect him to go down the hall toward the kitchen, but he doesn’t. Instead, he goes into Clark’s room.

You freeze in the hall, watching Krypto spin in circles, practically screaming at you to follow him. You shake your head, as if he can understand you. Part of you feels like he might.

When you turn around to head back to bed, the damn dog barks again. Loudly.

“Shh!” you whip around, your hands flailing in a come on, man gesture.

“Are you shh-ing a dog?” Clark’s voice is barely above a whisper, and gravelly like nothing else. You almost think it isn’t him who just spoke, until he cracks one eye open and looks at you.

You smile too, despite yourself. “Maybe,” you reply. “What are you doing awake?”

“Heard Krypto barking,” he says, eyelids drooping again as he smirks. “Was gonna tell him to shh.”

You roll your eyes. “Go back to sleep, Clark.”

“Come here first,” he says. Then adds, “Please?”

And damn you, you can’t tell him no, especially not when he’s sick like this. So, you do as he asks, much to Krypto’s delight. You enter Clark’s room and stand beside his bed, waiting. He lifts his hand, the movement weak as he searches for yours. You give it to him.

“M’sorry,” he breathes, loosely threading your fingers with his.

“For what?” you whisper.

“Not calling,” he sounds like every word takes more and more of his energy. “Or writing. Or coming t’see you. Or--”

“Clark,” you shake your head, tugging on his hand a little. “We can talk about this tomorrow when you’re rested.”

“Okay,” he exhales, his body practically melting into the mattress. “Can I have a hug?” he asks, voice small. “I didn’t get one before I left.”

It’s true. He didn’t. Because you were too frustrated and hurt to offer one, and he would never take one without asking. 

“Of course,” you say, leaning down to wrap your arms around him in what will no doubt be the most awkward hug after almost four years. But instead, he wraps his arms around you, and pulls you over on top of him. “Clark!” you squeal, giggling quietly into his neck before lifting your head to glare at him playfully.

“Sorry,” he grins, and gosh, he’s just so tired. “Missed you.”

You don’t even know if he’ll remember this in the morning, if he even has any idea of what he’s saying right now.

“I missed you too,” you say despite the fact. You lay your head down on his chest, sighing deeply. “I’m sorry I was such an ass when you left.”

His arms tighten around your waist just a little, nothing like you know they’d do if he was actually feeling like himself. “Don’t be sorry. I was being mean.”

You want to protest that, but he needs his rest more than the two of you need to talk about this right now. “Go back to sleep,” you whisper, moving to get off him.

But he doesn’t let go. “Can you stay?”

You look at him, but his eyes are closed again. You crack a smile because, believe it or not, this isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself in this predicament, though it was probably six or seven years ago the last time it happened. “Can you even sleep like this?”

He nods. “Will you stay?” he asks again. “If it’s comfy for you.”

Some of the best naps you ever had were with your head on Clark’s chest, and he knows it, too.

“Yeah,” you murmur, settling back down. “I can stay.”

“Thank you,” he breathes, and then he’s out like a light again.

+++

Sometime in the early morning hours, Krypto curled up between your and Clark’s feet, so when you wake up, you’re well and thoroughly trapped. In a good way.

Sunlight streams through the windows, warming you as you start to stir, and hopefully, you think, already working its magic on making Clark feel better.

Once Krypto senses you’re awake, he’s jumping off the bed and spinning in circles again, waiting for you to join him.

The only problem is that you have two arms wrapped tight around your middle like twisting vines. You expect it to be harder than it is to wiggle out of Clark’s hold, and it kind of worries you how easy it is. When you stand up, you press your hand to his forehead, sighing a little in relief. He’s not clammy, and the black veins have almost completely faded away.

You brush his curls back with a smile before you part from him. You’ve definitely slept through a bit of the morning farm chores, so you should get dressed. Thankfully, you have some extra clothes in the guest room, so you quickly get changed before heading to the kitchen.

Martha made some breakfast, so you scarf some down, all while she fusses over you and tells you that you don’t need to help Pa with the chores. All that tells you is that she saw where you were sleeping and she’s hoping the two of you have made up. You don’t give her the chance to ask you outright before you head outside.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Jon’s affectionate scolding immediately meets your ears once you get close to the barn.

“Helping you, what’s it look like, old man?” you grin, grabbing one of the milk buckets and moving it closer to him. “Can’t run the farm all by yourself, you know.”

He makes a disapproving noise immediately followed by a smile. “How’d you sleep, kid?”

“Pretty good,” you nod, scratching the cow’s neck while he milks her. “What about you?”

“Just fine, got my six hours,” he jokes. He waits a beat, and you know exactly what’s coming next. “Saw you sleeping with Clark.”

“He trapped me,” you chuckle, brushing it off. “He’s still sleeping.”

“Yeah, he’ll prob’ly sleep for a while in the sun.”

“I think so too.”

“Did you two talk?”

You let out another chuckle, shaking your head. “Jon…”

“Oh, don’t Jon me,” he waves his hand at you. “I know how that boy feels about you.”

You know it too. But neither of you will ever talk about it. What good will it do anyway, talking about it now? He’s going back to the city to save the day and you’re going to stay right here.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave Jon off in the same way he did to you. “What else needs to be done?”

He grumbles through telling you what he got done while you were dozing with Clark, and you head off to fill the gaps of what he didn’t quite get around to.

Some hay in the barn needs moving, and you feel like flinging some bales around will help you clear your head.

Well, you want it to clear your head. All it ends up doing is giving your mind free rein to start digging up old memories.

“I can’t just pick up and move to Metropolis right now, Clark! That’s crazy!”

“Why not?” It was the third time he had brought it up in a week. “We could rent a place together, we could--”

“I wouldn’t fit in there,” you told him again, for what felt like the fiftieth time. You understood why Clark wanted to move to the city. But it just wasn’t for you. “There’s nothing there for me.”

He had frowned then. “But I’ll be there.”

“That’s not enough, Clark. I can’t follow you around my whole life.”

“So you’re just-- You’re just gonna stay here your whole life?”

“Well someone has to help out on the farm!”

It was a low, and downright rude jab to make that day. You knew how hard it was for Clark to move away from the Kents. You knew he wrestled with it, with wanting the job at the Daily Planet and wanting to never leave his Ma and Pa’s side. With wanting to help the world and announce himself as Superman, and with wanting to stay just Clark forever. You knew that despite the Kents’ unwavering support in his decision, he was still, in those last few days, wondering if he was doing the right thing.

And then you had to say that to him. Make it sound like you were the one doing the “right” thing by staying here and helping his parents around on the farm, and he was doing the “wrong” thing by moving out so he could have a bigger, better life and even help others in ways that you just don’t understand and never will. Because you’re not like him.

You fling another hay bale with a little too much strength, groaning in defeat when it just bounces and falls back down.

Just as you’re about to pick it up again, Clark’s voice echoes from behind you. “Need any help?”

You glance over your shoulder, smiling a little when you see he’s changed into sweatpants and a flannel. That’s the Clark you know. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“Krypto woke me up,” he says. He grabs the bale one-handed and tosses it up.

“Show off,” you mutter, letting him handle the last two. The dog in question circles your feet, jumping and yapping happily. “I didn’t know you had a dog now.”

“He’s my cousin’s,” Clark says with a grimace. “He’s…a lot.”

“He’s cute,” you giggle, bending down and picking him up after letting him jump at your feet for a bit.

“Oh, be careful, he’s--” Clark’s words fall short when you start laughing. “Well clearly he likes you.”

“He’s sweet!” you giggle, watching in awe as Krypto leaps from your arms and flies around the barn. “Of course he can fly.”

“Yeah,” Clark chuckles, and he sounds relieved to see Krypto flying around. “Did you have breakfast before you came out here?”

You nod. “Did you? And should you even be walking around?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “And yeah, I ate. Sat with Pa for a minute.”

“Good,” you nod, turning around, scanning the barn for anything else you can throw yourself into so you don’t have to talk to Clark. Not that you don’t want to catch up with him, it’s just.

“Thanks for staying with me last night-- or, this morning, I guess. You didn’t have to, I know we…left off on rocky terms.”

It’s just that.

You sigh, wiping your sweaty palms on your overalls. “It’s fine, Clark, seriously. You were half out of your mind. What happened yesterday?”

“Long story,” he says. Then adds, with a grimace, “Kryptonite poisoning.”

Your eyes blow wide. “Kryptonite pois-- I thought you said there wasn’t any left on Earth!”

“There’s not, it’s--” He cuts himself off, clenches his jaw. “It’s a lot to explain.”

You nod once, a jerking movement because you’re trying not to let it show just how much this is ripping your heart into pieces. 

You’ve always known the real reason why you and Clark won’t ever work. It’s because the moment he announced himself as Superman, he stopped being the Clark Kent you grew up with. Sure, nobody knows that Superman is really Clark Kent, the journalist at the Daily Planet who always somehow scores an interview with the man himself, but that doesn’t matter. That’s not the point.

The point is that for you, you’ve always known Clark has powers, that his real name is Kal-El, that he comes from Krypton, but he’s just Clark to you. It was never about him being Superman or technically a metahuman or Kryptonian or whatever-- He’s just Clark. He’s just the kid you grew up with. The kid you met one afternoon when he knocked on your front door, asking your mom if you could come outside and play. And if your parents would like any lemonade, because his ma made some, and it’s the best lemonade ever. 

That’s Clark. 

That’s the boy you know, the boy you found yourself falling in love with at sixteen and realized maybe you had loved him all that time. That’s the boy who took you on your first date to a drive-in movie, who got you home one minute after the time he said and apologized so profusely to your dad that it had him in tears. That’s the boy you love, and you feel like he doesn’t exist anymore. Like he’s been taken over by this split identity of Superman and journalist Clark Kent. 

And you just. You don’t fit anywhere in that narrative.

“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, swallowing down the emotion when it threatens to crack your voice. “You don’t have to explain.”

His face twists, no doubt hearing the hurt you try to hide because whether you like it or not, Clark knows you. “No,” he says. “No, please, don’t do this--”

“I’m not doing anything, Clark,” you snap, brushing past him. “I just need to go check on the chickens.”

“Then I’ll come with you.”

“No,” you say, and his feet halt. “Go get some rest. You’ll probably need to leave soon.”

He just nods, and you don’t look back once you’ve left the barn.

+++

The chickens don’t need to be checked on, and you’re sure Clark knows it. Jon has had the same routine since you both were little: the chickens are checked on first.

Still, you walk around the pen with them, scolding them when they try to peck at your feet. You’ve always thought they can sense when you’re frustrated, and that seems to be happening right now. They’re practically trying to force you to leave, pecking your feet to tell you just go talk to him, stop bothering us with your pacing!

You don’t listen to them.

But you don’t get much warning before you see Krypto flying toward you, followed by Clark yelling after him.

“Leave the chickens alone! Krypto! Leave it!”

You exit the pen and meet Krypto halfway, wrangling him into your arms, giggling at the way he squirms and licks your face.

“Don’t bite her!” Clark yells, sounding a lot like his Ma.

“He’s fine,” you laugh, and Krypto wiggles out of your arms, grabbing ahold of the strap on your overalls and pulling you along. Once you’re close to Clark, though, Krypto lets go and heads for the sky, yipping triumphantly.

“Gosh, I’m sorry, he’s-- I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Well, he’s kind of always a nuisance, but not usually--”

“Clark,” you laugh. “It’s fine.” You reach up and scratch Krypto’s belly mid-flight, and he seems delighted that you’ve done it, circling back around so you can do it again. You look over at Clark, noticing the flannel is gone and there’s a newfound determination on his face. “Heading out?”

“In a minute, yeah, Ma’s getting my boots, and I had to chase down Krypto,” he rambles, pausing. “And. I wanted to say I’m sorry before I go.”

“You don’t need to--”

“I do,” he argues. “I never should’ve tried to pressure you into following me to Metropolis, not so soon after your parents passed--”

“Clark,” you warn. “You need to go, and I don’t wanna talk about this right now.”

He nods, looks up at Krypto, then back at you. “When I get back,” he says. “Can we talk then?”

You know better than to think or hope that he’ll come back here. He’s got a world to save. He’s busy.

“Sure,” you say, knowing he won’t be back anytime soon. And because you know it’ll be a while, you can’t help it, you fling yourself at him, squeezing him into a hug.

He hugs you back just as tight, sighing into you.

“Be safe,” you tell him. “Promise me?”

He nods, whispering into your hair, “Promise.”

+++

You know better than to watch the news as things are happening in real time, but you can’t help it. Usually you catch up on everything after the fact, after Superman has saved everyone and is safe himself and Clark has called Ma and Pa to let them know he’s okay.

Instead, this time, you’re sitting in between Ma and Pa Kent on their couch, all of you gripping each other’s hands like your lives depend on it.

You watch the rift start to rip through the city from the news helicopter filming it from the sky. You’re nauseous just thinking about all of the people there. How does Clark do it? How does he save all these people and not let the weight of it crush him -- even mentally?

No one can get eyes on Superman and that worries you the most, not knowing where he might be. There’s a flash of blue and red here and there, but nothing to ease your nerves.

When the truth about Lex Luthor breaks from the Daily Planet, you gasp in disbelief at everything you see, though you can’t say you’re surprised. None of it ever seemed right -- his hatred toward Superman and the way he somehow got ahold of that video.

It doesn’t feel like any of you breathe a single, normal breath until there’s confirmation that the rift has closed and Superman is walking around on the ground. You watch him help anyone he sees, offering high fives and hugs to every kid that passes by, just being himself the way you know him to be.

But when you see Superman speaking with Lois Lane, smile on his lips and hands tucked behind his back, you look away.

“I’m gonna get us some lemonade,” you sniffle, standing up and heading for the kitchen.

You pull three glasses down and scoop some ice into them, wiping your tears as you grab the lemonade pitcher from the fridge. 

He’s safe. That’s all that should matter right now. He’s safe. The city is safe. Luthor is in custody, Boravia’s invasion of Jarhanpur was stopped, everyone is okay. That’s what matters.

So then why are you upset over Clark-- Superman speaking to a reporter who might be his girlfriend?

You shake your head, pouring the lemonade, trying to get the stupid tears to stop falling, but they won’t. It’s a rush of emotion, knowing Clark is safe and he saved the city again, but you know those two things mean he won’t be coming back here anytime soon. There’s a lot that still needs to be done in the city, a lot of people probably still need his help. You shouldn’t be this upset.

Soft footsteps pad into the kitchen and you try to pull yourself together, but it’s no use. One hug from Ma Kent and you’re a mess all over again, crying into her shoulder. Pa, the mush that he is, joins just a moment later, weeping right alongside with you, holding you both tight.

“He’s okay,” Ma whispers, rubbing circles into your back. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You believe her. It will be okay.

You’re going to go about your life, and Superman is going to go about his. And it’ll all be okay.

“I’m gonna take a walk,” you sniffle, the deep breath you take in rattling your chest. “Just-- To calm down.”

“Okay, kiddo,” Pa Kent whispers. “Want me to come with you?”

You shake your head. “No. No, thank you, though.”

“Come back for supper,” Ma says with a raise of her eyebrows, telling you that you had better not lock yourself away in that house across the field -- again.

“I will, promise,” you murmur, rubbing her arm.

“Here, take your lemonade,” she pushes the drink into your hand. “Be careful, hon.”

“I’m just gonna walk around the property,” you assure her. “I’ll be back soon.”

With your ice cold lemonade in hand, you shove your feet into your boots at the door and head outside, turning your house.

Your parents’ farm that only became yours because of their sudden deaths, written into their wills and everything and you had no idea. They probably had planned to tell you. And it’s not that you didn’t expect them to leave the farm to you, you just never expected both of them to be gone so soon. One right after the other.

Some days you think it’s sweet that your ma only had to be alone up in Heaven for a month before your pa joined her. Some days you just think it’s plain cruel, for both of them leave you so soon.

You didn’t have it in you to keep their farm fully up and running. You’d need more manpower than yourself alone, and there wasn’t enough money for that. So, you sold off all the livestock and equipment that you no longer needed, giving yourself a substantial savings alongside what your parents left you to live off of, and to at least keep the house and land in your name. But some days you wonder if it’s enough, if you did the right thing.

Everything is so overgrown now, and you know you need to do something about it, but you’ve just not had it in you. You gulp down more of the lemonade, tears stinging your eyes, but for different reasons this time. Now, you just wish your parents were here. You just wish you could pull open the screen door and shout, “Ma! Pa, I’m home!” and they’d answer you.

You walk around the small ranch house to the barn in the back where your pa’s old truck lives. You’ll never sell it, even though it doesn’t drive right now, and hasn’t in some time. One day, you’ll fix it up and drive it somewhere.

Maybe Metropolis. Maybe you’ll visit Clark.

A laughable idea, honestly. It’s a long drive to the city, and there’s no guarantee he’d even want to see you there.

You prop yourself up on the hood of the truck, looking out over the field. Gosh, you spent so many days here, running around with Clark. It’s impossible to find a childhood memory that doesn’t have Clark in it in some form. It’s as beautiful to remember as it is tortuous.

You set your lemonade down in the grass and lean back onto the hood, propping your leg up so you can rest your eyes. They’re heavy from crying so much, and you’re all out of lemonade to drink, so you might as well try for a cat nap.

You’re starting to doze off when you feel something licking your face.

“Krypto,” you murmur, still half-asleep, not even sure that’s who it is, but who else would it be? You crack one eye and you see him. One ear perked, head tilted, hovering just above you. “What are you doing here?” you giggle, reaching up for him, but he lifts higher out of your grasp. “Don’t be a punk!” you chide, pulling him down to your chest, scratching behind his ears and under his belly. “Where’s Superman, huh?”

As if on cue, you hear Clark yelling after Krypto. The dog in question flies away from you and you hear a comical thud as he collides with Clark.

You slide off the truck and poke your head out the barn, seeing Clark -- still in his suit -- being tugged along by his cape toward the barn, pitcher of lemonade in hand with an extra empty glass. He sets both down at his feet once he spots you, though, and you break out into a run before you can think twice. 

You were so certain he wouldn’t be back that seeing him now makes you feel like you’re dreaming. You have to hold him so you know this is real.

Krypto flies around above your heads as you launch yourself at Clark, wrapping your arms and legs around him like a koala. He barely stumbles, his super strength unfazed by your tackling. His arms wrap around you, securing you against him, and he sighs, tension melting out of him.

“We were watching the news,” you gasp into his neck. “I’m so glad you’re okay-- You saved everyone.”

“Mr. Terrific closed the rift,” he says, ever humble and not wanting to take all the credit. “And the Justice Gang helped at the Jarhanpurian border, I was just--”

You can’t help it, you start giggling. 

“What?” you can hear him smiling through the question. “It’s true! I couldn’t have done it alone, no way.”

“I know,” you say, lifting your head to look at him with wide eyes. “And all that stuff about Luthor, I just--” You shake your head. “I can’t.”

“I know,” Clark breathes, arms tightening around your waist. “But he’s in custody now, and the Jarhanpurian people won’t have to worry about him or Boravia. And he had so many people trapped in his pocket universe, they’re all out now, they’re going home to their families.”

You nod along, not understanding half of it, but just glad that it all boils down to everyone being okay. “And…the video. Your parents’ message.”

Carefully, Superman sets you down, but he takes your hands. “I know. I didn’t get a chance to explain it before I had to leave but-- I swear to you, I only ever heard the first part of their message, I had no idea--”

“Clark,” you pull his hands to your chest, placing one over your heart, something you used to do when you were teenagers. It always calmed him down, got him to focus on your heartbeat instead of whatever else was overwhelming him. “I never in a million years would believe that you of all people were hiding some-- some secret harem or some scheme to rule over everyone. You’re good, Clark. You, your ma and pa, you’re good people.”

He smiles, soft and relieved. “Thank you.” 

“And I’m sorry for snapping at you before you left -- this time and last time,” you add with an awkward chuckle. “I just-- I can’t leave here, Clark. It’s all I’ve got left of them.”

“I know, I know,” he says before you can even finish. “I understand. I never should’ve tried to push you so hard.”

“And I never should’ve made you feel bad for going,” you say. “You did the right thing. You’ve helped so many people, and you’re just going to help more, and that’s what matters. You fit in there. It’s good for you.” You pause, dropping his hands finally and shifting on your feet. “And Lois seems good for you, too.”

“Lois?” The shock is evident in his voice and his face, and he nearly laughs. “What do you mean Lois is good for me?”

Now you’re the one that’s confused. “I mean, she’s good for you. She flew you here!”

“Because we’re friends,” he argues. “And she went to Mr. Terrific for help to find me after I turned myself in. She told me it was stupid, but I did it anyway, and got myself trapped in Luthor’s pocket universe with Kryptonite--”

“That’s how you got Kryptonite poisoning?” You want to shove him, but you know he won’t budge. “Clark Kent! What is wrong with you!”

“I thought I was doing the right thing!” he cries, arms flailing. “I don’t know! I was trying to find Krypto!” He pauses, lips splitting in the same boyish grin that you remember. “You thought I was dating Lois.”

“What was I supposed to think!” you glare at him, but you’re fighting a smile. “You come in here after three years of not visiting and you’re being held up by a gorgeous woman--”

“Don’t you ever let her hear you say that, she won’t let me live it down--”

“So, yeah, Clark, I thought you were dating her! It’s been three years! I thought you moved on!”

“Almost four,” he corrects you. “And no, I haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Moved on from you,” he whispers the words like a confession. “You think every time I dropped by for just a few minutes to see Ma and Pa that I wasn’t also looking for you?”

“I was hiding from you,” you grumble. “I would hear you when you came in. You should really work on that.”

“On flying quieter?” he laughs.

“Yeah,” you snort. “You’re lucky we live in the middle of nowhere, and that I’m the closest neighbor. What d’you think anyone else would say, hearing you barreling in here and then blasting out ten minutes later like a missile?”

“What if we don’t have to worry about that anymore?”

“What?”

“What if I stay here for a bit,” he says, clarifying. “What if I…” he pauses, glancing around. “Help you fix up your farm? Maybe get your pa’s truck running. Spend a few weeks here in the sun for a change.”

“What about your job?”

“I’ve got some vacation time,” he shrugs. “I can do some work from here--”

“Clark--”

“I just need to talk to Perry about it, but I think he’ll agree--”

“Clark!” you laugh, shoving his chest now, and as expected, he doesn’t move an inch. “You’re crazy.”

He shakes his head, that dumb smile on his face. “Just crazy about you. Never stopped.”

You just shake your head back at him, wondering if what you’re hearing is true. “Are you sure?” you ask. “What about Superman?”

Clark’s eyebrows furrow. “What about him?” he retorts, and it’s just so silly, hearing him say that as his cape moves in the breeze.

“He still needs to save the day,” you reply. “Can he do that from here?” 

He shrugs. “Of course he can.”

“Are you sure?” you ask again.

And Clark, the way he knows you inside and out, the way only he can understand you like no other from growing up alongside you, steps forward and carefully places his hands on your arms. “Hey,” he says. “Where’s this coming from?”

You shake your head. It’s stupid. He’s standing here, telling you to your face that he wants to stay here for a while, and you don’t believe him. You’re acting like you want him to leave. 

“I don’t-- We don’t fit anymore, Clark,” you murmur, wanting to tuck yourself into his chest and run away from him at the same time. “You’re-- You’re Superman.”

“No, honey, I mean, I am, but I’m just Clark,” he cries. “And you’re you--”

“Exactly!”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“I mean, exactly, I’m me, and that’s why--”

“That’s why I love you!” Clark practically screams, and it makes you stop. He doesn’t like raising his voice ever, especially not at anyone, and you know this. But he’s doing it now, and he looks guilty for it just as much as he looks like he doesn’t regret it. “Sorry.”

“You love me?” you ask. “Like-- You love me, or you’re--”

“Gosh, I’ve--” He tugs at his hair that has started to curl again now that he’s here, and he laughs, all light and the same as it’s always been. “I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen.”

Your breath hitches.

“I-- Leaving here when I moved to Metropolis was hard because I was leaving Ma and Pa, but it was hard because I was leaving you, and I didn’t-- I knew you couldn’t come with me, I knew it wasn’t right to ask you to, but I just couldn’t stand the idea of not waking up across the hall from you, or waking up and running around in the sun with you all day.” His voice catches then, his eyes watery. “I miss-- I miss you, and I should’ve come to see you, but I was so worried about keeping you safe, and keeping my parents safe. I-I don’t tell anyone where I was raised because I don’t want anyone even getting close to touching you--”

“Clark, I know, I know why you do it.” You grab his hand, once again placing it over your heart. “I miss you too. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

He lets out a laugh, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I think I do have an idea and I think I missed you more.” 

“Oh, it’s a competition now?”

“Not even a competition, I know I missed you more, honey.”

“Fine,” you roll your eyes, feigning annoyance even though it’s the sweetest thing because it’s just so Clark to argue with you about who missed who more -- and to insist that he did. His hands slip from yours and rest back down at his sides. “We should get back to the house, though. Ma made supper and told me I had better come back and eat.”

“Yeah, she actually sent me here to retrieve you.”

“And here I thought you were coming to see me out of the goodness of your own heart, Kent.”

“Well, obviously I--” You let him flounder for a moment before breaking out into a grin and he pauses, tilting his head with one of his famous Clark stares. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not,” you tease. Without another moment’s thought, you say, “Race ya!” and take off toward the house.

Krypto spots you from across the field and immediately takes off after you, Clark not far behind from the sounds of his laughter -- and telling Krypto to be careful as he lunges toward you. Krypto just flies above you, though, wanting more belly scratches as you run.

You’re not sprinting as fast as you could and you know it, and Clark does too as he catches up all too easily, reaching out for your hand to pull you back toward him.

And there, underneath the Kansas sun, Clark Kent kisses you for the second time in your life, smiling into it like he just can’t believe you’re letting him -- or that you pull him back in when he tries to break away. 

“I should’ve asked--” is all he gets out before you’re kissing him some more. 

“Yes,” you say into the next one, just so he knows his question is answered. 

His arms circle your waist and he sighs into your lips. “I love you,” he says again. “I should’ve told you that a long time ago.”

“Me too,” you whisper, pausing to rest your forehead against his. “I think I’ve loved you since that day you knocked on the screen door. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do,” he grins. “We got the water guns out and hid behind the cows! Remember--”

“Martha!” you laugh. “Gosh, I swear she hated us.”

“No, she loved us.”

“Maybe you, she was your cow.”

He kisses you again, unable to help himself. “I love you. I’m just gonna have to keep saying it.”

“Good,” you murmur, kissing him again. “Because I love you, and I plan to say it more.”

He smirks, raising an eyebrow, “So it’s a competition?”

“Not a competition Clark,” you quip. “You said you’ve loved me since we were sixteen, I said since that first day, so I’ve got about--” You check an imaginary watch. “--ten years on you. You’ve got some catching up to do.”

He laughs loudly then, tossing his head back. “Yes ma’am, I do,” he says, pulling you back in.

[perfectprettypisces]

call it what it was ⁃ bradley "rooster" bradshaw

pairings: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x rival!reader (callsign: raven) word count: 26k words synopsis: you and bradley bradshaw have been in competition since day one, and you both swore you'd never fall for each other. but rivalry turns to tension, tension turns to touch, and one night changes everything, even if neither of you will admit it. warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, smut, oral sex (f!receiving), soft dom!bradley, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie (multiple), praise kink, light choking, semi-public setting (cabin in the woods post-crash), fingering, pussy eating (with come clean-up), rough second round, soft aftercare, emotionally vulnerable sex, cockwarming, swearing, possessive dirty talk, mention of bruises/injuries, crying (emotional not pain), implied subspace, explicit descriptions throughout. flight log: i am so sorry if the writing feels kinda shitty at times okay my brain is currently clogged with jake seresin thoughts and thirst so i had to pull myself together just to finish this lmao 😭 i swear i’ll post a hangman fic soon to get it out of my system but for now… take this messy, angsty enemies-to-lovers smut and pretend i’m not spiraling over two pilots at once 💀💛 disclaimer: my works are not made using ai. every word comes from me, my thoughts, my hands, my time. do not steal, copy, or feed my fics into ai for any reason. fuck ai and what it’s doing to creative spaces. support real writers. ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ masterlist

You had a rule: never come second to Bradley Bradshaw.

He had one too: never let you forget the one time he did.

Unfortunately for both of you, fate had a wicked sense of humor. You were four years younger, but thanks to Captain Mitchell—callsign Maverick—and his signature stunt of grounding Rooster mid-career, you two ended up on the same cursed timeline. Same college. Same degree. Same flight academy. Same Top Gun class. A cosmic joke, really. No matter where you turned, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw was there, swagger and all.

The rivalry was instant. Combustible. He walked into your first flight academy briefing like he owned the airspace, broad-shouldered and sun-kissed, legacy stitched into the name on his chest. You? You were the anomaly—young, precise, unnervingly calm, with eyes that didn’t flinch and a brain that ran like a well-oiled turbine. The first time he smirked at you, you rolled your eyes so hard you nearly blacked out. The first time you beat him, he stared at the results board like it had betrayed his entire bloodline.

College had been your playground—you took first place like it was your birthright. You aced every exam, outranked every classmate, including him. But at the Academy, you tied. Somehow. You were both too stubborn, too good, too fueled by the desire to eclipse the other.

The instructors didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified. Then came Top Gun, where he finally pulled ahead—barely. Rooster became top of class. You came second. And for a man who once nearly got benched over a low pass, he never let you forget it. Not for one goddamn second.

Now, at North Island, you made it your mission to fix that mistake. Every flight, every mission sim, every stat—they were yours to dominate. You made sure Rooster would always be just behind you, chasing your contrail like a dog with clipped wings. He might’ve had his moment at Top Gun, but that was history. You were the now.

You were Raven. Unmatched, unshaken, unforgiving in the air. You flew like the night—silent, fast, deadly. He was a rooster. Loud. Proud. Predictable.

But he was also the only one who ever kept up.

And maybe that’s why you hated him most of all.

The briefing room buzzed with chatter, boots scuffing polished floors, flight suits half-zipped and lazy with heat. Then your name was called. Raven. Clear, sharp, no hesitation. You rose, indifferent. A few heads turned—Payback raised a brow, Halo smirked. And then—

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Bradley muttered under his breath.

You didn’t even look at him. Just smiled, slow and mean, like a blade being unsheathed.

“Miss me, sunshine?” you asked, sauntering past him, your shoulder nearly brushing his. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact, but you could feel his glare burning between your shoulder blades like heat from an afterburner.

He followed you out of the room, jaw clenched, strides long enough to keep pace. The second you rounded the corner into the hall, his voice snapped like tension wire.

“Don’t act like this is a surprise,” he said, tone sharp. “They always bring in the second-best to make the top guy look better.”

You stopped in your tracks, slow and deliberate, then turned on your heel. “Funny,” you said, crossing your arms. “I didn’t realize they needed dead weight to make a mission more impressive.”

Bradley scoffed, stepping closer. “You’ve always had that mouth on you. Maybe if you spent half as much time refining your maneuvers as you do sharpening your insults, you’d actually stay on top.”

Meanwhile, you tilted your head and smiled like it was your favorite game. “Maybe if you didn’t fly like a billboard for daddy issues, you’d stop ending up right behind me.”

He laughed, cold and humorless. “Right. That’s why I was first at Top Gun. Remind me again what that felt like, Raven. Oh wait—you wouldn’t know.”

For a moment, the hallway pulsed with silence. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. You simply leaned in a fraction and said, voice low and lethal, “One time. You got me once. The rest? I’ve owned you. And you know it.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, hands clenched into fists at his sides. There was always this thing with him—this righteous anger, this fury that you existed as proof that he wasn’t untouchable. That someone younger, sharper, hungrier had clawed her way to the same sky he thought belonged to him.

Then, just to twist the knife, you added, “Besides, we both know why you were held back. Daddy’s friend clipped your wings for a reason.”

His face darkened instantly. You saw it happen—like cloud cover swallowing sunlight. For a second, you wondered if he’d say something that couldn’t be unsaid. But instead, he smiled. Wide. Mocking.

“You can keep circling me all you want, Raven,” he said, “but just like every other bird in the sky, you’ll always be in my rearview.”

You leaned back, slow and measured. “Rearview’s a funny word coming from someone who keeps eating my dust.”

Before he could answer, a voice crackled through the overhead comms, summoning you both to the hangar. You turned without waiting for him, boots striking the floor like a countdown. The mission hadn’t even started yet, but the war?

It never ended.

The hangar doors yawned open as you stepped into the sun-bleached space, the scent of jet fuel thick in the air. Mechanics moved like ghosts in the distance, but the tension followed you like a storm. Rooster trailed just a few paces behind, boots heavy, presence louder than it needed to be. You could feel him watching your back, and it made your jaw clench.

“So what’s the play, Raven?” he called, his voice echoing too loud in the hangar. “You gonna try and pull rank again? Talk your way into lead position like you always do?”

You stopped and spun to face him, expression flat but eyes flashing. “I don’t talk my way into shit, Bradshaw. I earn it. Every time. Just because you think walking around with your chest puffed out counts as qualification doesn’t mean the rest of us are buying it.”

He barked a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You really believe your own bullshit, huh? That little fantasy where you’re better than me?”

“I don’t believe it,” you snapped, taking a step closer. “I know it.”

Bradley shook his head, scoffing as he looked away, hands on his hips like he needed somewhere to put all that arrogance. “God, you’re exhausting. Everything’s always a fucking competition with you.”

“Because it is,” you shot back, refusing to give ground. “Because every time I’ve had to prove myself, it’s been with you breathing down my neck, waiting for me to slip.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been coming for me since day one.”

“Because you needed to be taken down a peg!”

His head tilted back, laugh harsh, almost wild. “Right, and you’re the one to do it? Just because you flew cleaner in college? Congrats, you were good at theory and simulations. Try doing it with real pressure.”

“I have, Bradshaw,” you said through clenched teeth. “I’ve done the same shit you’ve done, sometimes better, with less time, less backup, and half the fucking grace you were handed. But I guess it’s easier for you to pretend I’m just riding some lucky streak than admit I might actually be better.”

“Better?” he repeated, scoffing. “You’re a pain in the ass with an attitude problem. You think that makes you elite?”

Meanwhile, your blood boiled, fists clenching at your sides. “You think your fucking legacy makes you better than me? You think Maverick grounding you was the worst thing that ever happened to you? Grow the hell up.”

That one hit—his expression flickered, just for a second. Then he stepped into your space, chest brushing yours, heat rolling off him in waves. His voice dropped, quieter but sharper. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

You didn’t flinch. “I know you’ve been chasing my tail for the last year and pretending it’s the other way around.”

He let out a slow exhale, biting down on the inside of his cheek before replying. “You really are a piece of work.”

“And you really are full of shit,” you said coolly, before turning back toward your jet. “Now get the hell out of my way before I make you look bad. Again.”

You didn’t look back as you walked, but you could feel him seething behind you—burning alive in the wake of your calm. It wasn’t over. It never was.

By the time you reached the rest of the squad, the hangar had started to hum with pre-flight motion. Cyclone’s voice echoed faintly from the tower, and jets glinted under the California sun like loaded promises.

Maverick stood by the briefing screen, arms crossed, aviators on, wearing that smug little expression that made people nervous for reasons they didn’t understand. You’d known him long enough to know he saw everything—especially tension.

Phoenix spotted you first, nudging Bob, who followed her line of sight and visibly tensed when Rooster appeared just a few steps behind you. You didn’t need to see him to feel it—his heat, his scowl, the way his energy invaded whatever space you claimed. It was always like that. He never learned how to stay in his own lane.

Maverick raised an eyebrow behind his shades. “Raven. Rooster. Something I should know about?”

You smiled without warmth. “No, sir. Just friendly conversation.”

Rooster made a noise under his breath. “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

The others exchanged glances. Payback leaned over to Coyote, muttering something with a grin. Fanboy just mouthed yikes behind his coffee cup. Even Phoenix, unbothered as ever, gave you a look that said, Again?

Maverick didn’t react—at least, not outwardly. He gave you both a slow once-over, like he was mentally calculating how much damage this would cause in the air. “Glad to see the team’s spirit is alive and well,” he said dryly, then gestured toward the screen. “Briefing starts now. Save the pissing contest for after wheels-up.”

You and Bradley moved to opposite ends of the lineup like magnets flipped the wrong way. You didn’t speak, but the air between you practically crackled. Meanwhile, Maverick clicked through the tactical overview, the tone of his voice calm, efficient, utterly detached.

You tried to focus on the mission—two-man formation drills, low-altitude flyby over rough terrain, testing out a new maneuver pattern—but you could feel Rooster’s eyes burning holes into the side of your skull.

Then Maverick added, almost casually, “And for this run, Raven’s in lead. Rooster, you’re her wing.”

You turned your head just enough to see Rooster stiffen like someone had just punched him in the ribs. Phoenix let out a soft, almost-silent “oh shit.”

Rooster didn’t say anything. Not at first. But when Maverick moved on to the next slide, he muttered, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Maverick looked up. “Problem, Lieutenant?”

Rooster’s jaw was tight. “No, sir.”

You didn’t gloat. Not outwardly. But your smile curled at the edges as you reached for your helmet. “Try to keep up, Rooster,” you said lightly. “Wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

He met your gaze for half a second. No smile. Just pure defiance.

“I don’t follow birds that don’t know where they’re going,” he said, voice low.

You stepped closer, just enough for only him to hear. “Good thing I always fly straight,” you said, voice cool. “Unlike you.”

Phoenix cleared her throat loudly, dragging both your attentions back to the room. Maverick sighed and looked at the ceiling like he was reconsidering every life choice that brought him to this moment.

“Get suited,” he said. “You’ve got thirty minutes. If one of you ends up on the deck, I swear I’ll ground you both.”

You turned on your heel and headed for the lockers, pulse already spiking. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The sky over North Island was clear, cloudless, unforgiving. Your F/A-18 roared as it sliced through the open blue, a beast of steel and fire. The mission was textbook—paired formation runs through low-altitude terrain, staying tight through simulated enemy radar zones. Easy. If it weren’t for the jackass flying just behind your six.

“Raven, your spacing’s off,” Rooster’s voice came through the comms, smooth and sharp like the edge of a scalpel. “You banking left on purpose or just showing off again?”

You rolled your eyes behind the visor and adjusted slightly. “I’d rather show off than fly like a damn drunk pelican. Tighten your spread, Rooster. You’re lagging.”

“Instructor’s notes say I fly clean,” he shot back, heat in his tone. “Can’t help it if you’re allergic to standard formation.”

Meanwhile, Phoenix’s voice cut in, low and dry. “Jesus. You two even breathe without arguing?”

Up ahead, Payback and Fanboy were leading the other two jets in the diamond formation, keeping it tight, professional. Phoenix and Bob flew to your right flank. Coyote and Hangman trailed just behind. Everyone could hear everything, and everyone was listening.

“Copy that, Phoenix,” Bob chimed in, soft and painfully neutral. “We’re all just trying to maintain situational awareness... and peace.”

You smirked, then dipped slightly under a thermal draft, riding the shift like it was part of the plan. “Peace is overrated.”

Rooster cursed under his breath, but it still crackled through. “This is why no one likes flying with you.”

“Correction,” you replied smoothly, flipping a switch with practiced ease as the canyon loomed ahead. “No one likes flying behind me. Because it’s hard to keep up.”

He came in tighter behind you, clearly ignoring Maverick’s earlier warning. His jet loomed just under your tail, too close for protocol. You felt it, a breath behind you. He was pushing. Testing. Typical.

“You keep flying that cocky,” he said, “and you’re gonna eat dirt when your ego clips a ridge.”

You grinned, fingers steady on the throttle. “And you keep flying that close, Rooster, and we’ll be making out mid-air.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone kissed your ass,” he muttered.

“Wouldn’t be the first time you wanted to,” you fired back, before switching channels to direct comms with command. “Raven to tower. Approaching waypoint delta. Beginning canyon descent.”

“Copy that, Raven,” came the response. “Maintain current heading and spacing.”

“See that, Goldilocks?” you said, flicking a glance down at your HUD. “Command likes what they see.”

Rooster exhaled a sharp breath. “You always gotta have the last word?”

You banked into the descent, steady and surgical, skimming the canyon’s edge with textbook precision. “Only when I’m right.”

Above, Hangman crackled in. “This banter’s fun and all, but maybe save it for the locker room, lovebirds?”

You and Rooster answered at the same time.

“Shut up, Bagman.”

Hangman laughed. “Damn. Synchronized now. Should we be worried?”

But you didn’t reply. You couldn’t. Because Rooster had just slipped too close again—his wing tip flirting with danger.

“Rooster,” you snapped, jaw tight, “back the fuck off. This isn’t a measuring contest.”

He didn’t answer. Just flew tighter. Closer. Like he needed to prove something, even if it got one of you grounded—or worse.

Meanwhile, your heartbeat was steady, trained. But somewhere under that cool surface, your blood ran hot. You weren’t sure if you wanted to punch him, or kill him straight through the cockpit glass.

The canyon narrowed, rock walls rising like jagged fangs on either side. Your jet sliced through the gut of it with surgical grace, the throttles singing under your palms. You kept your altitude steady—ten feet off the deck, your usual. You’d flown this exact run a dozen times. Hell, you could probably do it blindfolded. But what you couldn’t account for was the hot-blooded maniac on your six.

“Rooster, tighten up your line, not your ego,” you said, eyes flicking from the HUD to the terrain ahead. “You’re drifting into my slipstream.”

“I’ve got you,” he replied, voice clipped. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” you muttered, adjusting pitch. “You're the one treating this like a dick-measuring contest.”

Then it happened.

A gust slammed down between the walls of the canyon—stronger than forecasted, bouncing turbulence off the stone like a ricochet. You adjusted instantly, compensating with a small bank right. Textbook correction. Nothing unusual.

Except Rooster didn’t bank.

He tried to stay locked on your six, tried to match your move before committing to it. And that half-second of hesitation? That goddamn stubborn pride? It nearly killed you both.

His jet suddenly surged forward, nose rising fast—way too close.

“Rooster, break off!” you barked, voice sharp through the comms.

But it was too late.

You caught the shift in your peripheral as his wingtip skimmed under your tail. A hair’s breadth more and he would’ve ripped off your stabilizer and sent you tumbling into the rock wall. Your entire jet jolted from the force of his jetwash, alarms screaming in your cockpit like banshees.

“Raven’s bird just caught turbulence—she’s banking hard!” Payback’s voice cracked through the channel, panic loud under the surface.

Your heart shot into your throat as your jet dipped, the nose dropping below safety altitude. A rock outcropping loomed ahead, coming up fast.

You reacted without thinking.

“Raven, pull up!” Bob shouted.

“Shit—I know!” you growled back, already wrenching the stick toward you, throttles screaming as your engines strained under the forced climb. G-forces slammed into your chest like a freight train. Vision blurred. You gritted your teeth and pulled.

The jet screamed upward just in time, skimming the ridge by a whisper. Dust and grit splattered across your canopy as your bird barely cleared the stone.

“Holy shit,” Coyote breathed. “She cleared it by, like, five feet—maybe.”

“Raven, report,” Maverick’s voice cut in, all steel and control.

You panted into the comms, throat dry. “Bird’s stable. Nose got pulled. I’m recovering.”

Meanwhile, your hands shook on the controls, but you held them firm. You’d trained for turbulence. You’d trained for emergency pull-ups. What you hadn’t trained for was flying with someone who’d rather risk a mid-air collision than admit he was tailing too close.

“Rooster, what the hell was that?” Phoenix snapped, tone biting.

“She dipped early,” Rooster argued, but his voice lacked conviction now—he’d seen it, felt it too. He knew.

“Bullshit,” Hangman cut in, sharp. “That was your nose in her business. You clipped her wash and threw off her bird. That could’ve been a fucking fireball.”

There was a beat of silence. Even the sky felt quieter.

Maverick’s voice came in next, low and tight. “Both of you—return to base. Now. Rest of you continue the run. Rooster, you’re grounded until further notice. Raven, if your jet checks out, I want you back in the air tomorrow. We’ll debrief when you land.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. You were too busy breathing like you’d just sprinted through hell. Then, finally, you keyed your mic.

“Copy that, Tower. Raven returning to base.”

You didn’t wait for Rooster’s response. You pulled out of the canyon, climbed until the sky opened up above you again, and pointed your jet back toward the tarmac.

Your chest was still tight. Not from the Gs. From the rage.

And somewhere in your peripheral radar, Bradley Bradshaw followed behind—silent, for once. For now.

The moment your boots hit the tarmac, the squad was on you like flies to a flame. Phoenix was first, jogging over with her helmet still under her arm, eyes wide and sharp. Bob followed close behind, saying your callsign like it was a prayer. Hangman whistled low, muttering something about how you’d threaded a needle no one else could’ve even seen. Payback gave you a once-over like he wasn’t convinced you were whole. They were circling you, their voices overlapping—questions, jokes, concern wrapped in sarcasm—but you barely registered the words.

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, more sharply than intended. Your voice cut through the noise like a knife, slicing off their momentum. “Back off.”

Phoenix raised her hands and took a step back. “Alright, alright, damn.”

Jake, surprisingly, didn’t say a word. He just fell in beside you, not smirking, not preening. His usual charm was stripped away, replaced with something quieter. Steadier. He kept pace with you all the way into the building, only speaking once the others peeled off toward the locker rooms.

“You scared the shit outta me, Raven,” he said, not teasing—just honest.

You didn’t answer. Your jaw was clenched so tight it felt like your teeth would crack.

The debriefing room was cold with recycled air and tension. You took your usual seat in the front row, closest to the screen. Jake sat beside you without asking, elbows on knees, unusually still. The rest of the team filed in slowly, murmurs low and clipped. Every eye flicked toward the door, waiting for Rooster. He wasn’t there. Not yet. Of course not. Coward.

Then, finally, the door opened.

Maverick stepped in first, posture stiff with restrained disappointment. Behind him came Bradley Bradshaw, helmet tucked under his arm, face unreadable except for the tightness in his jaw and the guilt he couldn’t quite mask.

He didn’t look at you at first. He looked at Maverick. Then the team. Then, finally, at you. His eyes dragged across your face and landed on the bruised pride you wore like armor. And when he rolled his eyes?

You nearly launched across the table and throttled him.

“Sit down,” Maverick ordered, voice cold. Rooster obeyed with a grunt, slumping into the chair across from you and Jake. The tension in the room turned solid. Jake shifted slightly, as if to anchor you, but still didn’t speak. That silence of his said more than a monologue.

Maverick didn’t waste time.

“What happened today was unacceptable. Every single one of you should know better. Formation flying isn’t a suggestion—it’s doctrine. But what I saw out there?” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “Was ego flying your birds, not discipline.”

He turned his gaze directly to you and Rooster, pinning both of you under the weight of his scrutiny. “You two should know better than anyone. You’ve flown long enough. You’ve trained longer than most of the people in this room. And that kind of reckless behavior could’ve gotten someone killed.”

“Oh, what, so now it’s both our faults?” you cut in, voice sharp enough to slice metal. Jake’s head tilted slightly toward you, but he didn’t interrupt.

Maverick’s gaze flicked to you, then back to Rooster. “I’m not here to take sides—”

“No?” you snapped. “Because it kinda sounds like you are. Maybe it’s easier for you to scold me and keep coddling your golden boy.”

Across from you, Rooster let out a harsh breath. “Here we fucking go.”

You didn’t even look at him. “You almost killed me today, Bradshaw.”

“It was turbulence!” he barked.

“It was your damn pride!” you shouted back, finally turning to face him fully. “You pushed too close, flew too tight, ignored protocol—and for what? To prove that you can ride my ass in the air too?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he snapped, standing suddenly.

You stood too. “Don’t pretend you didn’t see my bird drop because of you. You nearly sent me into a goddamn mountain!”

“Enough!” Maverick’s voice boomed over both of you, but you weren’t finished. Not even close.

“Oh, what, am I not supposed to yell?” you threw back, arms wide. “Am I supposed to keep my mouth shut while your precious godson puts me in a body bag?”

“He didn’t mean to—”

“Intent doesn’t mean shit when I’m a split-second from crashing,” you bit out.

Rooster’s voice cracked, rough around the edges now. “You think I wanted that to happen?”

“No,” you hissed, leaning over the table, “I think you didn’t care enough not to.”

“You think I didn’t care?” Rooster snapped, his voice pitching just enough to crack under the fury he was barely keeping leashed. “You think I was just joyriding behind you for the hell of it?”

You leaned across the table, heat boiling up your throat, too fast to stop. “You weren’t flying like someone who gives a shit, Bradshaw! You were flying like someone who wanted to prove a point more than he wanted to finish the fucking mission!”

Phoenix stood up, eyes flicking between you both. “Okay, both of you, just—take a second.”

“I don’t need a second,” you barked, shrugging off her voice like static. “I need him to own what he did instead of throwing out excuses like a goddamn child.”

Rooster stood again, pushing the chair back with a screech against the floor. “Excuse me for not rolling over and letting you win like everyone else does. But we all know you love being the only one with teeth.”

“And we all know you love being Maverick’s little shadow,” you spat, unable to stop. “Flying with that name stitched to your chest like it’s supposed to mean something. Like it makes you fucking untouchable.”

“Hey!” Maverick barked from the head of the room, finally standing too. “Watch it.”

You whipped toward him, all the restraint you had left crumbling like ash. “No. You watch it. Because every time he screws up, you’re right there ready to sweep it under the rug like it’s not your own guilt bleeding all over the rest of us.”

“Raven, enough—” Jake said, voice low, hand starting to reach for your arm, but you weren’t hearing anyone anymore.

“Is that what this is, Rooster?” you sneered, turning back to him. “Trying to earn back the ghost of a man who’s never coming back?”

His face changed instantly—color draining, jaw tightening, fists curling so tight his knuckles went white. The silence was deafening. You saw it. You felt it. The moment your words sliced through something far deeper than ego.

“Don’t you dare—” he started, but his voice broke.

But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You almost killed me just to hear someone say your name louder than his. You want the legacy so bad, you’re choking on it.”

Rooster’s chair flew back as he stood so fast it clattered to the floor. “Shut the fuck up!”

You stepped forward, fists curled, ready. “Or what, you gonna finish what you started and crash me into a wall on foot this time?”

“Bradshaw, stand down!” Maverick shouted, cutting across the room, but Rooster didn’t budge. His chest was heaving, eyes wild, like he was one second from lunging.

Jake was already on you, stepping in, grabbing your arms, pulling you back hard. “Hey—hey! Raven, stand down. You’ve said enough—”

“Let go of me!” you snarled, trying to wrench out of his grip.

“Not happening,” Jake bit out, arms locked around you like a vise. “You are not throwing hands in a damn debrief.”

Meanwhile, Payback and Coyote had moved toward Rooster, corralling him back toward his chair. He was seething, hands trembling, lips pressed into a line so tight it looked like it hurt to keep them shut. But his eyes never left yours. They burned with something worse than rage.

Betrayal.

“You crossed the fucking line,” Rooster said hoarsely, voice shaking.

You glared right back. “Then draw a new one. One where you don’t almost kill me, maybe.”

Maverick slammed his hand on the desk, making everyone flinch. “That’s enough! Both of you—outside. Now. Separate hangars. I don’t care. I don’t want to see either of your faces until you’ve cooled the hell down.”

But your eyes were still locked with Rooster’s. Your pulse was still thunder. Your lungs were still catching fire.

This wasn’t over.

You didn’t even realize you were moving until the words shot out of your mouth like a bullet.

“Fuck you, Bradshaw. I hope the next time you wanna prove something, you crash into a fucking mirror instead of me.”

And then you were gone—out of the debriefing room, the door slamming behind you with enough force to rattle the hinges. Your boots struck the hallway floor with clipped, sharp steps, each one a punch against the storm still raging in your chest. You didn’t care if they were watching. You didn’t care if Maverick shouted after you. You didn’t care if Rooster burned in that seat until the damn sun exploded.

Somewhere behind you, you heard another pair of footsteps—slower, steadier. Jake.

You didn’t turn around.

“Raven,” he called, voice quieter now, less Hangman and more Jake. “Just—wait.”

You stopped, just outside the locker room, shoulders rising and falling like your body was still inside that cockpit, still gripping the stick, still moments from being scattered across canyon walls. Then you said, without turning around, “Back off, Jake. I swear to God.”

There was a pause. Then silence. He listened. You heard his steps fade away.

You pushed the locker room door open with your shoulder and stepped inside like you were walking into a war zone. No one else was there yet. Good. You didn’t want witnesses.

Then, without hesitation, you slammed your helmet down on the bench, popped open your locker, and hurled your gloves inside with a force that knocked your flight logs to the floor. Your hands were trembling. Not in fear—no, never in fear—but in that tight, brittle way adrenaline bites into your nerves after it’s done keeping you alive. Like your body didn’t know what to do with the leftover electricity.

You leaned forward, bracing both hands on the edge of the open locker door, breathing hard. The metal was cold beneath your fingers. Grounding. Anchoring. It helped. Barely.

Meanwhile, your brain was spinning like your jet had never landed. The flash of canyon walls, the shriek of alarms, the sudden loss of lift—the drop. It had been seconds. Maybe less. But you remembered the exact shape of that ridge. The color of the stone. The moment your bird’s nose dipped and you felt gravity claw at your ribs like it wanted to drag your bones into the dirt. You remembered the way your breath had caught in your throat—not fear, not exactly. Just... reality. The sharp, clear realization that you were seconds from dying. Again.

Because you knew what that felt like. Too well. Once was enough, but it had never just been once. You had survived things people didn’t walk away from. Your body carried it in the twitch of your fingers, in the steel in your spine, in the way you never flinched when the world tilted on its axis.

But this? This one had been close.

You stared into the dark metal of your locker like it might give you answers. Then you blinked. Once. Twice. No tears fell. You wouldn’t let them. Not here. Not for him. Your throat was tight, your chest burning—but you kept your eyes dry, kept your face hard, and forced the storm to stay where it belonged: behind your teeth.

No one would see you break. Especially not him.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, forehead nearly touching the inside of your locker, chest still heaving like you’d run a goddamn marathon with your ribcage on fire. Your gloves were on the floor. Your gear was half-stripped. Your thoughts were a mess of sharp edges you couldn’t dull.

The door creaked open again, and for a second, your body tensed, bracing for Rooster—maybe another round, maybe more yelling, maybe just the final straw that would push you into swinging.

But it wasn’t him.

“Hey,” came the soft voice. Bob.

You didn’t look at him, just let your eyes close for half a second. Then you muttered, “If you’re here to play mediator, don’t.”

“I’m not,” he said simply, like truth was the easiest thing in the world. “I just... wanted to check.”

You sighed, finally turning your head toward him. He looked like he didn’t want to take up space. Like he was trying to shrink himself smaller than usual—which was saying something. In his hands were a water bottle and a small protein bar. Classic Bob move.

You blinked at the offering. “What is this? A bribe to keep me from committing murder?”

“Maybe,” he said, gently stepping forward and placing the items on the bench beside you. “Though if you do murder him, I’ll deny I helped you hydrate first.”

A breath you didn’t know you were holding escaped your nose—something half a laugh, half a bitter huff. “God, Bob. I want to kill him. I want to break his nose. Then shove him into an afterburner and salute his crispy ass.”

Bob gave a small shrug. “I mean, I wouldn’t stop you, but we’d definitely lose flight privileges.”

That time, the laugh came easier. Small, tired, but real. You sank down onto the bench and grabbed the water, unscrewing the cap with shaking fingers you hoped he didn’t notice. He didn’t mention it. He just sat beside you, close but not crowding, presence warm and grounding like a campfire on a cold night.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you took a small bite of the bar, swallowed hard, and said lowly, “He almost killed me, Bob. Like—not just ‘oh no, I might’ve lost the lead’—like dead. Stone-cold, splattered-on-a-rock, body-bag kind of dead.”

Bob nodded slowly, like he understood without needing to say much. “I know.”

“And he just rolled his eyes in the debrief,” you went on, voice rising slightly. “Like I was being dramatic. Like my life is a fucking inconvenience to his ego.”

Bob didn’t respond right away. Then, carefully, he shifted just enough to let your shoulder touch his. You let it. You didn’t lean, not at first. But a few seconds passed, and your body moved on instinct—slowly lowering your head until it rested on his shoulder, the flight suit crinkling under your cheek. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t joke. He just sat there, letting you exist next to him, like he knew you were holding too much in and didn’t want to make you carry it alone.

“I would’ve pulled you out of that canyon myself if I had to,” Bob said after a long pause, voice low, sincere. “Just so you know. You’re not alone up there. Not with us.”

You blinked once. Twice. The tears didn’t fall, but they were close—burning behind your eyes like smoke after a crash. Still, you didn’t cry. You wouldn’t give the universe that satisfaction.

“Thanks, Bob,” you said eventually, voice quiet. “But next time... just keep a shovel ready. I might need to bury a body.”

He gave a soft chuckle. “Noted. I’ll bring gloves.”

The next morning, the hangar smelled like jet fuel, old coffee, and the kind of silence that followed a storm no one wanted to mention. You walked in with your flight suit already zipped, collar stiff, hair twisted into a no-nonsense knot that screamed do not even try me today. Your helmet dangled from your hand, your boots hit the floor in a rhythm as sharp as your jawline, and no one—not even Hangman—said a damn word.

The squad was already gathered near the whiteboard, Maverick standing at the front with a marker in hand. His expression was unreadable, which was somehow worse than when he looked disappointed. You caught Phoenix’s eye for half a second. She gave a small nod—acknowledgment, maybe apology, maybe just quiet respect—and then looked away. No one mentioned yesterday. Not directly.

Jake glanced your way but said nothing. He was back to his usual lean-against-the-wall posture, arms crossed, chewing on a toothpick like it might keep him from talking too much. But his eyes tracked you, subtle and steady, like he was waiting to see whether you were made of steel or glass today. You didn’t flinch. You were both.

Meanwhile, Bob stood close to Phoenix, but he offered a small smile when you passed by him, a silent reassurance that hadn’t dulled overnight. You took the spot next to him, brushing his sleeve briefly with your shoulder—not on purpose, not for comfort, just a quiet thank-you that didn’t need words.

Rooster was already seated. Of course he was. Head slightly bowed, hands resting on his knees like he thought playing the calm card would earn him moral high ground. You didn’t even glance in his direction. He didn’t deserve your eyes.

Maverick cleared his throat, bringing the squad to attention. “Today we’re running mixed pair maneuvers. You’ll rotate partners mid-air. Simulating damage, loss of communication, change in command. You don’t get to pick who’s in your backseat or on your wing.”

The room shifted slightly—spines straightening, glances darting. A tactical shake-up. You knew what this was. A reset. A forced one.

Then, Maverick looked straight at you. “Raven, you’ll start with Coyote. Rooster, you’re with Payback. We’ll rotate in pairs after two passes. Got it?”

You gave a single nod. Coyote grinned and bumped your shoulder as you walked past. “Try not to show me up too hard, ace.”

“Just try to keep up, cowboy,” you said without smiling.

As the briefing wrapped up, Maverick called after the group. “And Raven—hang back a minute.”

Your stomach tensed, but you didn’t let it show. You waited until the rest had filed out, until it was just you, Maverick, and the weight of yesterday hanging like fog in the room.

He crossed his arms, staring at you like he was searching for the right thread to pull. “You need to get your head back in the cockpit.”

“My head never left the cockpit,” you said sharply. “Ask anyone. My bird’s fine. My flying’s fine.”

“But you’re not fine,” he said, voice firm. “And I’m not gonna pretend like I didn’t hear what you said yesterday.”

You met his gaze, jaw clenched. “What part? The truth?”

Maverick didn’t blink. “I get it. You were pissed. He was reckless. But there’s a line, Raven, and you flirted with the edge of it. Don’t let your anger compromise your control.”

You inhaled deeply, exhaling through your nose. Then you muttered, “I almost died yesterday. You telling me to smile through it now?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m telling you not to let him take more from you than he already almost did.”

You didn’t respond. You just nodded once—sharp, cool, finished. Then you turned on your heel and walked out of the room, already rolling your shoulders back, already bracing for the weight of the sky.

The sun had barely burned through the coastal haze by the time you and Coyote taxied out onto the runway. The sky was wide and blue and blinding. You pulled your oxygen mask into place with a practiced snap, eyes flicking over the instruments with calm, clinical rhythm. Everything read green. No faults. No noise. Just the low hum of your own heartbeat reminding you that this time, you were in control.

“Raven, Coyote—cleared for takeoff. Tower requests altitude cap at twenty-five hundred ‘til cleared past traffic,” the voice crackled in your comms.

“Copy, Tower,” Coyote replied, his tone light despite the stiffness you could hear under it. “Raven, you good?”

“Affirm,” you said, adjusting your throttle. “Wheels up in five.”

You rolled down the tarmac in perfect sync, your jets carving twin shadows over the concrete like two wolves in lockstep. The second your wheels left the ground, you pulled into a clean climb, leveling at twenty-five hundred just as the tower cleared you to push to flight level 180. You and Coyote settled into your holding pattern while Payback and Rooster joined formation from the west, flying tight, their vector steady. The sky was quiet but tense, the kind of hush that makes your skin crawl.

“Alright, team,” Maverick’s voice came over the squadron channel, steady and clear. “You’ll run the switch maneuver on my mark. Raven, you’ll initiate. After break, Rooster’s team takes lead.”

You tapped twice on the yoke, hands steady. “Copy, Raven ready.”

“Coyote, ready.”

“Payback ready.”

There was a long pause before Rooster’s voice cut in. “Rooster. Ready.”

You ignored the way his voice landed in your ear like a knife pressed flat against skin. Not cutting—just reminding you it was still there.

Maverick continued. “At the break, Raven and Rooster trade wingmen. Simulate a failed comms link mid-run. Visual confirmation only.”

You took in a slow breath. Visual confirmation. No radios. Just hand signals and formation cues. You hated that. You hated giving him any reason to get that close again.

“Three. Two. One. Break.”

You peeled hard left as Coyote shot right, engines screaming as the two teams split and crossed, the mid-air ballet executed in a clean, sharp arc. You banked until you saw Payback fall into position behind your jet, his angle crisp, his nose tucked right where it should be. From your peripheral, you caught Rooster sliding in near Coyote, just as planned.

The maneuver was smooth. Technical. Precise. But your hands were still tense on the stick, muscles locked, ready for anything. Rooster’s recklessness lived like a ghost in the back of your skull—no matter how clean the flight looked on radar, you remembered what it felt like to almost not land.

You kept your eyes forward, scanning the terrain below. The simulated enemy radar was mapped across the ridges like invisible tripwires. You adjusted trim slightly and gave a quick flare of your tail fins—a signal to Payback to tighten up. He responded instantly, his jet tucking in.

Meanwhile, the comms remained quiet. Everyone knew the drill. No chatter unless you were shot down or spotted something. The silence felt louder today.

You dove low, cutting through the ravine like you were threading a needle, banking left, right, then pulling into a quick climb that pressed Gs down your spine. The F/A-18 held steady beneath you like a trusted blade. This bird never failed you. Only people did.

Then you glanced up—just for a second—and spotted Coyote and Rooster in a mirrored maneuver above you, their jets banking to intercept the simulated radar arc from the south. You couldn’t hear his voice, but you knew Rooster was barking orders in his cockpit, probably overcorrecting just to feel like he had control. It made your jaw clench.

You turned back to your own run, preparing for the next switch. In ninety seconds, you’d be paired with him. You’d have to fly side by side, nose to nose, wing to wing. No barriers. No separation. Just muscle memory and fury.

Your breathing deepened, steady, mechanical. You could do this. You had to do this

The timer ticked down in your HUD, blinking red: SWITCH IN 00:05:00.

You steadied your grip, knuckles white beneath your gloves. Payback gave a short signal—a flash of his wingtip—then peeled off smoothly to the left, heading toward Coyote to complete the partner rotation. You eased into a right bank, leveling out just in time for Rooster to slide into place beside you.

His jet hovered there, too close for comfort, too perfect to be accidental. He was making a point, probably trying to prove he could fly tight without clipping you this time. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t even twitch. You just locked into formation, spacing at textbook distance, throttle adjusted by instinct.

“Visual confirm,” Maverick’s voice crackled over the channel, watching from above like a hawk. “Raven, Rooster—you’re now a pair. Complete the radar sweep together, then punch vertical for final maneuver.”

You didn’t answer. You just toggled your comms twice—your silent acknowledgment.

Rooster’s jet matched your speed. Matched your pitch. Matched everything. It made your skin crawl.

Meanwhile, the canyon ahead narrowed, and you dipped into it first, leading the dance. Rooster followed, your jet casting a brief shadow across his canopy before the sunlight hit again. You descended quickly, just feet off the deck, your altimeter screaming warnings you ignored out of muscle memory. He stayed close.

Too close.

The bastard was mirroring you exactly, like a reflection you couldn’t shake. You pulled left to test him, dipping toward the ridge. He followed, perfect. Then you spun right, sharp, watching him catch the roll just a millisecond behind.

He was trying to prove something. That he could match you. That yesterday meant nothing.

It made your blood boil.

You flared your speed brakes for a heartbeat, forcing a tiny gap between your jets, then surged forward again. Rooster matched the move again—but this time, a little slower. You caught it. You knew he’d flinched.

“Altitude drop in ten seconds. Hard bank left. I’ll take point,” you finally said, breaking radio silence.

There was a pause. Then his voice cut in—calm, too calm.

“Copy. Following your lead.”

You wanted to scream. That tone. Like he hadn’t almost sent you to your death. Like this was just another drill.

Instead, you dove.

Your jet dropped fast, gravity grabbing you with open arms. You leveled just above the ridge line and sliced through the simulated radar zone like a blade. Rooster followed, sharp and silent.

Then, suddenly, he shot forward—too fast, closing the gap again. Your proximity alarms chirped.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you growled into the comms, forgetting the protocol.

“Helping you finish the run,” he shot back, voice like gravel.

You grit your teeth so hard your molars ached. “You want to help me, Bradshaw? Try not being glued to my goddamn ass.”

“You want distance? Say the word. I’ll give you miles.”

Your hand hovered near the throttle, tempted—so tempted—to punch forward and leave him in the dust. But you couldn’t. Not with Maverick watching. Not with the mission clock ticking down.

So you stayed. Tight. Focused.

The final maneuver was a vertical climb followed by a snap roll, simulating a break from enemy lock. You hit the climb first, engines roaring, Gs pushing down on your spine like a tidal wave. Your stomach dipped, your blood felt like static, and for a split second the sky narrowed to tunnel vision. But your hands never wavered.

Rooster was still with you—slightly off angle now. Probably realizing too late that you were willing to fly higher, faster, and harder just to get away from him.

You broke off after the maneuver, wings leveling above the clouds. Rooster pulled up beside you, but you didn’t turn.

You just stared forward, lips pressed into a thin line, heart hammering like war drums in your chest.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Landing procedures were routine—at least, they were supposed to be.

You kept it textbook. Your descent was smooth, airspeed clean, alignment perfect. Rooster was still flying your wing, and you could feel it like a pressure on your neck, like a weight on the back of your helmet that wouldn't lift until the wheels were down and you were clear of him. He said nothing over the comms, and you didn’t even acknowledge his presence. The tower guided you in, and you hit the deck like a damn professional, your bird settling onto the tarmac with grace you didn’t feel.

“Raven, cleared taxi Bravo to North Ramp,” came the controller’s voice. You responded with a clipped, “Copy,” and turned toward the line, watching the ground crew marshal you in with orange batons and dead eyes. The moment your canopy popped, the sound of the engine winding down filled your ears like a slow exhale, but it didn’t help. Not really.

You climbed down without looking at Rooster’s jet. He landed seconds after you and taxied in beside you, as if nothing had happened. You didn’t even spare his aircraft a glance. The second your boots hit the ground, you unclipped your helmet, ripped off your gloves, and started toward the hangar, heat still radiating off your skin like you were burning from the inside out.

Coyote met you halfway, helmet in hand. “You alright?”

You nodded once, jaw locked. “Yeah.”

He looked like he didn’t believe you, but he didn’t push. “You were clean up there. Even with... that.”

“I know,” you said, already brushing past him. “I always am.”

Bob was waiting by the lockers again, arms folded, back to the wall like he’d been holding the whole place together in your absence. When you walked in, he straightened up immediately.

“I saw the tail cameras,” he said quietly, as you tossed your helmet into the locker with a metallic clang. “You flew perfect.”

You didn’t answer, just started stripping out of your gear. Your zipper caught on your collarbone, and you yanked it harder than you needed to.

“I mean it,” Bob said, taking a step closer. “He was pushing. Too close. You didn’t break formation once.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose. “He was trying to get in my head.”

“And he didn’t,” Bob said, voice firmer now. “That matters.”

You finally looked at him. His gaze was steady, hands in his pockets, stance relaxed but ready—like he knew you were still barely holding it together and wouldn’t let you snap alone.

“I don’t trust him,” you said. “I don’t. Not in the air. Not anywhere near my six.”

Bob nodded. “You don’t have to. You just have to outfly him. Which you did.”

There was a pause. Then you muttered, “I wanted to leave him in the damn sky.”

Bob gave the smallest smile. “Yeah. I figured.”

You sat down on the bench, elbows on knees, still simmering beneath the surface. Bob lowered himself beside you, offering that same steady presence you’d grown to count on more than you’d ever admit.

For a long moment, you just sat there—gear half off, sweat cooling on your back, heart still kicking in your chest like it hadn’t landed with the rest of you. Meanwhile, Bob pulled out another water bottle, cracked it open, and held it out without a word.

You took it.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

“No problem,” he said, his shoulder just barely brushing yours. “I’m always in your corner.”

The locker room door creaked open just as you were pulling your undershirt over your head, hair damp with sweat, flight suit peeled halfway down to your waist. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t have to.

You felt him before you saw him.

Rooster.

He stepped in with the kind of slow, careful walk that said he knew he was stepping on a live minefield—but did it anyway. Maybe out of guilt. Maybe out of pride. Maybe just because he was a stubborn, overgrown man-child with the emotional intelligence of a wet sponge.

You didn’t look up. Not at first.

Bob stiffened beside you immediately, shifting subtly like he was ready to put himself between you and Bradley again. You didn’t need protection. You needed blood.

“I came to—” Rooster started.

“Oh, fuck right off, Bradshaw.”

Your voice cracked through the space like a sonic boom. Sharp. Loud. Immediate.

He blinked. Paused in the doorway. You still hadn’t turned to face him, but you heard the silence settle thick around his shoulders. Good. Let him carry some weight for once.

“I’m serious,” you said, standing now, turning slowly, flight suit hanging at your waist, tank top clinging to your spine. “Whatever you're about to say? Shove it. Right up your self-righteous, overhyped, chicken-shit ass.”

Rooster frowned, jaw ticking. “You really want to do this again?”

You stepped forward, water bottle still in hand, grip tight like you were debating whether to throw it at his damn head. “Do what, Bradshaw? Get almost killed by your recklessness and then have to listen to you pretend you were doing me a favor?”

His hands went up in mock surrender, but you saw the edge in his eyes, that infuriating smirk trying to claw its way through his guilt. “I wasn’t trying to outfly you.”

“No,” you snapped, voice rising. “You were just trying to remind everyone that you're still the golden boy—even if you have to drag me into the dirt to prove it.”

“I followed the maneuver.”

“You crowded my tail. You pushed inside my safe zone, and if I’d made one wrong correction, I’d be a splatter on canyon rock. That’s not flying, that’s fucking arrogance.”

Rooster’s voice dropped. Low. Defensive. “I had you covered.”

“Bullshit. You had your ego covered,” you spat. “You had your little redemption arc playing out in your head like some goddamn Top Gun fantasy where everyone claps for you and forgets you almost killed me.”

Bob finally stood between you both, hands raised, voice careful. “Okay. Time out. This isn’t the place.”

“No, Bob, let me.” You shoved your finger toward Rooster’s chest. “You think just because you wear his callsign on your sleeve, you get to fly like him too? Hate to break it to you, rooster-boy, but you don’t have the instincts, and you sure as hell don’t have the discipline.”

Rooster’s brows shot up. That stung. Good.

“You’re really gonna throw that at me?” he asked, voice rising.

“You’re damn right I am,” you hissed. “Because I’m tired of watching you make reckless calls and act like your intentions are enough to clean up the fallout. You don’t get to be both the fuck-up and the hero. Pick a lane.”

The tension was so thick now it felt like the walls were closing in. Rooster stared at you like he’d never really seen you before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe all he ever saw was competition.

“Say what you really want to say,” he said finally, his voice a low challenge.

You didn’t even hesitate.

“I don’t trust you. And I don’t forgive you. And if it were up to me, you’d be grounded until you grew the hell up.”

You stared at Rooster, chest rising and falling like you were still in the cockpit, like your body hadn’t caught up to the fact that you were back on solid ground. The locker room felt small now, claustrophobic, the kind of space where someone either walked out or a fist got thrown.

Bob glanced between you both, visibly uncomfortable, clearly torn. He opened his mouth, maybe to calm things down again, maybe to step in. But you beat him to it.

“Bob,” you said, your voice low and flat, not cruel, not loud—just final. “Get out.”

His brows furrowed immediately. “Raven…”

You turned to him, sharp. “Please. I need him alone.”

Bob hesitated, glancing at Rooster like he was considering whether it was a good idea to leave you two unsupervised. Like he wasn’t sure Rooster would survive it. He looked at you again, weighing the fire in your eyes.

Then, slowly, he gave a single nod. “I’ll be just outside.”

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t look back. The moment the door clicked shut behind Bob, the air dropped about ten degrees, even though the heat was still pounding in your chest.

Rooster crossed his arms, leaning back against the row of lockers like he was pretending to be casual, like you hadn’t just ripped into him in front of half the squad. But his jaw was tight, and he couldn’t quite meet your eyes for more than a second.

“You done yet?” he asked.

You took a step closer. “Not even close.”

His eyes flicked to yours, defensive again. “You made your point.”

“Oh, no, Bradshaw,” you snapped. “I made a point. But I haven’t even started making the point.”

Rooster scoffed, looking away like he was trying to summon some patience from the ceiling tiles. “You just love being pissed at me, don’t you?”

That did it.

You stalked closer, boots heavy on the tile. “You almost got me killed, and you think I’m doing this for fun?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Meaning doesn’t matter up there,” you cut in, voice sharper now, hotter. “Intentions don’t count for shit at Mach 1 when I’m flying with someone I can’t fucking trust.”

Rooster stepped forward now, matching your energy, the cocky smirk finally gone, replaced by something darker—wounded, maybe, but not apologetic. Never that.

“I’m not the only one flying aggressive. You banked us into that canyon.”

“And you didn’t leave me space to recover if it went wrong. That’s the difference between flying aggressive and flying like a goddamn liability.”

“You think you’re so perfect,” he muttered.

“No, I think I’m alive,” you said, breathing hard. “Which is more than I should be, thanks to you.”

He flinched, but you didn’t give him time to come back from it.

“You don’t get to act like the victim here, Bradshaw. You’ve been trying to outfly me since day one. Like my existence is some kind of personal insult to you.”

He threw his hands up. “Because you walk around like you invented Top Gun!”

“No,” you said, stepping closer, fury boiling just beneath your voice. “I walk around like someone who earned it. Like someone who bled for it. Unlike you—who was gifted the legacy and still can’t fly without dragging someone else down to feel tall.”

That hit him. You saw it.

He clenched his jaw again, looked away—then looked right back at you, eyes hard now, fire catching.

“You don’t know shit about what I’ve earned.”

“Bullshit, I don’t,” you said, spitting the word like venom. “I’ve been next to you this whole time. Same academy. Same airspace. Same course. I’ve seen what you do when you’re not the golden boy. You crash. You choke. You fuck up. And then you hide behind your last name like it’s supposed to mean something.”

The silence that followed was different. He didn’t speak. He just stared. Like no one had ever said that to him before. Like it landed somewhere deep. But not deep enough to humble him.

Not yet.

You could see it in his eyes—that flicker of shock, that brief stutter in his breath when your words hit just a little too deep. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t even pause. You saw the crack and you pushed.

“You want to talk about what you’ve earned?” you said, voice low, poisonous. “Fine. Let’s talk about the first time I almost died because of you.”

Rooster stiffened, brow furrowing like he hadn’t expected that direction. Of course he didn’t. Men like him never do.

You took another step forward. You could hear your pulse in your ears now, but your voice stayed level—cold, surgical.

“Flight school. Third year. T-38 Talon. You remember?”

His silence was answer enough.

“I was flying lead. You were supposed to be my goddamn wingman. We were in a mock intercept and you decided to cut the corner, to ‘gain advantage,’ you said. But what you really did was cut me off, broke formation, and forced me into a nose dive to avoid clipping wings. You remember now?”

His mouth opened, closed, like he was trying to fish for the right excuse. You weren’t giving him time.

“I went down. Thirty-two seconds of dead air, no control. Ejected at the last second and fractured two ribs when I slammed back to Earth. And you—you—stayed in the air like nothing happened. Didn’t even check your goddamn radio until it was over.”

“That’s not how I—”

“Don’t you fucking dare try to rewrite it, Bradshaw,” you snarled, finally jabbing a finger into his chest. “I’ve lived every second of that flight. I still wake up in the middle of the night hearing that wind ripping past my canopy as I dropped like a stone. I remember begging my bird to respond while you were busy trying to win a pissing contest that no one was even judging.”

Rooster backed a step, but you followed. You weren’t done. You were finally letting the venom out of your veins.

“And you know what’s worse?” you said, voice quieter now, sharper. “You never apologized. Not once. I got pulled from the flight roster for six weeks while you went on like nothing happened—still grinning, still cocky, still thinking your halo was just a little shinier than everyone else’s.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” he muttered, guilt cracking through his words.

“Bullshit you didn’t,” you snapped. “They told you. Maverick told you. The whole damn base was talking about how the ‘hotshot godson almost took out the prodigy.’ You knew, Bradshaw. You knew and you just... moved on. Because it was easier to pretend I bounced.”

He said nothing.

You inhaled sharply, chest rising with the weight of that memory. Then, voice thick with the kind of cold restraint that only comes after years of swallowing fire, you said, “That’s the difference between you and me. I never forget the people I almost killed. You forget the people you almost did.”

Rooster’s jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides. The weight of your words landed, but instead of backing down, he finally snapped.

“Jesus Christ, Raven,” he growled. “You act like I meant for any of that to happen. You think I wanted to screw you over? You think I haven’t carried that shit, too?”

You didn’t flinch. You waited, arms crossed, eyes locked on him like crosshairs.

“I made mistakes,” he said, voice rising now. “Yeah, I fucked up in flight school. Yeah, I flew too close yesterday. But I’ve been trying to prove myself every damn day since then, and you—you treat me like I’m the enemy. Like I’m just waiting to take you out.”

“You said it,” you muttered. “Not me.”

He stepped closer. “I’ve owned up to my shit. What about you, huh? You ever think maybe you’re not invincible? That maybe you fly like you’ve got something to prove, too?”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Don’t you dare turn this around on me.”

“Why not?” he snapped. “You’ve been carrying this grudge for years. I fucked up once and now I’m the villain in your whole damn narrative.”

You stared at him for a long, breathless second.

Then you said, “Because I know how dangerous this job is, Bradley. I know what I signed up for. But it was my dream. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

The words echoed off the locker walls, cold and soft and breaking.

“But I wasn’t ready to die,” you added, voice quieter now, but sharper, slicing through whatever protest he was about to throw at you. “Not then. Not now.”

Rooster froze. His breath caught. But you kept going. This wasn’t about flying anymore.

“I still want to live. I want to fly until I can’t. I want to grow old without a helmet on my head. I want—fuck—I want a house, Bradshaw. Somewhere in North Island, but not too close to the beach because the salt messes with the hinges. White picket fence. Big-ass windows. A porch swing.”

You laughed again, but it was a hollow, broken thing.

“I want kids. A family. I want to come home to someone who makes me feel safe. You ever think about that? That maybe I didn’t come here just to prove I’m the best—that maybe I came here to build something when I’m done?”

Rooster was still. His expression had shifted—no more anger, no more fire. Just... something raw. Something crumbling.

But you didn’t stop. You weren’t done bleeding.

“I can’t do any of that if I’m dead, Bradley,” you said. “And you? You almost ended all of it before it could even start.”

Bradley didn’t speak for a long moment. He just stood there, rooted to the floor like your words had struck somewhere he didn’t know existed until now. His arms had dropped to his sides, fists unclenched, the fight bleeding out of him.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally, voice low and hoarse. “That you wanted that.”

You shook your head, scoffing bitterly. “Yeah, well, maybe you would’ve known if you ever looked at me as more than your fucking scoreboard.”

“That’s not fair.”

You turned to him fully now, eyes blazing. “No, Bradley. What’s not fair is that I have to plan my life around not dying because of you. What’s not fair is watching everyone treat you like you walk on air while I’m just trying to land with my own damn wings.”

“I see you,” he said, quietly this time. “I’ve always seen you.”

“Then you’re blind,” you snapped. “Because if you did—if you really did—you’d fly like it. You’d have flown with me, not against me. And you sure as hell wouldn’t have nearly killed me. Twice.”

Bradley took a cautious step forward, like he was reaching for something invisible between you. “Look, I’m trying, alright? I know I’ve been a dick. I know I’ve let my pride get in the way. But that wasn’t about you. That was me trying to prove I wasn’t just some legacy pilot riding a dead man’s wake.”

You scoffed again, shaking your head, voice tight. “Don’t you dare make this about your daddy issues.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m serious, Bradshaw. Don’t. You. Dare.”

His jaw flexed. He swallowed hard, but stayed rooted where he was. “I just... I don’t know how to make this right.”

“You can’t.”

The words came out fast, final, like a slammed door.

“You can’t make it right. You can’t go back and undo the times I almost fucking died trying to dodge your shadow. You can’t take back the fact that every time I go up now, I hesitate. I hesitate, and I never did before you.”

His face twisted like you’d slapped him, but you weren’t done.

“You know how dangerous that is? To fly with doubt? To wonder if the guy next to you is gonna screw up again?”

He opened his mouth, and you cut him off before the first word left.

“And I don’t want your guilt, Bradley. I don’t want your puppy-dog eyes and your sad-sack remorse. I want my safety. I want the one thing I’ve earned, which is to not feel like I’m one mistake away from a fucking memorial flyover.”

Bradley looked like he’d been carved down to nothing. But that was his problem now.

You were done holding it in.

The silence after your last words hung heavy—thick and final, like the air after an explosion, where nothing stirs and everything aches.

Bradley didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at the spot where you’d been looking straight through him, his mouth slightly open like he wanted to speak but knew better. His hands hung useless at his sides. No fight left. No defense worth giving.

You blinked slowly, jaw tight, chest still rising and falling like you were back in the jet, like you hadn’t come down at all. Maybe you hadn’t.

Then, without another word, you turned.

Boots against tile. Echoes trailing behind you like ghosts.

You passed him without looking. You didn’t want to see his face. Not like this. Not when it was finally registering just how badly he’d fucked it all. You reached for the locker room door, pulled it open with a sharp tug, and stepped out into the hallway where the air felt different—cooler, quieter, distant.

Behind you, he didn’t follow. Good. You didn’t need him to.

You walked steady, shoulders squared, eyes forward. Not because it didn’t hurt—but because you refused to let him see that it did.

You weren’t ready to forgive. And he wasn’t ready to be forgiven. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And if he had anything left to say, he’d have to say it to your back. Because for now, you were gone. And you weren’t looking back.

- Bradley, Rooster -

The door clicked shut behind you, and the silence hit like Gs in a flat spin.

Bradley didn’t move. Couldn’t. It was like every molecule in the room had frozen with your exit, like the fire you'd lit still lingered in the air, crackling around the lockers and burning under his skin. His jaw was clenched tight, arms stiff at his sides, but it wasn’t anger holding him together now—it was shame.

You’d told him everything. Every brutal, ugly truth he'd been too proud or too stupid to see for himself. He hadn’t just failed you in the sky. He’d failed you years ago. And the worst part? He’d forgotten it. Buried it so deep that it had stopped feeling real to him. But not to you. Not ever to you.

“I wasn’t ready to die.”

The words looped through his head like comms feedback, sharp and constant and impossible to ignore. He thought he could walk in, take the heat, say sorry in that way people like him always said sorry—tight-jawed and low-voiced, a little too late and never loud enough. He thought maybe, just maybe, you’d give him the benefit of the doubt again.

But you’d looked at him like he was a loaded gun pointed at your chest.

And damn it, maybe he was.

He sank down onto the bench, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might give him answers. But it didn’t. All it gave him was the image of you, standing there in your half-zipped flight suit, fire in your eyes, telling him you wanted a house. A family. Kids. A white picket fence somewhere on North Island, not too close to the beach, but close enough to feel the breeze. You said it like it hurt to say, like you hadn’t dared believe you were allowed to want things like that.

And he’d almost taken all of it away. Again.

The first time—Jesus, the first time—he remembered now. The Talon. The maneuver. The way you spun out and the ground came up too fast. He’d heard the report. Read it. Knew you walked away with busted ribs and bruises down your spine, and he hadn’t said a damn word. He told himself it was a fluke. A training accident. Nothing he needed to carry.

But you’d carried it.

You always did.

He leaned back against the locker, head hitting the cool metal with a dull thunk. The ceiling swam above him, but all he could see was your face—tight with rage, eyes too bright, voice cracking around the edges but never breaking. You didn’t cry. Of course you didn’t. That would’ve given him something soft to hold onto.

Instead, you gave him the truth.

You don’t get to be both the fuck-up and the hero. Pick a lane.

And the worst part? You were right.

You always fucking were.

He rubbed a hand over his face, the scratch of stubble catching under his palm, like pain might jolt him back to reality. But no. You were still gone. And everything you’d said still rang in his ears like a damn bell he couldn’t unring.

Bradley had always known you were sharp. Known you were faster, colder under pressure, more precise with a stick than anyone else in the room. But he never realized how long you’d been flying with a target on your back—his target. And now? He didn’t know how to separate pride from shame anymore. It all just blurred.

You were four years younger. Everyone knew that. The prodigy. The talk of your class. The one who made instructors blink twice during debriefs and had the rest of the academy scrambling to keep up. And yeah, at first, it was envy. That tight, stomach-clenching envy that burned right behind his ribs when he saw your name climb above his on the board. It wasn’t supposed to bother him, but it did. Every. Damn. Time.

So he’d tried harder. Pushed further. Flew faster. He told himself it wasn’t about you—it was about proving he deserved the callsign. That he wasn’t just a name stapled to a legacy. But deep down? He knew.

It was always about you.

It was about the way you rolled your eyes when he smirked. About the way you flew past him in formation like you didn’t even see him in your six. About the way you made him feel small without ever saying a word.

He hated that. And somehow, he hated that he needed your approval even more.

And now—God—he hated himself for ever thinking this competition was harmless. That you were unshakable. Untouchable. Like you didn’t want the same things he did. A future. A home. A life.

He’d never pictured you wanting all that. Not because he thought you didn’t deserve it—he just... didn’t let himself imagine it. Didn’t want to put soft edges on the one person he needed to keep sharp in his head. But hearing it from you, out loud, in that furious, breaking voice—it gutted him.

He’d flown like an idiot. That much was clear. You were on his wing, and instead of holding formation, instead of watching your six, he dove in like a hero in a movie he wasn’t qualified to star in. And for what? Some imaginary point? To prove he could still be top dog?

You could’ve died. Right there. Mid-air. A flash of fire, a blackout screen, and a headline with your name.

And then what?

What the hell would he have done then?

He exhaled again, this time shakier. His fingers dug into the edge of the bench, gripping it until his knuckles went white. He wished he could go back. Say something different. Fly different. He wished he could stop being the guy who hurt you. Who scared you. Who nearly killed the one goddamn person who could ever meet him head-on and still leave him in the dust.

But wishes didn’t mean shit in the Navy.

And you were gone.

It hadn’t always been like this.

He remembered the first day he met you—flight school orientation, crisp khakis, sun glaring off the tarmac, everyone fresh-faced and hungry. You’d stood a few rows behind him, already with a name people whispered about. “The Raven,” some muttered, not even your callsign yet, just the reputation. The kid prodigy. Top of her undergrad class. The one who flew solo before most people learned how to park a car.

Bradley had looked back and seen you smiling politely at some poor bastard who asked if you were actually here for pilot training. You answered with grace, a little tilt of your head, voice soft and sweet. You didn’t even roll your eyes. And that made him mad.

He didn’t know why. Not then. But it pissed him off—the way you were so damn calm about it. The way you acted like being better than the rest of them didn’t come with weight. Like you weren’t carrying a whole spotlight on your back and somehow making it look effortless.

And when you introduced yourself? All handshakes and "nice to meet you," eyes warm, tone gentle? He shook your hand and said something stupid. Something sharp. Something like, “Well, let’s see if you can keep up, sweetheart.”

You had blinked, just once, like you were weighing whether to clap back or let it slide. But you didn’t. You just gave him a smile so polite it almost stung and said, “Hope you brought your A-game, Bradshaw.”

And then you beat him. Over. And over. And over again.

At first, it was little things—sim scores, formation grades, instructor praise. You never gloated. Never rubbed it in. You offered to study together once, back when you still thought maybe you were on the same side.

He’d scoffed. “I don’t need tutoring.”

You’d nodded, like you expected that answer. Like you were used to boys like him reacting that way. And then you left him alone.

But you never stopped shining. You never stopped rising. And he never stopped resenting the way people gravitated to you like you were gravity itself.

It became muscle memory. Resent you. Compete with you. Cut corners when you were near because losing to you felt worse than losing to anyone else.

And all the while, you just kept flying.

Meanwhile, he tried to tell himself that you weren’t that good. That maybe you were just lucky. Maybe someone up the chain had a soft spot for prodigies. Maybe if he flew riskier, faster, harder, he’d outrun your shadow.

But even now, looking back?

He remembered the day you got your first perfect solo evaluation.

And he remembered how much he hated you for it.

Not because you didn’t deserve it, but because you did.

He still remembered the day the Top Gun scores came out like it had happened this morning. The sun had been brutal, baking the runway, sweat collecting under his collar even before he saw the board. The squad was gathered around it, jostling for space, hearts in throats and egos on the line.

And then someone shouted his name.

“Bradshaw—first. Holy shit.”

It echoed like an explosion in his chest. He didn’t believe it at first. He blinked, stepped closer, read it again. Bradshaw, B. At the top. Number one. Above you.

He turned before he could stop himself, already seeking your face in the crowd. And there you were—calm, composed, unreadable, just like always. Standing a few feet away, arms folded across your chest, your expression neutral. Too neutral.

And for one brief second, he swore he saw it. A flicker of something behind your eyes. Disappointment. Pain. Like you hadn’t expected to lose. Like maybe for the first time, you were struggling to breathe.

You hadn’t said anything. You just gave him a tight nod and walked away.

Meanwhile, everyone else was clapping him on the back, congratulating him like he’d just saved the world instead of barely outscoring someone who usually left him in the dust. They called it a win. They called it proof. But in the pit of his stomach, something soured.

Because deep down? He knew.

You flew better that week.

Your runs were cleaner. Your shots tighter. You pulled out of the low-alt maneuver smoother than he ever had. But you got docked points for something small—a missed comm, a second too late in your roll—and suddenly, that was the margin. That was how he won.

He told himself he deserved it. Told himself he worked harder. That maybe you needed to be knocked down a peg.

But God, he could still see your face. Blank. Distant. Like you were already a hundred miles away from this place. And he hated how empty the win felt without your respect stamped onto it.

He’d joked about it later, played it off like he always did. “Hey, first time for everything,” he’d said with a smirk, leaning on your locker as you stripped off your flight suit. You didn’t even look at him.

“You flew well,” you said, voice flat. “Enjoy it.”

Then you walked away. Again.

And he held onto that one win like it was carved in gold. Because he knew it would probably be the last.

The Hard Deck was loud, like always. Laughter echoed off the walls, music humming from the jukebox, and the familiar clatter of bottles and boots filled the space like static. The others were already halfway into their drinks—Phoenix tossing peanuts into Fanboy’s glass, Coyote nursing a whiskey, Jake leaning smugly against the bar like he owned the damn place. Bradley slid in like a ghost. Quiet. Disconnected.

He didn’t want to be here. Not really. But showing up was easier than sitting in his apartment, staring at the wall, replaying your voice in his head like a damn flight tape on loop.

So he grabbed a beer. Didn’t even taste it. Just held it in his hands like it gave him something to do.

Nobody asked about what happened.

Not directly.

There were glances, sure. Halo caught his eye once and gave him a small nod. Not quite sympathy—more like, you good? He didn’t nod back.

He leaned on the edge of the pool table, watching Payback line up a shot, pretending not to notice how many empty spaces there were in the room. How your spot at the bar, the one two stools down from Phoenix, was vacant. Untouched. Like everyone had the sense not to sit there.

He didn’t ask where you were. Didn’t look around. Didn’t let his eyes scan the room like they wanted to.

But Bob, soft-spoken and way too goddamn perceptive, wandered up beside him and murmured, “She stepped out. Took a call ten minutes ago.”

Bradley’s jaw clenched. He didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t ask,” he muttered, more to himself than anything.

“I know,” Bob said, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t dropping a depth charge in the middle of Bradley’s already fraying nerves. “Just figured you’d want to know.”

Bradley took a sip of his beer. Still didn’t taste it.

Ten minutes. That meant you were probably gone. Maybe pacing outside. Maybe already halfway home. Maybe you just needed space—which was fair, considering how close he’d come to ruining your entire future twenty-four hours ago.

He should’ve apologized.

He should’ve chased after you when you left that locker room.

But what the hell was he supposed to say? Hey, sorry I nearly got you killed again, and also sorry that I made your dream feel like a death sentence instead of a calling? There weren’t words big enough to patch that kind of damage.

So instead, he stood there, shoulder pressed against the table, pretending he wasn’t scanning the door every few seconds.

And pretending that ten minutes didn’t feel like a goddamn eternity.

Bradley slid his beer onto the bar, half-finished and sweating. No one noticed. Or at least, that’s what he told himself as he eased away from the table and headed toward the door. The jukebox kicked into a Tom Petty track just as he slipped out, the air outside cooler, quieter, sharp with salt and sea.

Only one person noticed—Bob. Sitting near the window with a seltzer and his usual unreadable expression. Their eyes met for a split second. Bradley gave him a nod, subtle. Bob didn’t say anything. He just went back to his drink.

Outside, the wind was soft, brushing past like a whisper. The night had a haze to it, moonlight bleeding across the sand. And there you were.

Down near the shoreline, pacing slow, bare feet sinking into the damp sand. Your flight suit was tied at your waist, tank top catching the sea breeze, and your voice—light, polite, controlled—drifted through the dark like a radio signal.

He stopped a few yards back, just behind a dune, out of sight. He wasn’t proud of it. But something about the curve of your shoulders, the way you weren’t pacing fast or frantic, but with this eerie kind of calm—that had him frozen.

“Yes, I’m fine,” you were saying. Your voice was low but clear, just loud enough for the waves not to drown it out. “No, I just needed to step out for a bit. Long day.”

Bradley felt something squeeze in his chest. He couldn’t tell if you were talking to a boyfriend, family, someone back home. He didn’t know if he wanted to know. But there was a warmth in your voice that he’d never heard aimed at him. Not once.

You stopped, turned toward the water, and exhaled. “Yeah… I still think about it. Sometimes. The house. The stupid fence. I know it’s dumb.”

Bradley’s breath caught. Your voice had shifted—smaller, quieter, like you were pulling the edges of yourself in.

“I just thought, maybe someday. You know? Somewhere off-base. Near town but not too far. One of those little ones with the blue shutters and a fence so white it hurts your eyes. Not a big place. Just something that’s… mine.”

There was a pause. A silence so thick it muffled even the waves. Then you said, almost too quietly:

“Guess it’s not really realistic anymore.”

Bradley’s stomach dropped.

You weren’t angry now. You weren’t screaming or glaring or spitting fire. You were disappointed. And somehow, that hurt worse.

You shifted the phone to your other ear. “No, I’m okay. Really, Mom. Just tired. I’ll be back soon.”

He backed away then. Slowly. Like he’d intruded on something sacred. Because that version of you—the soft one, the dreaming one, the one who still believed in white fences and front porches and safety—that wasn’t meant for him.

And maybe it never had been.

It had been three weeks since you last yelled at him. Three weeks since your voice had laced through the Ready Room like razor wire. Since you told him—told the whole damn room—that you weren’t ready to die. That you wanted a house. A fence. A life.

And you hadn’t said a word to him since.

No snarling. No cursing. No storming out of locker rooms. No fire, no fight. Just silence. Cold and clean, like the distance between two aircraft flying the same path but refusing to sync up. You sat on the far side of the room now, same row as him, but two chairs over. Always two chairs over. Just far enough to make it clear that whatever fragile thing had cracked open between you was now buried.

He looked at you now—just a glance. Your arms were crossed, jaw set tight, eyes forward as Maverick stepped into the room, flight suit half-zipped and clipboard in hand. The tension in the air shifted as everyone straightened up.

“All right,” Maverick said, voice firm. “Mission brief starts now. Eyes up.”

The screen behind him flickered on, showing a grainy aerial map with tight, looping canyons stretching across a hostile zone overseas. Words blinked in red: OPERATION IRON DAGGER.

“We’ve been tapped for a coordinated strike package—high-risk, high-payoff,” Maverick said, clicking the remote. “Our objective is a hardened weapons facility buried within this canyon system, located in disputed territory. Intel confirms it’s manufacturing advanced ballistic systems outside international regulations. The brass wants it gone.”

He pointed to a choke point on the map, a narrow zig-zag of cliffs and blind corners. “The airspace is saturated with radar. SAM sites along the ridge lines, anti-aircraft guns in fixed bunkers, and a rotating patrol of enemy fighters—likely fourth-gen models, MiG-29s or Su-35s. That means we stay low, fast, and quiet.”

Phoenix let out a soft breath. “So it’s another sneak-in-sneak-out scenario?”

“Exactly,” Maverick said. “You’ll be flying below radar detection. Altitude will stay at or below 300 feet AGL for most of the route. That’s less than a football field. One mistake, one overcorrected pitch, and the SAMs light you up like a Christmas tree.”

Bradley shifted in his seat, glancing at the others. Payback was leaning forward, fingers steepled under his chin. Fanboy scribbled something in his notebook. Bob was stone still. And you—of course—you didn’t flinch.

“The target itself is buried in reinforced concrete,” Maverick continued. “You’ll need to hit it with precision. Double payloads. Two rounds of tandem penetrators. One pass only. There’s no second shot.”

Hangman raised an eyebrow. “And what about air patrols?”

“Two enemy patrols confirmed,” Maverick said. “One operating south of the ridge, one on the far east flank. You will be seen on exit. That’s a guarantee. Which means your egress window is tight. Rooster, Raven, you’re team lead. You’ll fly point, drop first, and punch the gap.”

Bradley blinked. He looked toward you. You didn’t even glance at him.

“Seriously?” Hangman scoffed. “Them? Flying lead? Together?”

“It’s not up for debate,” Maverick said flatly. “They’ve both logged more canyon-flight hours than the rest of you combined. They’re our best shot.”

Bradley’s mouth was dry. The silence was crushing. Still, you said nothing.

Phoenix cleared her throat. “What’s our comms protocol post-bomb drop? In case we get separated.”

Maverick clicked again. A new slide appeared: CALL SIGN FREQ CHART.

“You’ll be split into pairs. Phoenix and Bob, Hangman and Coyote, Payback and Fanboy. Comms will be encrypted. After drop, you switch to alt-freq Zulu-3 to rejoin at Rally Point Echo. Time from target to extraction is under three minutes. If you’re not at RP Echo by then, exfil will proceed without you.”

Bradley swallowed hard. He could feel the weight settling across his shoulders. The same creeping dread he felt before every mission that went just a little too real.

Then your voice broke the silence.

“What’s the eject threshold altitude post-impact?” you asked, tone razor-sharp. “Assuming a hit during egress. Jet compromised. No time to climb.”

Maverick didn’t blink. “Two-fifty AGL minimum. Any lower, and the chute might not fully deploy. But you already know that.”

You nodded once. Your expression didn’t change.

Bradley felt the chill then. The clinical way you asked it. Like you weren’t afraid to die—just prepared.

He hated that it came from him. That silence between you had taught you how to be this detached.

Maverick scanned the room, pausing just long enough to let your question settle. Then he clicked again, switching to a diagram of the canyon run. Every inch of the terrain was unforgiving—jagged ridgelines, sudden drops, hairpin turns. One screw-up, and you'd be scraping metal off the walls.

“You’ll hit your ingress point at oh-four-hundred,” Maverick continued. “Weather forecast shows minimal cloud cover, wind from the north at twelve knots. Good visibility, but that means the enemy’s got it too. We can’t guarantee a clean in-and-out.”

Bradley caught the shift in Bob’s posture—rigid, focused. Next to him, Phoenix gave a quiet nod. Hangman leaned back with his arms crossed, trying to play it cool, but his jaw was locked. Even Payback had stopped chewing his gum.

“Raven and Rooster will lead the first strike pair,” Maverick said, like it was already carved in stone. “Phoenix and Bob, you’ll follow. Hangman and Coyote, you’re on air cover once the payloads are dropped. Payback and Fanboy, standby team—watch our six.”

Bradley could feel it now. The weight pressing down on everyone. But none of it hit harder than the fact that you hadn’t even twitched when Maverick said his name next to yours. Three weeks ago, you would’ve rolled your eyes. Scoffed. Bit out a sarcastic “figures.” Now? You didn’t even blink.

He hated this version of you. Not because you were cold—but because he’d made you cold.

Maverick took a step toward the screen again, tapping a highlighted route. “This section here—Bravo to Delta—is your most dangerous leg. It’s a ninety-degree turn at speed with less than 250 feet of vertical clearance. That’s where the last drone strike attempt failed. They clipped the wall and never made the drop.”

Bradley’s pulse kicked up. He’d flown turns like that before. Once. In training. And even then, it damn near made him black out.

Hangman whistled low. “So we’re supposed to make a laser-precise drop at Mach 1 while threading a needle at canyon depth. Nice.”

“You’ve done worse,” Maverick replied dryly. “And I’m still here to remind you.”

That pulled a small chuckle from Payback, but it didn’t last long.

“What about alternate evac?” you asked suddenly. “If RP Echo’s compromised. We get pinned down by enemy patrols—what’s plan B?”

Bradley turned slightly, trying not to be obvious about it, but he looked at you. You were sitting forward now, elbows on your knees, focused in that lethal, surgical way you always were when things got real. No trace of fear. No hesitation. Just mission mode.

Maverick clicked once more. A backup route appeared—longer, more exposed. “Evac option B is RP Whiskey. Takes you thirty klicks off the canyon system, but it’s out of the radar net. If you’re forced to break formation, that’s your window. You get there, you get out.”

“And if we don’t?” Phoenix asked quietly.

Maverick looked her dead in the eye. “Then you better hope to hell your chute opens.”

A heavy silence followed. The kind where nobody moved. Nobody even breathed. Just the dull hum of the projector and the distant whine of jets on the tarmac outside.

Bradley’s hand twitched against the armrest. He wanted to say something—ask something—but he didn’t even know what. All he could think about was the last time he saw a jet go down. The smoke. The screaming. The sick, twisting silence afterward.

And now you were flying point with him, because of course you were.

Maverick let the silence breathe for just a beat longer, then set down the clicker and folded his arms across his chest. “I won’t sugarcoat it. This mission’s tight, dangerous, and one misstep away from turning into a goddamn funeral procession. You’re the best we’ve got. That’s why you’re here. But this isn’t about glory—it’s about precision. About trust.”

At that last word, Bradley felt his stomach tighten.

Trust.

Right.

He chanced another glance toward you. Still silent. Still composed. But he knew better now. Knew that silence was never blank—it was armor. And you were wearing it like a second skin.

Hangman leaned forward, tongue in his cheek. “Sir, with all due respect—if we’re pulling Mach 1 through canyon turns and going against SAMs and fourth-gen fighters, we should at least be equipped with newer countermeasures. These birds are running old-gen flares. We flying or praying out there?”

Maverick didn’t flinch. “New systems are en route. You’ll be flying with upgraded ECM pods—jamming capabilities, enhanced decoys, everything short of invisibility. And praying doesn’t hurt either.”

Coyote chuckled under his breath. “Guess it’s time to hit church.”

Payback nudged Fanboy. “You still carry that lucky coin?”

Fanboy patted his chest pocket solemnly. “Always.”

Bradley let the chatter roll for a second, but his focus was still zeroed in on you. You hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken again since your evac question. You were watching Maverick, your expression unreadable.

Then you leaned back in your chair, voice low and measured. “Do we know if the enemy’s updated their radar since the last recon pass?”

Maverick looked straight at you. “Not confirmed. Last sweep was two weeks ago. Intel says no. But you plan like they have.”

You gave a single nod, that sharp, exact motion you always used when you were filing something away. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment. Cold. Calculated.

Phoenix shifted beside Bob, who was scribbling notes with his usual quiet intensity. “And how long do we have on target?”

“Fourteen seconds,” Maverick said. “From entry point to payload drop, max. You get in, you stay steady, you release. Raven, Rooster—you’ll have to mirror each other’s flight paths exactly. No deviation. If one of you pulls off-axis, you’ll both miss.”

That landed like a lead weight in the room. Bradley didn’t need to look to feel it. You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

Because three weeks ago, you would’ve called him reckless. Said he couldn’t hold a formation if his life depended on it. But now? You weren’t even wasting the breath. You’d just fly the damn line and pretend he wasn’t there.

Maverick grabbed the last slide, a table of call signs and order of operations, then set the clipboard down. “We launch at 0400. You’ll be wheels-up before first light. Flight briefings and aircraft assignments go out in thirty. Dismissed—unless you’ve got questions.”

Bradley sat still. Part of him hoped you’d say something else. Start a fight. Call him out. Anything to break this cold front between you.

But you just stood up, straightened your flight suit, and walked out.

He caught you outside the hangar thirty minutes later, just as the squad began to scatter across the tarmac, filtering toward lockers, briefing rooms, and checklists. The sun had started to dip, casting long shadows across the concrete, throwing gold over everything but you.

You stood near the fence, arms crossed, posture tense like a coil ready to snap. He hesitated for a beat—long enough to consider backing out—but then he forced himself to move.

“Hey,” he said quietly, like testing the wind before a hurricane. “Can we talk?”

You didn’t look at him. For a moment, he thought you’d ignore him entirely. But then you gave the smallest nod, turned halfway toward him, and muttered, “Five minutes. That’s all.”

Bradley stepped in, suddenly aware of how loud his boots sounded against the pavement. Everything about you looked like a wall—rigid spine, clenched jaw, eyes locked on some distant point just past him.

“I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he started, voice already shaking. “For what happened. That flight—three weeks ago. I wasn’t looking. I got reckless. I thought I had the shot—”

“You didn’t,” you cut in sharply, still not looking at him. “You didn’t have the shot, Bradshaw. And I almost paid for it with my fucking life.”

“I know,” he said quickly, stepping closer, voice low and raw. “I know that. I live with that every day, and I hate myself for it. I keep going over it in my head—I should’ve peeled left, should’ve watched the damn six, but I—”

“But you what?” you snapped, finally turning toward him with fire in your eyes. “But you thought you knew better? You always think you know better. You’re so goddamn obsessed with proving yourself that you never stop to think about the people flying next to you.”

Bradley flinched. Your voice cut deeper than he expected, not because it was harsh, but because it was true. You had always known how to find the soft spot beneath the armor.

“I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” he said, but the words felt hollow. “I just—I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“You weren’t,” you said, and your voice cracked just a little. Not in volume, but in restraint. “You don’t get to nearly kill me and call it a mistake.”

He felt his breath catch. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did.” You stepped in now, just barely, but enough for him to see how tightly your fists were clenched. “You always do, whether it’s the air or the ground. You can’t stand it when I’m ahead of you. You hate it. You’d rather burn the whole damn sky down than see me beat you.”

“That’s not true,” he argued, voice rising. “That’s not—God, that’s not fair.”

“No?” Your laugh was bitter, humorless. “Tell me then. Tell me why every time I pull ahead, every time I get recognition or lead the squad, you act like I stole something from you.”

Bradley shook his head, jaw tight, trying to keep the emotion from cracking wide open. “Because I respect you. Because you push me. Because when I see your name ahead of mine, I want to be better.”

You scoffed, stepping back. “That’s a lie you tell yourself to sleep at night. The truth is, you hated me from the moment I showed up. You couldn’t stand that the ‘golden boy’ wasn’t always number one.”

“Jesus Christ, you think I give a shit about rank?” he snapped.

“Yes!” You shouted it now, full volume, no restraint. “Because you always did. Because the one time you beat me—Top Gun, remember?—you never let me fucking forget it. You carry that one win around like it’s your damn dog tags.”

Bradley looked down. Swallowed hard.

You stepped forward again, voice lower now, but far more dangerous. “You almost got me killed, and I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to figure out if I hate you more for that, or for how easy it was for you to walk away from it.”

He looked up at you, eyes bloodshot. “I didn’t walk away from it.”

“You sure as hell didn’t face it either.”

The silence between you burned hotter than the shouting ever could. Wind from the airfield swept past, kicking up the scent of oil and smoke and sun-baked concrete.

You glanced at your watch. “Time’s up.”

He wanted to say something—anything—but nothing came. You turned on your heel, walking back toward the hangar without a single look back.

And Bradley just stood there, the sunset throwing his shadow long across the asphalt, knowing he’d fucked it up again.

The hangar felt colder than usual that morning, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. The sky outside was still bleeding from night to morning—hints of gray and violet brushing the horizon, the sun nowhere in sight. Inside, the air was thick with silence, only broken by the occasional zip of a flight suit or the metallic clink of gear being prepped.

Bradley sat on the bench beside his locker, boots planted, elbows on his knees, helmet between his hands. He stared at the same floor tile for what felt like ten minutes, but time wasn’t real anymore. Not today. Not when every tick brought them closer to wheels-up.

Around him, the squad moved like ghosts. Phoenix didn’t crack jokes. Hangman wasn’t strutting. Payback and Fanboy spoke in hushed tones, and even Coyote—usually the first to throw sarcasm into the air like confetti—was quiet. And Bob... Bob looked like he hadn’t slept at all. He kept checking his watch, then his checklist, then your empty locker across the aisle.

You hadn’t shown up yet. Not late. Just... not there yet. And it made something twist in Bradley’s chest, tight and sharp.

This mission felt different.

And not just because of the SAMs or the canyon or the fact that the egress window was barely wide enough to squeeze through without brushing death. No, it was you. It was knowing you’d be flying beside him again, trusting him again—whether you wanted to or not. And after everything he said, everything he did or didn’t say... the idea of that trust made him feel even sicker than the mission itself.

“Hey.”

Bradley looked up. Maverick stood there, arms crossed, flight suit zipped, expression unreadable. Just the same calm he always wore when the storm was about to hit.

“Got a second?”

Bradley stood, nodding, following Maverick a few steps down the corridor where the others couldn’t hear. It felt like walking into a confessional.

“I know what this mission is,” Maverick said, voice low. “I know how it looks on paper. I know how it feels in your gut. I’ve flown enough of them to know when someone’s not just afraid of dying—they’re afraid of watching someone else not come back.”

Bradley didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He just stared past Maverick, eyes fixed on a vending machine that had been broken since last winter.

Maverick stepped closer. “You’re not afraid for yourself, Bradshaw. You’re afraid for her.”

Bradley finally looked at him. His throat was dry. “She won’t even look at me.”

“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t matter.”

“I screwed it up,” he muttered. “I almost got her killed. And I—God—I haven’t even said what I should’ve said. Not really. And now we’re flying this death trap together and she’s acting like I’m invisible and maybe I deserve that, but if something happens—if I lose her today—”

Maverick shook his head. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” Maverick admitted. “But I know her. And I know you. And I know what it looks like when someone’s in love and too damn proud to admit it.”

Bradley let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t think she wants to hear that from me.”

“Maybe not,” Maverick said, voice softer now. “But it doesn’t mean you don’t owe it to her. If this is the last mission you ever fly together, don’t let it end with silence.”

Bradley nodded, slowly. Then faster. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to say. Or how. But he knew one thing with terrifying clarity—

He couldn’t lose you today.

And when he turned back down the hall and saw you finally walking in, flight bag slung over your shoulder, eyes sharp and distant as ever, his heart damn near stopped.

You were here.

And he had one last chance not to fuck it up.

The call came over the PA—crisp, no-nonsense, final. “All pilots, suit up. We launch in fifteen.”

That was it. No more waiting. No more chances. Whatever Bradley thought he might say to you before takeoff dissolved in the roar of movement—flight suits zipping, lockers slamming, helmets in hand. Everyone moved with quiet urgency, the weight of what they were about to do keeping the usual pre-mission chatter at bay.

He watched you from across the room as you tied your hair back, methodical and cold. Your expression hadn’t changed since you walked in, jaw locked tight and eyes unreadable behind that icy shield you’d perfected. You didn’t look at him once—not while you strapped on your vest, not when you checked your gloves, not even when you passed within three feet of him heading to the tarmac. Just silence.

And honestly, that hurt more than yelling ever could.

Meanwhile, Phoenix gave Bradley a short nod as she slid her gloves on beside Bob, who looked like he wanted to say something comforting but couldn’t find the words. Hangman was unusually quiet, flexing his hands and staring down at his boots as he walked. Coyote gave him a quick pat on the back, unspoken support in the gesture, while Payback and Fanboy jogged ahead, already in full pre-flight focus mode.

Out on the tarmac, the jets sat like beasts in cages, lined up and gleaming under the rising sun. Ground crew moved like clockwork around them—last checks, fuel lines, engine calibrations. There was no more time to think, no time to doubt. Just action.

Bradley pulled on his helmet, adjusted the chin strap, and walked toward his bird—his legs heavy but sure. As he passed your jet, he caught sight of you climbing the ladder, moving with absolute precision. Not a hitch, not a tremble. You were in it. Mission mode. And the fact that you were flying lead with him again, after everything, made his stomach twist with something close to guilt—and fear.

He climbed into his cockpit, settled into the seat, and began flipping switches with muscle memory as his only guide. The radio check crackled in his ears, Phoenix calling out her confirmation, Bob’s voice clear behind hers, then the rest of the squad checking in one by one.

Then your voice cut through the comms.

“Raven, checking in. Let’s get this done.”

Bradley exhaled slowly. That was the only time you said his name—or rather, his call sign. But it was something. It meant you were still here. Still fighting. And for now, that had to be enough.

The engines roared to life one by one, the ground vibrating under the jets as they powered up. Canopies lowered, cockpits sealed. The tower gave them the go.

“Dagger Team, you are cleared for launch. Wind is calm. You are green for runway zero-nine.”

Bradley’s heart pounded as he taxied forward. The jet responded to his touch like it had been waiting for this, eager to rise. He glanced to his left as your aircraft pulled up beside his. Even with the helmets on, he knew your eyes were forward, unflinching.

Then the tower crackled again.

“Dagger One, Raven. Dagger Two, Rooster. You’re up.”

He pushed the throttle, wheels beginning to roll. The runway stretched out before him, long and narrow, like a fuse waiting to be lit.

Behind him, the rest of the team lined up. Bob. Phoenix. Coyote. Hangman. Payback. Fanboy.

But it all came down to you and him.

And God help him—he wasn’t ready.

The nose of his Super Hornet surged forward, and Bradley felt the familiar pressure slam into his chest as the jet took off—wheels leaving the ground, gravity falling away beneath him. Beside him, your jet matched speed perfectly, sleek and steady, climbing into formation like you’d done it a thousand times. And you had. But not like this.

Not after everything.

The early light turned the clouds amber and gold, washing the squad in something almost holy as they rose through it, punching toward altitude. One by one, the rest of Dagger team joined them, locking into formation with practiced grace. The comms stayed clean—just call signs, coordinates, altitude reads. No jokes. No distractions.

“Dagger One, leveling at Angels twenty. Adjust heading one-eight-zero,” Maverick’s voice came through clear in the comms. “Maintain visual. Prep for descent in thirty.”

“Copy,” you said, your tone sharp as a blade.

Bradley echoed, “Copy.”

And that was it.

Meanwhile, Phoenix and Bob pulled into place behind them. Hangman and Coyote took high cover. Payback and Fanboy trailed the rear, scanners running hot. It was tight, controlled, and tense as hell. Every second they flew deeper into enemy airspace, every knot they pushed, brought the danger closer.

Bradley adjusted his throttle, eyeing his instruments, stealing a glance at your bird. You were holding formation with surgical precision, every move by the book, every turn crisp. But he knew you. Knew the way you flew when you weren’t on fire with anger. This was different. You weren’t just sharp—you were locked down. Like you’d built a cockpit inside your cockpit and sealed yourself in.

He wanted to say something. Hell, he almost keyed his mic. But the words jammed in his throat. What was he supposed to say? Hey, sorry I shattered whatever was left of your trust—now let’s go dodge missiles together?

Right.

Ahead, the canyon yawned open beneath them, jagged and waiting. The target zone lay past its edge, buried deep in shadow and surrounded by SAM installations that could shred a jet in seconds. It was beautiful in that terrifying, cruel way war always was.

Maverick’s voice cut back in. “Approaching descent marker. Final checks. This is it.”

Bradley ran his eyes over the console one last time. Fuel: green. Weapons armed. ECM online. Heart rate—fuck, he didn’t want to look. Then he flipped the intercom to your channel, hesitated, and finally spoke.

“Raven… you good?”

There was a beat of silence. Then:

“Stay in your lane, Bradshaw. That’s all you need to worry about.”

It stung. Even through the helmet. But he swallowed it, flicked the switch back to squad comms, and nodded to no one.

“Dagger Two ready.”

Below, the canyon loomed.

And there was no turning back now.

The ridge line appeared on the horizon like the edge of the world. Steep, jagged, dusted with shadow, and unforgiving. Below it, the narrow canyon path curved like a blade, waiting to slice them in half if they dared to hesitate.

“Dagger team,” Maverick called out, voice cool but firm in the comms, “committing to canyon run. Adjust altitude to Angels 2.5. Weapons hot. Keep spacing tight.”

One by one, call signs answered, low and focused. “Copy that.” “Dagger Three committing.” “Dagger Four on your six.” “Dagger Five locked in.”

Bradley’s jet dipped low, throttle steady beneath his palm. The descent pressed into his ribs like a second heartbeat. He saw your bird sliding into place ahead of him, crisp and deadly in your movements. No hesitation. No overcorrection. Just pure, cold skill.

You always made it look easy.

He tightened his grip on the stick. “Rooster, committing. On Raven’s six.”

The canyon swallowed them whole.

Instantly, the sky disappeared. Walls rose up around them, tight and jagged, like flying through the ribs of some ancient beast. Every turn required perfect alignment. Every twitch of the wrist had to be calculated. There was no margin for ego here—only instinct, only execution.

Sweat rolled down the back of his neck. The Gs started to kick harder with every turn. And yet, through the chaos of motion and comms, all Bradley could focus on was the distance between his nose and your tail.

You flew like you didn’t care about him at all.

And maybe you didn’t.

“Two klicks to primary target,” Bob’s voice broke through, cool and sharp.

“Radar’s still clean,” Fanboy added. “No bandits yet.”

“Jinx it one more time and I’m ejecting you myself,” Phoenix muttered under her breath.

Ahead, the canyon narrowed again. Maverick’s voice snapped through. “Coming up on choke point. Two-hundred-foot clearance. Watch your damn wings.”

Bradley dropped just beneath the turn, matching your movement, feeling the canyon press closer, like the world was trying to squeeze them into vapor. Dust kicked up along the walls. The sound of wind grew sharper. His HUD flickered slightly—but steadied again.

And still, you didn’t say a word.

He swallowed. “Raven, you copy?”

You finally replied, clipped and cold. “Focus on flying, Rooster. Don’t get sentimental on my six.”

The bite in your voice was acid. He wanted to curse back. He wanted to defend himself. But instead, he took a breath and locked into formation tighter. Because there was no room for anything else now—not anger, not guilt, not regret. Only the mission.

“Coming up on target marker in one klick,” Maverick called out. “Get ready. We only get one shot at this.”

Bradley checked his systems again. Everything lit green. His pulse was a metronome in his ears. His eyes never left you.

You led them forward like death couldn’t touch you. And all he could do was follow.

The target marker lit up on his HUD like a warning flare. Thirty seconds to drop. The canyon veered sharply left, then cut back to the right, narrowing so tight he could feel the pressure in his teeth. Maverick’s voice crackled through, taut with command.

“Approaching strike point. Line it up, Raven.”

Your voice was steady, almost too calm. “On it.”

Bradley fell into perfect sync with your path, his breath shallow behind the mask. You leveled the jet, armed your payload, and held that line like your bones were carved from steel. He barely blinked.

And then—you released.

The target erupted in a flash of light and smoke, the bunker collapsing beneath the strike with a thunderous boom. The canyon walls shook. Dust exploded upward, choking visibility. Static hissed in the comms.

But it wasn’t over.

“Missile lock! Two o’clock high!” Fanboy’s voice snapped through, panicked.

Bradley’s HUD screamed red—enemy radar pinging like mad. “Break! Break! Break!”

Jets scattered in all directions, peeling out of formation. Bradley turned hard, pulling Gs sharp enough to crush breath from his lungs. “Shit—shit!”

But you didn’t break.

You turned late. Just a second too late. He caught a glimpse of your bird banking upward to dodge, trying to shake the lock, and for a heartbeat—he thought you were going to make it.

Then everything went white.

A missile slammed into your jet’s undercarriage with a deafening explosion. The fireball was instant, blooming like a sunburst just feet in front of him. Debris spun out wildly—metal, smoke, parts of your tail—and the shockwave slammed into his jet so hard it rattled the entire frame.

“Raven’s hit!” Phoenix yelled. “She’s hit!”

“I’ve got no visual—shit! Shit—there’s no chute!” Hangman barked, voice rising.

“Raven, do you copy?” Maverick called, but it was dead air.

Bradley’s throat closed. He was spinning, trying to level out, scanning every inch of sky through the haze and static. Nothing. No chute. No signal. Your aircraft plummeted below the canyon line, and there was nothing.

“Do we have eyes on her?” Bob shouted.

“I—I saw the hit, but I didn’t see an ejection!” Payback said, his voice cracking.

“Raven, come in! Come in!” Bradley was yelling now, his voice wrecked with panic. “Eject, eject—fuck—do you copy?!”

But there was nothing but static.

“Abort,” Maverick barked. “All Daggers, abort! Pull out and RTB—now!”

“No—no, we can’t—” Bradley’s grip shook. His eyes were still searching, darting across every corner of the sky. “She might be down there—she might’ve made it out, we didn’t see—”

“Rooster, that's an order. Fall back!” Maverick snapped.

But Bradley was already banking his jet, against every protocol, against every rule. His hands moved on instinct, shoving the throttle forward. He wasn’t leaving you down there. Not again.

And then—

“Missile lock!”

Another tone. Another beep. And he knew he was out of time. He pulled the handle. The ejection sequence ripped him from the cockpit in a violent jolt, the sky turning end over end as he shot upward. Then—silence.

His jet exploded behind him. And all he could think was—Please let her be alive. Please.

The first thing he felt was cold.

Not the kind that prickled the skin—but the kind that punched straight through to the bone, hollow and unrelenting. Snow crunched beneath his back. His body ached. His head was pounding like someone had dropped an engine block on it. The second thing he felt was pain—a burning, sharp throb in his left shoulder and ribs.

Bradley opened his eyes slowly, blinking against flakes of snow drifting down from a gray, heavy sky. The forest around him was quiet, like death was holding its breath. Tall, naked trees stretched upward like spears, their branches coated in frost. The wind whispered low through them, a ghost with teeth.

He groaned, trying to sit up, but his limbs felt like they’d been filled with cement. His parachute was tangled behind him, half-buried in the snow, torn on a branch above. He reached up and unhooked the harness with trembling fingers, gritting his teeth when a bolt of agony shot through his shoulder.

“Shit…”

His voice was hoarse. He coughed, and blood slicked the corner of his mouth. Great. Internal bruising, maybe a cracked rib or two. But he was alive. Barely.

And then the memory came flooding back.

The canyon. The hit. The explosion. You.

He pushed himself upright, ignoring the ice that stung every exposed inch of skin. His helmet was gone. His gloves were torn. He had no radio—just the emergency beacon strapped to his vest, blinking red like it knew help wasn’t coming fast enough.

Bradley looked around. The snow was fresh, but something about it felt… wrong. It wasn’t just cold. It was unfriendly. The kind of terrain that didn’t want visitors. The kind that made sure you stayed lost. Visibility was low, and the forest twisted in every direction like a maze designed by God on a bad day.

But none of that mattered.

You might be down here.

He forced himself to his feet, staggering at first, but managing a few slow steps forward. He scanned the treetops, the sky, the snow-crusted floor. No smoke. No wreckage in sight. But he’d seen where your jet went down. Somewhere east—maybe northeast, judging by the angle before he punched out.

He turned that way. Started walking.

Every breath he took turned white in the air. Every step sent a fresh bolt of pain up his spine. But he didn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“C’mon, Raven,” he muttered under his breath. “Be out here. Be alive.”

Branches cracked under his boots as he moved through the trees. He passed a shattered piece of metal—a chunk of his own jet, scorched and half-buried. No sign of yours. No sign of you.

He kept going. Snow began to fall harder. And somewhere, beneath the aching cold and the rising dread, was a single thought echoing in his skull:

I can’t lose her. Not like this.

The snow was falling harder now, thick wet flakes that clung to his lashes and blurred his vision. The forest didn’t end—it just kept going, tree after tree, shadow after shadow, like a cruel joke. Bradley’s boots dragged through knee-deep powder, legs stiff, back screaming. His left arm had gone mostly numb, pain radiating from his shoulder with every step like a lit fuse.

He should’ve stopped. Sat down. Waited for pickup, assuming the beacon was even working through the storm.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

What if you were more hurt than he was? What if you hadn’t ejected in time? What if you were lying somewhere alone, freezing, bleeding, maybe already—

No. He wouldn’t let his brain finish that sentence. So he kept moving.

Then his foot caught on something—maybe a root, maybe nothing—and he pitched forward into the snow hard enough to knock the wind out of him. The impact jarred his ribs. He let out a strangled groan and stayed there for a second, cheek pressed into the cold, white ground.

He closed his eyes. His body begged him to stay down. Just for a minute. Maybe five. Maybe forever. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, faster and louder than the wind in the trees. His breath came in short, sharp gasps.

But then, he saw your face.

Not in front of him. In his head. That glare. That fire. The way you rolled your eyes when he made a joke. The way you bit out his name like it offended you just to say it. The way you screamed at him in the locker room. The sound of your voice on the comms today—steady, unflinching, strong.

If you were down... if you were out here...You’d never forgive him for stopping.

Bradley forced himself up. Hands shaking. Chest tight. Snow stuck to the bruises on his face, but he didn’t care. He used a tree to steady himself and pushed forward again, limping harder now. He wasn’t even sure which direction he was going anymore—just that it felt right.

Then he saw something in the snow ahead. Black against white.

He stumbled faster. Closer. It was a panel. Torn metal. Jagged edges. Burned black. From your jet. His heart kicked hard in his chest. He scanned the area, breath catching, and—there. Tracks. They weren’t clean. They were shallow, staggered, like someone dragging their feet through the snow. Like someone hurt. Bradley broke into a limping run. You were out here. Alive. And he was going to find you if it killed him.

The trail of blood in the snow was faint but unmistakable—small dots at first, then streaks, smeared like someone had stumbled and tried to crawl. Bradley followed it with panic rising in his throat, the cold forgotten, his injuries numbed by pure adrenaline. His breath came in ragged clouds. His shoulder burned. But his eyes were locked ahead.

Then he saw it.

Your body—curled up against the base of a tree, half-covered by windblown snow. You were slumped sideways, limp, pale, your helmet off but your flight suit zipped tight. One arm was tucked beneath you at a strange angle, the other loosely draped over a pack marked with a red cross. Your emergency bag. Your boots were scraped and muddy, your lips slightly parted. You weren’t moving.

“Jesus—no, no, no, no—” Bradley dropped to his knees beside you, his hands clumsy and frantic as he reached out. “Hey—hey, come on. Come on, Raven, don’t fuckin’ do this to me.”

He pressed two fingers to your neck.

A pulse. Weak. But there.

He nearly collapsed with the relief.

“You stubborn little shit,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from your frozen forehead. “Goddamn you, you better wake up and scream at me. You better.”

Meanwhile, the wind cut sharper, and the snowfall thickened. Bradley knew this was a race now—not just against the dark, or the cold, but against time. You were alive, but you wouldn’t be for long out here. Neither of you would. Not without shelter. Not without heat.

He hoisted your emergency bag over his shoulder, then maneuvered your unconscious body slowly onto his back. The pain that tore through his ribs was blinding—he bit down on a shout, staggering under the weight. You were bleeding. Heavy. And your suit was soaked through from the snow.

“Hang in there,” he muttered, his voice barely audible through gritted teeth. “I swear to God, you better wake up and punch me in the face for this.”

Step by step, he pushed through the forest, following the only path he could see—the one that looked like it might go anywhere but here. Time blurred. His legs trembled with every stride. His boots slipped on ice. At one point, he fell to one knee and stayed there for a moment too long, snow creeping under his collar, exhaustion clawing at his spine. But the weight on his back kept him grounded.

Then—like some goddamn miracle—he saw it.

A cabin. Nestled between trees like it had been waiting for someone to come back. The windows were fogged over. The front steps were buried in drift. But the door was intact.

He stumbled to it, kicked it open with the last of his strength, and nearly collapsed onto the wooden floor. Inside, it smelled like old pine and dust. The furniture was rustic, untouched for months. A single bed sat near a stone fireplace. Firewood stacked in a basket nearby. A metal kettle on the stove. Someone’s vacation home. Abandoned.

Thank God.

He gently set you down on the bed, heart in his throat the entire time. You didn’t stir. Your breathing was shallow, uneven, but there. He grabbed a blanket off a nearby chair and threw it over you, then tore through the emergency bag—gauze, trauma scissors, a pressure bandage, thermal wraps, adrenaline injectors. Enough to stabilize you.

He worked quickly, cutting away the worst of the blood-soaked gear and dressing your shoulder, your ribs, your side. He moved like a man possessed. Meanwhile, he stripped off his own vest and outer jacket, hanging them near the fireplace as he loaded logs and struck a match with shaking fingers. The flame caught. Heat finally breathed into the room.

And through it all, he kept glancing back at you.

Still out. Still too quiet.

He sank down next to you, resting his forearm on his knee, staring at your face like it might flicker back to life if he willed it hard enough.

“You better wake up soon,” he murmured. “You better scream at me, or throw something, or tell me I fly like shit. Because if you die after all that yelling... I swear I’ll never forgive you.”

The wind howled outside. The fire popped gently. You didn’t move.

Bradley sat back against the side of the bed, exhaustion crashing into him like a wave. But he didn’t close his eyes. He just watched you. Waiting.

The fire crackled softly now, casting golden light that danced across the wooden walls of the cabin. The heat finally pushed back against the cold that had sunk into his bones. Bradley sat on the floor beside the bed, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes locked on your motionless form. He couldn’t feel his left shoulder anymore. His ribs throbbed with every breath. But none of that mattered.

You were still breathing.

He glanced down at the emergency bag you’d somehow managed to drag out of the wreckage with you. Classic you—organized, stubborn, always prepared for shit to go sideways. Inside, tucked neatly in plastic compartments, was everything they should’ve packed in his kit. Mylar blankets, antibiotics, tourniquets, even a collapsible kettle and water purifiers. Hell, you had caffeine gum and glucose tabs.

He exhaled, almost laughed. “Always the overachiever, huh?”

Then, suddenly, you twitched.

Not much—just a wince, a shift of your hand—but Bradley shot upright so fast the pain nearly knocked him over again. You let out a soft, cracked sound, low and pained, like your body was waking up before your mind could catch up.

“Hey,” he said quickly, moving to the side of the bed. “Hey—easy. It’s okay, you’re alright. Don’t move.”

You groaned again, brows tightening, mouth parting in discomfort.

He reached for the bag, pulling out a bottle of saline and a clean cloth. He soaked it and carefully dabbed it against the shallow gash on your temple, wincing at how cold your skin still was. You flinched, just barely.

“I know,” he muttered. “I know. I’m trying to go easy, okay?”

Then he checked the dressing on your ribs, peeled the edge of the gauze back slowly to make sure the bleeding hadn’t started up again. Still clean. Still holding. He replaced it gently, then adjusted the blanket to cover more of your shoulder.

Meanwhile, he grabbed one of the emergency mylar wraps, shook it open, and tucked it over your body, tucking it under your chin like some kind of broken-winged nursemaid. His hands shook the entire time.

You shifted again, your lips forming a faint grimace.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You're in a cabin. You crashed. I found you. You're safe.”

No answer. Just more stillness, more shallow breaths. But at least you were reacting now.

Bradley rose slowly, ignoring the sharp jab in his side, and returned to the fireplace. He fed in another log, using the lighter from your bag to ignite one of the long-burning starter cubes. The flames snapped higher, dancing shadows across the wall.

He sat back again, arms resting on his knees, glancing between you and the fire. You hadn’t screamed at him yet. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. You’d probably say bad.

“I meant it, you know,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You better fucking wake up. I didn’t drag you through the snow just for you to lie there looking peaceful like some angel who never called me a cocky dipshit.”

Your head tilted slightly. Another soft breath escaped your lips. Still no words. But it was something.

So he stayed by the fire. Tending it. Tending you. Waiting for the storm to pass.

The fire cracked beside him, throwing long shadows across the cabin walls, but all Bradley could hear was the slowing beat of your breathing. Shallow. Uneven. Too slow.

He moved to your side in a flash, heart leaping into his throat. His hands hovered over your chest, over your wrist, over the fragile pulse that fluttered there like it was threatening to disappear.

“Shit,” he muttered. “No, no, no—not now. Come on, Raven, don’t fucking do this.”

He pressed two fingers to your neck again. The pulse was faint. Too faint.

His chest caved. All the tension, all the fury, all the sharp-edged pride cracked right down the middle. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, gripping your arm like it might anchor you to this world.

“Don’t you fucking die on me, do you hear me?” he whispered, voice shaking. “You don’t get to go out like this—not after everything, not after all the shit we’ve been through.”

His breath hitched, and suddenly it was like all the air in his lungs turned into water. He clenched his jaw, trying to stop it, but the tears came fast and hot anyway, burning tracks down his dirt-streaked cheeks. His shoulders shook.

“I should’ve been faster,” he choked. “I should’ve stayed closer—I should’ve been there before that missile—before the goddamn canyon even curved—” He paused, gasping, eyes red, lashes wet. “This is my fault. Again.”

Outside, the storm had turned brutal. The wind screamed against the walls. Snow clawed at the windows like it wanted to bury the whole fucking world.

“I know you hate me,” he whispered. “I know you think I’m a reckless, selfish asshole. You were right. I’ve been a goddamn coward. And you—you’re the best fucking pilot I’ve ever seen. And the strongest person I know. And I swear to God, if you wake up, I’ll stop trying to one-up you, I’ll stop acting like I’ve got something to prove. I’ll shut up for once. I’ll listen. I’ll—hell, I’ll slam my head into the wall like you told me to that one time if that’s what it takes.”

His hand slid into yours, desperate, pleading.

“You always said I couldn’t handle you, right?” His voice cracked again. “But the truth is I need you. I—I need you more than I ever wanted to admit. And if you die out here before I get to say that to your goddamn face—”

You moved.

Not much. A flicker. A twitch. A low groan from deep in your throat.

He froze.

Your lashes fluttered, slow and heavy, before your eyes slitted open—just a fraction. Your mouth barely moved, lips cracked and voice dry as sandpaper.

“God,” you rasped, low and croaky. “You really are an idiot.”

Bradley’s breath caught hard—somewhere between a sob and a laugh. He dropped to his knees at your side again, grabbing your hand in both of his, knuckles white.

“Jesus Christ—you’re awake.”

You didn’t even look at him. Just kept that same, tired smirk. That barely-there, half-dead glint in your eye. Your voice barely rose above a whisper.

“Crying over me like a little bitch.”

Bradley let out a breath like he’d just broken the surface after nearly drowning.

“Don’t you ever fucking do that again,” he whispered, voice shaking, eyes bright. He squeezed your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him now. “I swear, if you pull this dying shit one more time—”

“Then what?” you mumbled, one eye cracking open a little more, lazy and unimpressed. “You gonna propose?”

He blinked at you. You blinked back. Slow. Exhausted. Still very much bleeding.

And then—despite himself—he laughed. It was breathless. Shaky. Like something had snapped loose in his chest. Like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or strangle you or collapse right there on the goddamn floor.

“You are the worst,” he murmured, brushing your hair gently back from your face.

You groaned faintly, the smallest hint of a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Takes one to know one.”

Bradley stood slowly, his knees cracking as he rose from the floor beside you. His body felt like a crumpled aircraft schematic—nothing where it should be, everything either bruised, strained, or screaming. He held his side as he moved to the emergency bag again, pulling out one of the compact medical kits and a pair of trauma shears. With a grimace, he peeled off his flight suit from the waist up, revealing the deep, dark purple bruising that ran across his ribs and shoulder like spilled oil beneath the skin.

He muttered a soft curse as he cleaned the abrasions on his side, gritting his teeth while wrapping the gauze tightly. The adhesive tape tugged at his skin, and the burn of antiseptic made him suck in a breath. Still, he worked methodically, like going through the motions might keep his brain from short-circuiting again. Then he checked his arm—nothing broken, just swelling and stiffness. Probably sprained. Maybe worse. He didn’t care.

When the bleeding was managed and the trembling in his hands eased just enough, he pushed himself toward the small propane stove tucked in the corner of the cabin’s kitchenette. He pulled one of the ration packs from your emergency bag—of course it was alphabetized and vacuum-sealed in perfect, obsessive order—and set it to heat in the small metal pot. The smell of chicken and rice rose with the steam. It wasn’t gourmet, but right now, it was goddamn salvation.

He glanced back at you.

You were still in bed, eyes barely open, your breathing raspy but steadier now. Your fingers twitched slightly under the mylar blanket, adjusting it more snugly against your chest. You watched him with the same kind of look you used to throw across briefing rooms and cockpit huddles—half amused, half daring him to say something stupid.

He turned back to the food.

“Y’know,” he said, voice hoarse but casual, “this emergency bag of yours might’ve actually saved our asses.”

You didn’t miss a beat, even with your voice still ragged. “God forbid a woman be prepared.”

Bradley let out a short, huffed laugh. He shook his head, stirring the rations with a spoon you’d also somehow managed to pack.

“Guess I owe you one.”

“You owe me five,” you croaked, eyes narrowed slightly. “One for the canyon, one for the crash, one for dragging me through a forest like a sack of potatoes, one for sobbing like a rom-com lead, and one in advance for whatever dumbass thing you’re gonna do next.”

Bradley looked over his shoulder at you, lips tugging upward despite the exhaustion heavy in his bones. He didn’t argue. You were right.

He finished heating the meal, split it between two reusable plastic bowls from the pack, and limped over to your side. He sat down carefully at the edge of the bed, handing you one of them.

“Don’t spill it,” he warned. “I’m not cleaning shit up tonight.”

You took the bowl with a shaky grip, staring down at the steaming food. Then you raised an eyebrow at him.

“You heated it wrong.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

But you were both smiling now. Just barely. Just enough. The cabin groaned quietly as the storm raged on outside, but inside—there was warmth. A little silence. A little breathing room. And for once, you weren’t yelling. Yet.

The food sat warm between them, mostly untouched now. The first few bites had been out of necessity, but after that, neither of them had the appetite to keep going. The adrenaline was gone. The cold was gone. What remained was silence—slow, fragile, and heavy. The kind that settled into your bones when there was no more screaming left. No more fire to throw.

Bradley sat beside you, hunched forward slightly, his bruised ribs flaring with every breath. His bowl rested on his knee, cooling fast. He hadn’t looked at you in a minute. Not really. Just stolen glances, like he wasn’t sure if it was allowed.

The fire crackled gently behind them.

Then, without warning, he spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were soft. Barely more than breath. But they landed with the weight of an avalanche. You didn’t look at him at first, your eyes fixed on the dancing flames. Your hands gripped the edges of the blanket, fingers tight and white.

“I mean it,” he continued, his voice cracking around the edges. “For everything. For Top Gun. For pushing too hard. For flying like I had something to prove. For the canyon. For the first time I almost got you killed. And for the second.”

You still didn’t say anything, but your jaw clenched. Your throat bobbed like you were trying to swallow down something sharp.

Bradley exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand down his face.

“I thought if I was first, it would matter more. That it would mean something. But all it did was piss you off. And hurt both of us. And I just—I didn’t know how to stop. You made everything harder. You always have.” His laugh was bitter, self-deprecating, hopeless. “And easier. At the same time.”

Finally, you turned to look at him.

Your face was pale, streaked with dried blood, your eyes bloodshot and half-lidded from exhaustion. But when you looked at him, really looked at him, it made him feel like the floor had dropped out.

“I’m sorry too,” you whispered, voice gravelled and tight. “For never letting up. For fighting you on everything. For...for that day in the hangar. For what I said.”

He shook his head, quick and pained. “No. You had every right. I was reckless. I almost got you killed.”

“And I was scared,” you admitted, the confession like glass dragging across your throat. “I knew what this job meant. I knew it could end like that. But I—I didn’t think it would almost end like that. Not with you.”

Your voice cracked, and you looked away. The tears started quietly, slipping down your cheeks without warning. You didn’t bother to wipe them away. You were too tired. Too done pretending it didn’t matter.

Bradley set his bowl aside. Then he turned toward you fully, his good hand reaching for yours again. He didn’t take it, not yet. He just let it hover there.

“I couldn’t breathe when I saw your jet go down,” he said, voice raw and trembling. “I thought—I thought I lost you. And I realized I would’ve traded every ‘first,’ every top score, every kill, just to get you back. Just to hear you insult me again.”

You let out a choked laugh that sounded like a sob. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

“I know.”

Then you slid your hand into his, and it was the gentlest thing either of you had done in years. He gripped it like it meant everything—because it did.

And finally, you both cried. Together.

The fire kept burning. The storm kept raging. But in that little cabin, two stubborn hearts started to thaw—slowly, painfully, and with everything they’d never been able to say before now.

The silence between you stretched, no longer bitter, no longer cold—just full. Full of everything left unsaid and everything that had already been spoken in ways neither of you were ever brave enough to admit. The air felt thick, like it had shifted from smoke and frost to something warmer. Denser. And when your fingers curled around his, it wasn’t just forgiveness. It was surrender.

Bradley looked at your hand in his, then up to your face. Your lips were chapped, bruised in places, dried blood at the corner. Your cheek was swollen from where your helmet hadn’t caught the brunt of the crash. You looked like hell.

You looked perfect.

Your eyes met his, and something unspoken passed between you like a pulse—hot, aching, and inevitable. Maybe it had always been coming to this. Maybe all the insults and shouting matches had been foreplay in disguise. Maybe somewhere between trying to outfly each other, you'd started orbiting too close. And now here you were. Burned. Broken. Breathing.

He leaned in slowly, not to test the waters—but to let you stop him if you wanted.

You didn’t.

Instead, your breath hitched just once. Then your eyes flicked down to his mouth. And that was all it took.

Bradley closed the distance, his mouth crashing into yours like it had been fighting gravity for years. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was raw—like a gasp, like a scream, like everything they hadn’t been allowed to feel until now. Your hands tangled in his flight suit collar, dragging him closer with a desperation that nearly unmade him. He felt the sting of your busted lip against his, the scrape of a healing cut across his cheek as your palm slid up to cup his jaw. He didn’t care. He leaned into it.

Meanwhile, the fire flared behind you both, casting long, molten shadows that flickered across your faces. The heat didn’t come from the flames anymore.

Bradley groaned softly against your lips, like he’d been holding it in for years, like he’d just let go of something heavy that had been dragging behind him. Your fingers curled tighter, and he felt your body arch slightly, broken ribs be damned. He caught you with one arm around your back, mindful but firm, grounding you in his hold.

Then, finally, you broke the kiss. Barely. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to let your foreheads rest together, your breaths mingling.

“I fucking hate you,” you whispered, but your voice was trembling and your mouth brushed his when you said it.

Bradley smiled, eyes still closed. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I know.”

You leaned in again, slower this time, lips pressing to his with something more like reverence now. The heat was still there, simmering just beneath the surface—but it wasn’t fury anymore. It was fear. Relief. Longing.

Maybe even love. He didn’t ask. You didn’t offer. But in the space between breath and burn, you both knew something had changed.

The kiss didn’t end so much as dissolve—like it had melted into your mouths, slow and heavy, as heat curled low in your belly. The fire crackled lazily in the hearth, throwing shadows across the walls, but the burn between your thighs was hotter. Bradley didn’t pull back. He didn’t stop to ask again. He just held you tighter when your breath hitched and your fingers slipped beneath the collar of his flight suit, your touch gentle but need begging just beneath it.

He moved like it hurt—because it did. He winced as he knelt beside the bed, his body aching from impact, scraped raw from the crash. But that pain barely registered when your eyes flicked up to meet his, half-lidded and dark, when you whispered “Are you sure?” with a voice that already knew the answer. And he nodded, chest rising and falling like he was winded just from looking at you. “Yeah,” he said. “I just… I need to be inside you. That’s all I want right now.”

You pulled at his shirt with trembling fingers, tugging it off like unwrapping something sacred and ruined. His skin was mottled with bruises, dirt still smudged across his collarbones, but your hands didn’t hesitate. You ran your palms down his chest, your thighs pressing together as arousal coiled tight in your gut. Bradley watched your pupils blow wide as he stripped, your gaze raking down his body like you were already picturing how it’d feel when he finally filled you up.

He slid into bed beside you, and you rolled to meet him, teeth clenched against the soreness in your ribs. But the ache of your injuries couldn’t drown out the ache between your legs. Your hand drifted down his stomach, brushing over the trail of hair below his navel, fingers curling around the thick length already straining against his boxers. He hissed at the contact, hips twitching. “Jesus,” he whispered, eyes fluttering shut for half a second. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

Your thumb teased the head, already leaking, slick and hot against your skin. You stroked him slowly, deliberately, watching the muscles in his stomach tighten with each pass. “You’re shaking,” you whispered. He smirked, breath ragged. “So are you.”

His hand slipped beneath the blanket and cupped your heat—no preamble, no teasing—just his fingers pressing into your soaked panties and groaning when he felt how wet you already were. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice gone low and rough. “You’re dripping for me. All that from a kiss?”

You nodded, breath hitching, thighs parting for him. “I’ve been wet since you touched my waist.”

That made something snap in him. He shoved the blanket down and yanked your underwear aside with one hand, baring you to the cool air. His fingers slid through your folds, slick and messy, before two plunged inside without hesitation. You gasped, back arching, hand still wrapped around his cock. He curled his fingers expertly, hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl. “That’s it, baby,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”

You moaned, louder this time, grinding down against his hand. Your grip on him tightened, pumping his cock harder now, your wrist flicking with every stroke. The bed creaked under the weight of your need, the scent of sex already thick in the air.

“Condom?” you breathed.

He leaned in, kissed your neck, your jaw, your lips. “No. Need to feel you. Need to be raw with you. Please.”

You didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Not with the way he was finger-fucking you, not with the way your orgasm was already building—tight and hot and ready to blow. You pulled him on top of you, whispering, “Then do it. Fuck me, Bradley. I want to feel you come inside.”

He growled at that—an honest-to-God growl—and lined himself up with trembling hands. He pushed in slow, agonizingly slow, watching every second of your face as his cock sank into your dripping heat. You were soaked, and still it stretched—thick and overwhelming, making you bite down a whimper as he bottomed out inside you.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, forehead resting against yours. “You’re squeezing me so goddamn good.”

He pulled back and thrust again—slow, deep, filthy. The wet slap of skin echoed in the cabin, joined by your gasps, your curses, his ragged breaths. He fucked you with reverence and hunger, hips grinding in a rhythm that was somehow both tender and obscene.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, forcing him deeper. His pelvis ground against your clit every time he bottomed out, and your moans turned to whines, breathless and needy. “Don’t stop,” you gasped. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

“I won’t,” he panted, his voice wrecked. “I’m gonna fill you up. You want that? Want me to come inside you, leave you dripping full of me?”

You nodded frantically, nails raking down his back. “Yes. Fuck, yes, Bradley. Please.”

He started thrusting harder, faster, but still holding himself back enough not to hurt you. Your bodies moved like you were built for this—like you were made to survive and then fuck each other back to life. He kissed you through it, tongue sliding into your mouth, catching your moans and swallowing your cries. You were close—so fucking close—and he felt it in the way you clenched down around him, fluttering with every stroke.

“Come for me,” he begged, voice raw. “Want to feel you come on my cock. Come, baby.”

You shattered. Loud, messy, back arching and hips jerking as you came around him, gushing slick down his thighs. He didn’t even make it a full thrust after that—he plunged deep, groaning loud into your shoulder as he spilled inside you, thick and hot, filling you until it dripped back out around him.

Neither of you moved for a while.

Bradley collapsed onto you, still inside, still pulsing weakly. You were shaking. He was shaking. His face buried in your neck, your fingers in his hair, both of you panting like you’d just run miles.

He kissed your temple. “Still hate me?”

You laughed, breathless, sated, ruined. “Ask me again tomorrow. Maybe I’ll let you do that again.”

His laugh was broken and full of wonder. The fire popped, the world outside frozen, but inside that bed you were burning alive.

And finally—finally—he let himself sleep. Still buried in you. Still holding on.

Bradley didn’t sleep for long. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe twenty. Just long enough for the sweat to dry on your skin, just long enough for the fire to settle into a low, pulsing warmth around you both. He stirred against you, brow furrowed like his body refused to believe it was over. You were already awake, eyes half-closed, thighs sticky where his release had started to seep out of you and onto the sheets.

You shifted slightly, and that tiny movement—just the drag of your bare thigh over his hip—made him groan low in his throat. His cock twitched where it still rested, soft but thick, pressed against your inner thigh. You weren’t sure who moved first, but soon enough his mouth was at your neck again, slow kisses turned wet and open-mouthed, his hand creeping down to your ass to pull you closer.

“Fuck,” he rasped against your skin. “I’m still hard for you. Didn’t even mean to be.”

You smirked, pressing your hips forward just enough that his length slipped against your slit, catching in the mess he’d left inside you. “You didn’t pull out,” you whispered. “I’m still full of you.”

That made him groan—deep and broken—and he pulled back to look at you, eyes blown wide and dark. “Say that again.”

You leaned up and licked the corner of his mouth, voice all silk and sin. “You came so deep inside me, Bradley. I can feel it dripping out every time I move. You gonna fix that?”

He didn’t answer. He just grabbed your hips, rolled you onto your stomach, and pulled your ass up into the air like it was instinct. You gasped as your cheek pressed into the pillow, arms tucked beneath you, body still sore but aching in a whole new way now. He slid behind you, spreading your thighs with rough hands, and let out a choked moan when he saw the slick mess between your legs—his come still leaking from your swollen pussy, glistening in the firelight.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Look at that. Look at what I did to you.”

You tried to lift your head, but he pushed it gently back down. “Stay just like that, baby. Let me clean it up.”

You expected his fingers. You got his tongue.

Bradley dove in without warning, mouth sealing over your cunt as he licked his own cum out of you with slow, filthy precision. His tongue lapped through your folds, circling your clit before dipping back in, tongue-fucking you while groaning into your pussy like it was his last meal. You cried out, hips bucking, hands clutching the sheets as your body lit up all over again.

“You taste like us,” he muttered between licks. “So fucking sweet and dirty. Bet you’d let me keep you like this, wouldn’t you? Keep you leaking for days.”

You whined, breathless, wrecked. “Bradley, please—fuck, please, I need you again.”

He pulled back, spit-slick and shameless, and stroked his cock—already fully hard again, glistening at the tip with fresh pre-come. “Yeah?” he panted. “You need me to fuck it back in? Fill you up again until it’s running down your thighs?”

You nodded, dizzy with it. “Yes—God, yes, do it, don’t be gentle this time, just fuck me—”

He didn’t hesitate. He lined up and shoved back in with one deep, brutal thrust that had you crying out into the pillow. The sound he made—guttural, lost—was pure filth. You were already so wet, so open, he slid in to the hilt in one stroke, and then he started moving.

No slow build-up this time. No worship. This was raw and carnal, fast and mean. His hips slapped against your ass as he pounded into you from behind, one hand wrapped tight around your throat, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. You were babbling now, words slurring into moans, your pussy fluttering around him with every thrust.

“You wanted this,” he growled, leaning down to bite at your shoulder. “Wanted me to ruin you. Wanted me to fuck my come back into you like you’re mine.”

“I am,” you gasped. “I’m yours—fuck—I’m so yours, Bradley.”

He snapped his hips harder, angle brutal, tip hitting your cervix with every thrust. “Say it again.”

“Yours—fuck—I’m yours—”

“You gonna let me breed you?” he snarled against your ear. “Let me fuck you full until it takes?”

You came so hard your vision went white.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, your body convulsing around him as your pussy clenched down hard, milking him with wet, obscene sounds. Your scream was muffled by the pillow, and Bradley wasn’t far behind.

“Shit—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—I’m gonna—”

He slammed in one last time, burying himself to the base and spilling inside you again. Hot, thick, endless. His cock twitched deep in your cunt, pumping rope after rope of come into your already-filled pussy, and neither of you could breathe.

When he finally collapsed, it was on top of you, still deep, both of you sticky and shaking. His lips brushed your ear.

“That’s twice,” he muttered. “You really want me to ask you again in the morning?”

You groaned, completely fucked-out. “Ask me before breakfast. I might be ready for round three.”

And in the faint, smoky light of the dying fire, Bradley laughed—low and satisfied—and kissed your spine like you were the only thing left in the world worth surviving for.

The fire had burned down to embers by the time you both stopped shaking. The room smelled like sex and smoke, like sweat and survival, like the kind of love that doesn’t ask for forgiveness because it never needed to. You stayed tangled together, his cock still nestled deep inside you, warmth spilling from between your thighs with every breath.

His chest rose against your back, one hand splayed over your stomach, the other curled protectively around your thigh like he didn’t trust the night not to steal you. Neither of you spoke for a while. There was no need. Because whatever this was—this wreckage, this worship, this filthy, fevered clinging to each other in the middle of nowhere, you didn’t bother pretending it was anything else. 

Call it what it was: raw, relentless, and real. And maybe a little ruined, but it was yours.

[perfectprettypisces]

ten years later ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: you've known jake your whole life—and loved him just as long. but it's always been complicated. jake was pretty and popular. you weren't. he loved you in private but looked straight through you in public. then everything changed one night in college when you crossed that line... and the next morning, he broke your heart. now, ten years later, you've outgrown your awkwardness (yeah, you're hot), you're on north island, and you're reunited. emotions are high, trivia gets competitive, and jake gives you a reason to love his stupid old truck.

notes: i missed writing for my boy! this was actually really fun, and i really hope y'all enjoy it too! i'm sorry if the end feels a little rushed? i was seriously struggling with the smut (there are only so many ways to describe stuff, okay guys) but i feel like this one is a little more emotional than i usually do? maybe? anyways, please let me know what you think!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, some big time angst (but happy ending), italics, allusions to bullying (ish), jealousy, a lot of banter (lord give me this kind of rizz irl), some lame easter eggs (i was having too much fun), and SMUT (making out, grinding, public-ish (truck) sex, unprotected p in v) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 18483

Jake Seresin knows better than to get into a bar fight. 

He knows better than to interrupt one, too—but tonight, he couldn’t help himself. Because he saw the desperate look on Penny’s face, and the way the aggressively drunk civilian was heckling those young ensigns. And he couldn’t just stand by—not when his hero complex was screaming at him to save the day. 

So he did. Or at least, he tried to. 

He would have succeeded if he hadn’t been distracted by the bombshell walking through the door. If he’d been paying attention to the drunk who kept yelling, refusing to leave. If he’d noticed the man reeling back and ducked instead of craning his neck to get a better look at the gorgeous woman who just stepped into the bar. 

Next thing he knows, he’s on the floor—staring up at the ceiling, vision fuzzy, nose throbbing. 

“Get out of my bar!” Penny shouts. 

There’s a scuffle as Javy and Reuben—with Bradley looming nearby—grab the drunk and drag him out. Jake can only just make out their blurry silhouettes through the chaos. 

Warmth pools in his nose, the familiar coppery scent of blood overwhelming his senses. He tips his head back, fingers pinching the bridge as a low groan escapes him. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, the noise of the bar ringing in his ears—and when he opens them again, he sees— 

Boots? 

Lucchese’s, to be exact. Worn brown leather with little stars stitched in. They look old and tired, but loved—and familiar. Eerily familiar. 

“Wish I could say I’m surprised but, really... I’m not.” 

Jake’s eyes snap up to your face, wide now. He’s still holding his nose, blood trickling down his cheek, still lying on the sticky hardwood floor. 

“Shit, Hangman, are you—” Mickey stops dead when his gaze lands on you, lips curving into that bright, boyish smile. “Oh. Hi.” 

You tip your head, smirking. “Hi.” Then you nod down at Jake. “This belong to you?” 

“I don’t belong to anyone,” Jake mutters, reaching a hand up for help. 

Javy appears beside Mickey and grabs Jake’s hand, hauling him up so fast his head spins and he has to steady himself with a hand on his friend’s shoulder. 

“You alright, Seresin?” 

Jake whips around too fast, making his head throb—but the pain is nothing compared to the confusion. 

How the hell do you know his name? 

“Wow,” you mutter, eyeing his service khakis up and down. “Military suits you.” 

He drops his chin to his chest and spots his name badge, then glances back up with a smirk beneath his still-bleeding nose. “Nice trick.” 

You lift a brow. “Trick?” 

“My name badge.” 

You tilt your head. “You really don’t remember me, do you?” Your eyes narrow, lips curling into an amused grin. “Jake.” 

His eyes widen and his hand drops from his face, a fresh drop of blood dripping onto his upper lip. 

Something about you is familiar, he can’t deny. Your smirk, the little sparkle in your eye, the way you say his name. You know him—that’s for sure. But does he know you? 

His first thought—fear, really—is that you’re a bitter one-night stand he never called back. But usually those women have slapped him by now. And he’s been good lately—he hasn’t broken a heart in at least a year. He’s turned a new leaf. He’s the new and improved, sensitive, understanding Jake Seresin now. 

So why can’t he remember you? 

Then his eyes drop to the boots—your boots. The ones you begged your parents for as a graduation present. The ones you wore everywhere from the day you got them. The ones that sat beside his bed that night—the night you both crossed the line. 

“Holy shit,” he mutters. “I—It’s you. I mean, you’re—oh my God, you’ve changed—you—you’re really—holy shit.” 

You bite your lip, cheeks flushing pink—and that’s when Jake really recognises you. Because he knows what you look like when you blush. God knows he made you blush enough growing up. 

But holy shit, have you changed. No more awkward acne, no more uneasy smile, no more terrible haircut. You stand taller now, more confident, like you finally know exactly who you are. It’s magnetic. Jake can’t look away—and neither can anyone else. 

“Come on,” you giggle softly. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

You grab his arm, nod at his friends, and start dragging him toward the bar. He doesn’t even spare Javy or Mickey a glance—because he can’t stop looking at you. The curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the way your fingers fit so perfectly around his wrist. 

He knows you. Knows everything about you. He once mapped every inch of your skin with his mouth. You’re familiar to him, but somehow—right now—completely different. 

“You’ve changed,” he says again. 

You stop at the bar and shove him toward a stool, ignoring the comment as you turn to face Penny. “Could I get some ice, please? And—” 

Penny drops a box of tissues on the bar with a small smile before turning to fetch the ice. 

“Didn’t think it was proper for naval officers to get into bar fights,” you say, handing him a wad of tissues. 

He presses them beneath his nose, wincing. “I was trying to deescalate the situation.” 

You snort. “Oh, really? And how’d that work out for you?” 

He tries to smirk beneath the clump of bloody tissues. “Well, now I’m being taken care of by a pretty girl, so you tell me.” 

Your brows lift. “Wow. No preamble, just straight into it, huh?” 

He tips his head back, feeling another drop of blood slide down his nose. “Does there need to be preamble between two friends who’ve known each other for literal decades?” 

“When they haven’t seen each other for one of those literal decades? Yes,” you say, before softly thanking Penny as she hands over a towel full of ice. 

“That’s a lie, I saw you on a video call two Christmases ago.” 

You huff a short laugh and step closer, sliding between his knees, one hand cupping the back of his head. 

So much for preamble, he thinks—before scrambling to think of the grossest things he can imagine. Because you’re too pretty, too close. You smell too good, and you’re too you. It’s dangerous for you to be standing between his legs right now. Or at all. 

Even if you are just trying to play nurse. 

Oh, God. Now he’s picturing you in a skimpy nurse costume. 

“Have you stopped bleeding?” you ask, urging his head forward again. 

He slowly pulls the tissues away, eyes locked on yours. He’s been closer to you before—obviously—but not in years. Ten years, to be exact. Sure, there have been the occasional calls, texts, and family video chats. But he hasn’t seen you. Not in person. Not like this. 

Not since he broke your heart. 

“I think you’re good, cowboy,” you murmur, pressing the makeshift icepack into his hand. 

Jake lifts it slowly to his nose, hesitating when you hold your hand out for the bloody tissues. The way you arch your brows is impatient, though, and he caves—dropping them into your palm. You scrunch them into a ball and head toward the back of the bar. He watches you disappear into the women’s bathroom, then reappear a minute later and make your way back to him. All the while his heart is thumping too hard and he’s still trying to reroute his blood flow. 

“So, Seresin,” you say, sliding onto the stool beside him. “What’s it like being an American hero?” 

He chuckles. “I don’t know about hero.” 

You roll your eyes. “Please. Your mom hasn’t stopped bragging about you since you graduated the academy.” 

“Of course she hasn’t,” he sighs, trying to ignore the heat creeping into his cheeks. 

“Come on, then,” you press. “What’s it like?” 

He takes a slow breath and sets the icepack in his lap. “It’s good,” he mutters, green eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Hard work, but… fulfilling. I love it.” 

Your lips twitch as if you’re trying to bite back a smile. “And those other men in khakis—you work with them?” 

“Yeah,” Jake nods, swivelling slightly to glance at his friends across the bar. “And the rest of ‘em over there, pretending they’re not staring right at you.” 

You laugh softly. “So you’re all pretty close, then?” 

Jake huffs. “Almost too close.” He turns back to you, and—for some stupid reason—it feels like he can breathe again. Like looking at you is all he’s ever needed to really feel alive. He clears his throat. “We make up an elite mission unit.” 

Your brows lift. “So you’re like… a top-secret government spy?”  

“More like a top-secret government pilot.”  

“Wow,” you laugh again—but there’s a little bite in it this time. “That must work fantastically for getting you laid. Or—sorry, should I not assume? Is there a Mrs. Seresin I haven’t heard about?” 

Jake hesitates, narrowing his eyes. “Are you trying to figure out if I’m single?” 

The faintest shade of pink creeps into your cheeks. “I’m not trying to figure out anything,” you say, squaring your shoulders. “I’m asking.” 

The confidence in your voice isn’t forced. You know exactly what you’re asking—no hesitation—and it’s just another reminder of how you’ve changed. Not completely, but enough to make Jake feel like he’s the one playing catch up. 

So he does what he always does when he feels a little off-balance—he smirks. His head tilts just enough to catch the light in his eyes, and one brow lifts, deliberate, as though he’s daring you to rise to the bait. His gaze lingers a fraction too long, and when his jaw ticks, the smirk tugs wider—lazy, practiced, dangerous. 

“I’m single,” he says, his voice lower now. 

You hesitate. Jake can almost swear you’ve stopped breathing. Your eyes are locked on his face, your cheeks slowly getting redder by the second. 

After a beat—a very smug, loaded beat—he asks, “And you?” 

You blink, a small frown pulling between your brows. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.” 

“That so?” Jake leans back a little, studying you. “So I can’t ask why you’re here in North Island?” 

Your frown deepens. “You don’t know?” 

“I’m supposed to know?” 

You shrug. “I just figured my mom would’ve told your mom and—well, she would’ve told you.” 

Jake’s smirk slips, eyes narrowing as he thinks back to his last phone call with his mother. It was only a week ago—and her voice had sounded a little smug. A little secretive. Bubbling with something she clearly wasn’t saying. Something he should’ve caught. 

“Actually,” he says slowly, “now that you mention it, she was kind of giggly on our last call.” 

“Oh.” You nod once, lips twitching. “So she wanted it to be a surprise.” 

Jake chuckles under his breath. “Well... it was.” 

You let out a quick half-laugh, but your eyes flick past him, fixing on a safe spot in the corner of the room. He notices. Of course he notices. Because every time your shoulders start to ease, you look away—like you’re reminding yourself to stay guarded. To keep the mask in place. And that hits harder than he’d like to admit. 

“So.” He clears his throat. “Why are you here?” 

“I transferred,” you say simply. 

Jake tilts his head. “You’re... Navy?” 

You shake your head. “No—civilian contractor. My company landed a contract here and I went for a promotion.” You pause, searching his face, like you’re testing the weight of your words. “And I got it. Senior analyst. Leading a whole team, and everything.” 

Jake blinks. “Wow. That’s... impressive.” His chest tightens. “How long’s the contract?” 

“Three years.” 

His heart gives a sharp, heavy thud—like it’s reminding him it’s still there. Still feeling. Still tangled up in you. 

“So you’re here for a while?” he asks, voice quieter now. 

You draw a deep breath and nod. “Yeah. That’s why I figured we should make amends... since we’ll probably be seeing each other around.” 

Jake flinches. “Okay. Ouch.” 

You blink. “What?”  

“Well, first of all,” he says, squaring his shoulders, “I didn’t realise we still had amends to make. And second—” he pauses, watching the way you hold yourself so carefully, that calm expression you’ve practiced to perfection “—‘see each other around’? Like we’re not going to actually hang out. Catch up. Be friends?” 

There’s a long beat. The air grows heavier, pressing close, and the look in your eyes sharpens. You’re still wearing that mask, but it doesn’t reach your eyes—and in them, Jake can see almost every turbulent emotion clawing for release.  

“I don’t think I can be friends with you, Jake.” 

The words hit like a punch to the gut—but he doesn’t let it show. 

“Come on,” he sighs, “it’s been over a decade.” 

You swallow hard, your gaze flicking back to that corner of the bar—the safe spot you keep retreating to. “Yeah, but… the first person to break your heart always leaves the deepest scar. You know?” You pause, blinking fast before your eyes meet his again. “Anyway,” you add with a soft sigh, “I should call an Uber. I have an entire apartment to unpack and only two days to do it.”  

“Don’t call an Uber,” Jake says quickly, pulse pounding in his ears. “Let me drive you home.” 

The deepest scar. How could you say that so casually? As if you don’t realise it kills him to know he broke your heart at all—let alone left the kind of wound that never healed. 

Your brows pinch. “What about your friends?” 

“They’ll be fine.” He waves a hand, aiming for casual even though his chest feels like it’s splintering apart. “Besides, I’m exhausted—I could use an excuse to go home.” 

You study him for a moment, eyes betraying the quiet battle you’re fighting inside. Jake can see it. Then a long breath escapes you, and your shoulders drop—not in surrender, but in something close to it. 

“Okay,” you say, sliding off the stool. “I’ll wait outside while you say goodbye.” 

“You don’t want to meet them?” he asks. 

“Not today.” 

“But someday, right?” 

You give him a flat look. “Don’t push your luck, cowboy.” 

Then you turn on your heel and disappear, weaving through the crowd, leaving Jake with reeling thoughts, an aching chest—and the quiet awakening of something he thought he’d lost forever. 

After a good minute of staring at absolutely nothing, replaying the last half hour in his head, Jake finally slides off the stool and makes his way toward his friends. He’s barely reached them when Javy dramatically shoots to his feet, eyes wide as saucers. 

“Is that really her?” he asks. 

Jake blinks slowly, then nods. 

“Oh my God, she’s—” 

“Wait,” Bradley cuts in, “she’s the one that—” 

“Yeah,” Jake mutters. 

Natasha frowns. “The one that what?” 

Javy lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “She’s so—” 

“Different,” Jake interrupts quickly. 

Bradley smirks into his beer bottle. “She’s hot.” 

“Who’s hot?” Natasha demands, her patience thinning by the second. 

“Hangman’s friend,” Mickey offers, as if he’s being helpful. 

She shoots him a sideways look—sharp enough to wipe the grin from his face. 

Javy tilts his head. “I thought you said she wasn’t—” 

“She wasn’t,” Jake says fast. “I mean—on the inside, she’s always been—” He hesitates, the words sticking in his throat. “But she’s different now. She’s—” 

“Gorgeous,” Bradley says, earning himself a scathing glare from Jake. 

Natasha slaps both hands flat on the table. “If someone doesn’t tell me who this woman is right now, I swear to God I will flip this table.” 

“It’s bolted down,” Bob mutters. 

Her head whips toward him. “Then I’ll rip it out of the goddamn floorboards.” 

Bob leans back, both hands raised in surrender. 

Natasha turns back to Jake. “Who is she?” 

Jake exhales slowly. “She’s my—” 

“The one that got away,” Bradley interrupts with a grin. 

Natasha shoots him a look. “And you know this how?” 

Bradley shrugs. “Hangman told me the whole story one night when he was really drunk. I saw a photo of her on his dresser and—” 

“You have a photo of her on your dresser?” Natasha’s brows shoot up as her gaze swings back to Jake. 

“It’s not weird,” Jake insists quickly. “We’ve known each other forever. We grew up together.” 

Bob leans in, brow furrowed. “Then why haven’t the rest of us heard about her before?” 

Jake swallows hard. “Because I’m pretty sure she’s spent the last decade hating me.” 

Natasha frowns. “Why?” 

“Isn’t she waiting outside right now?” Micky cuts in before Jake can answer. 

“Shit,” Jake mutters. “Yeah—uh, I gotta go. I’ll see you guys tomorrow night.” 

“Wait,” Natasha says quickly, eyes wide. “I need to know what happened.” 

“Coyote can fill you in.” Jake turns to his best friend with a grimace. “Just… try not to make me sound like too much of an asshole.” 

Bradley snorts. “That’s gonna be tough.” 

Jake shoots him a flat look before giving the rest of them a half-hearted wave and disappearing back into the crowd, praying to any god who might be listening that you haven’t already changed your mind and called an Uber. 

But sure enough, when he bursts through the doors into the cool night air, there you are—leaning against the front of his truck, arms crossed, head tipped back, eyes lost somewhere in the stars. 

Jake’s gaze drags over you like a man starved. The column of your throat, the slope of your collarbone, the way your crossed arms press against your chest—every detail carves itself into him like it hasn’t a hundred times before. He tells himself to stop, to focus on your face—your gorgeous face—and not drink in your skin like he’s been dying of thirst. But he can’t. Not when he still remembers your taste. Not when the ghost of you has been haunting him for so many years. 

And before he can force himself to move closer, to speak, he just stands there for a beat too long—wanting you more than he ever has, and hating himself more than he ever thought possible. 

“Good to know your taste in vehicles hasn’t improved since high school,” you say, snapping him out of whatever trance you’d put him in. 

Jake clears his throat, glancing toward the truck. “That’s because it can’t improve,” he says with a small smirk. “Doesn’t get much better than this.” 

You roll your eyes and push off the fender. “Actually, it does. Believe it or not, they’ve invented these things called safety features now. You know—air bags, emergency brakes, power steering.” 

Jake snorts. “Power steering? You saying you don’t enjoy watching me flex every time I turn a corner?” 

You huff a laugh and circle around the front of the truck, but Jake catches the small smile tugging at your lips before you turn away. 

He climbs into the driver’s seat, jams the key in the ignition, and the truck shudders awake with a growl that rattles the cab. 

Your eyes go wide. “Jesus Christ, Seresin. You’re basically driving a tin can on wheels.” 

He chuckles. “A tin can with character.” 

You roll your eyes again as you buckle your seatbelt, tugging it sharply a few times to make sure it locks. Jake watches you, chest tightening. He still can’t quite reconcile it—how you’re both exactly the same and yet entirely different. You’ve always been beautiful to him. Always. But now the rest of the world can see it too, and he hates that he never said it back when it mattered. Back when it was just the two of you, before life sharpened your edges and forced you to build walls. 

Because now? Now it’ll look like he only wants you after the ‘glow-up’. Like he’s the asshole who broke your heart, left you scarred, and came crawling back once you’d turned into the kind of woman who could turn every head in the room. 

And nothing could be further from the truth. 

Because the truth is, there hasn’t been a single day in Jake Seresin’s life where he hasn’t thought about you. Loved you. Wanted you to know just how much you mean to him. 

“Just head toward Ocean Boulevard,” you say, pulling him out of his spiralling thoughts. 

Jake clears his throat, fixes his eyes out the windshield, and shifts into first. The truck rolls forward, gravel crunching under the tires, and soon enough he’s driving out through the base gates, hitting the gas down Ocean Boulevard. 

“Turn down F Avenue and keep going until you hit ninth,” you instruct. “Then turn—” 

A loud pop cuts you off. The steering wheel jerks violently, rattling the cab, and both of you flinch as the truck lurches. Jake grips hard, steering it toward the side of the road until he manages to edge it right up against the curb.  

Then he yanks the handbrake, kills the engine—and his head whips toward you, eyes wide. “You okay?” 

You blink once, twice, a small frown creasing your brow. “Well… yeah. It’s just a blowout.” 

He lets go of a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and nods, dragging a hand through his hair. “I know. Just… scared me.” 

“Scared you?” you echo, lips twitching. 

He nods again, voice dropping low. “Yeah. You being in the car. If something had happened—” His throat works, and for a second he can’t look at you. “I’d never forgive myself.” 

Before you can answer, he shoves the door open and climbs out. His heart is beating too hard, too loud, and he’s starting to feel lightheaded. He needs air. Space. Because sitting there with you so close, your perfume clouding the cab, he felt like he was seconds away from blacking out. 

He circles the back of the truck until he spots the damage—the rear wheel on the curb side, rubber shredded in strips. 

“Got a spare?” you ask, climbing out of the passenger seat. 

“Yeah, but—” 

“Great. Where’s the jack and wrench?” 

When he looks at you—hands on your hips, brows pinched, lips pressed into a determined line—he can’t help the smirk tugging at his mouth. “As much as I’d love to watch you change the tire on my truck,” he says, “I’m pretty sure the spare’s either missing or older than we are.” 

Your brows shoot up. “You don’t have a spare tire?” 

Jake shrugs. “Not sure. Didn’t check when I bought it.” 

“From a dealer?” 

“Nope,” he chuckles. “Some guy on Facebook.” 

“Jake!” 

“What?” He throws his hands up, still laughing. “I didn’t need a fancy car. I barely drive it. Pretty sure this is the second, maybe third time it’s left base since I bought it.” 

You fold your arms and glare at him. “Seriously?” 

“Seriously,” he says with a shrug. “I’m still in the barracks. Don’t need to go anywhere else.” 

You tilt your head. “What about hookups?” 

He scoffs. “What hookups?” 

“Oh, come on. You’re Jake Seresin. Don’t act like you’re not—” 

“I’m not,” he cuts in, a little too fast, stepping toward you like he needs you to believe it. 

You go rigid, shoulders tensing, walls snapping back into place so visibly it makes his stomach sink. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, stepping back again. “I’ll call Rooster and see if he can still drive.” 

Your brows knit, arms dropping to your sides. “Sorry for what?” 

Jake hesitates, phone halfway out of his pocket. “For… making you uncomfortable.” 

“You don’t make me uncomfortable, Jake.” 

He frowns. “Then why are you so guarded?” He knows he shouldn’t ask—he should just let it go and be grateful for even a small piece of you back in his life—but he can’t. “Why are you holding back? Why does it feel like we’re strangers when I’ve known you your whole life?” 

You blink slowly, the crease between your brows deepening. He can feel your gaze tracing his skin like fire—studying him, measuring, keeping that practiced calm in place. 

“We are strangers, Jake,” you finally say, voice steady despite the way your eyes glimmer under the streetlight. “We haven’t really spoken in ten years—and yes, I know that was my choice, but—” You stop yourself and draw a deep, shaky breath. “But do you have any idea what you did to me?” 

Jake’s chest tightens. “I know I fucked up, okay? I know I hurt you. I know—” 

“No. You don’t,” you cut in sharply. “You have no idea. You didn’t just hurt me, Jake. You fucking destroyed me. You ruined me. You broke pieces of me I didn’t even know existed. You ripped me apart in ways I’m still putting back together. And I know—” You let out a bitter laugh, edged with tears. “—I know it was over a decade ago. I get it. But do you have any idea the kind of damage you have to do for it to take ten fucking years to heal?” 

Jake’s eyes sting. His pulse is pounding in his ears. Words scream inside his head, but none make it out. He’s frozen. Paralysed. His chest aches—and his heart is breaking. 

You take a deep breath and blink hard, tipping your head back. “I was in love with you, Jake,” you say, voice lower now. “Even after you said what you said, I—I still loved you. I still wanted you. God. I fucking want you now—do you know how sick that makes me feel?” 

His chest tightens like he’s pulling ten Gs, heart hammering so loud he can barely hear his own ragged breaths. 

“Sick?” he echoes, voice distant, hollow in his ears. 

“Yes, sick,” you snap. “Because you were everything to me. Not just then, not just after we—after we fucked.” You almost choke on the word as a single tear slips down your cheek. “For as long as I can remember, you were the most important thing in the world to me. It was always you. It was always about you. Everything I did was for you. I mean—fuck—I pretended we didn’t even know each other in school because you asked me to. I didn’t come over when your friends were over because you asked me to. I didn’t talk to you at your goddamn birthday parties because you asked me to!” Your voice rises, raw and fraying at the edges. “I did everything you asked me to just so you’d still be my friend. And I thought—” you close your eyes, more tears slipping free, “I thought college would’ve been different. I thought you’d matured—at least, that’s what Mom told me. But—but then we—” You stop short, hand pressed to your chest as if something heavy is pressing down too hard for the words to escape. 

Jake blinks fast, fighting to keep his own emotions from spilling. “Please,” he rasps, “please stop.” 

Your eyes narrow at him, red-rimmed and glinting with unshed tears. “You want me to stop? You want me to stop reminding you of what you did? How you treated me?” You swipe angrily at your cheek with the back of your hand. “Well, too bad. Because maybe you’ve managed to repress the memories, but I haven’t. It wasn’t just that final moment that hurt me, Jake. It was every fucking year leading up to it. It was every single moment you treated me like I was less than just because I wasn’t pretty.” You let out another bitter, almost incredulous, laugh. “God, do you know how insane that sounds? Do you know how stupid it feels to admit that the crux of my childhood trauma is a stupid boy not thinking I’m pretty enough to be seen with him in public?” 

Jake swallows hard on the lump in his throat. “That’s not—” 

“This is why I haven’t spoken to you in over a decade,” you snap. “Not because I’m not over what happened that day. I am. And not because I hate you. I really don’t.” Your gaze pins him, sharp and unyielding. “But I will never forgive you for what you did to that little girl. To me. For making me feel like I wasn’t worth shit.” 

You stand frozen for a beat, chest barely moving, the weight of your words settling between you. Then, with a breath that feels too heavy, you turn on your heel and start walking away. 

“Wait,” Jake calls, voice cracking. “Where are you going?” 

You don’t answer. 

“You can’t walk home in the dark,” he says, jogging to catch up with you. 

“It’s not far,” you throw over your shoulder, keeping your pace steady. 

Jake lets out a sharp breath. “It’s still dark.” 

“Then follow me,” you snap, voice low and tense. “I don’t care. Just don’t talk to me, I—I'm tired.” 

And so he does. A few steps behind, careful not to crowd you, probably looking like a shadow under the dark of night. He doesn’t speak—not because you told him not to, but because he can’t. His chest feels tight, his heart hammering in a way that makes each step heavier, each breath a little harder to draw. He can’t even pretend to know the depth of your pain—only that he caused it. 

All he wants is to reach out, to say the words he should have said a decade ago, to beg for forgiveness and make you understand that he isn’t that boy anymore. That he knows now—truly knows—that everything he said, everything he did, was wrong. That if there’s even the tiniest chance to make it right, he’d take it. He needs you to know that he did love you—that he still does. But he was young, reckless, cruel in ways he didn’t understand, a kid blind to the damage his words and actions could leave behind. 

And now he sees it. All of it. The little cuts, the dismissals, the moments that seemed meaningless to him but defined years of your life. It wasn’t just that final night in college that broke you—it was everything before it, piling up silently while he had no idea. 

He’s carried guilt for years, but only tonight does it hit him in full—the scale of what he’s done. Ever since losing you, he’s wanted to know how to fix it, how to reach you, how to make you see the truth of what he’s felt all along. But now, following you through the dark, heart hammering, thoughts splintering, he isn’t sure there’s a single thing he could do to repair the damage. Or if he even deserves to try. 

- Ten Years Ago - 

The sun cuts across your face—a single, blinding line of gold splitting through the gap in the curtains. You blink awake, slow and heavy, shifting under the soft sheets and—an arm. The solid weight of an arm wrapped tight around your waist. 

For a split second, panic slams into you. The memories of last night flash through your mind in jagged, breathless bursts—his hands gripping your skin, the press of his mouth, the way your body gave itself over to him in ways you’d only ever dreamed of. Your heart stutters, pounding loud in your ears, and then— 

Your gaze lands on him. 

Jake Seresin. 

He’s right there, inches away, his face bathed in pale morning light. Long lashes fan over his cheeks. His lips part softly with each steady breath. He looks nothing like the golden boy who ruled every room—he looks younger, softer, like someone only you were ever meant to see. 

And it wrecks you. 

Your heart lurches high in your throat, choking you with the force of it. You’d pictured this so many times—fantasised about it, begged for it in the quiet corners of your mind—but the reality is overwhelming. Dizzying. Too much. Too real. 

You shift onto your side, body aching with reminders of every place he touched you, every line you swore you’d never cross until you crossed them all with him. 

Your fingers twitch against the sheet, and before you can stop yourself you’re reaching out—tracing the hard angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone. Memorising him like proof this actually happened. His skin is warm under your touch. He stirs but doesn’t wake. 

And that’s when it hits you, knocking the breath from your lungs. 

You lost your virginity to Jake fucking Seresin. The boy who never felt like he could be yours. The boy who could undo you with one look. The boy you’ve loved all your life, even when you wished you didn’t. 

And now you’re lying in his bed. And he’s holding you like you’re his. 

“Stop staring,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. 

Your cheeks flush, hand still hovering at his jaw. “I’m not.” 

The corner of his mouth curves. “Liar.” 

Your heart stumbles. “Go back to sleep.” 

“Can’t,” he murmurs, finally cracking one eye open to look at you. “Not with you right here.” 

His arm tightens, pulling you closer as he shifts to tuck the other beneath your body, pressing you right up against him. He brushes his lips against yours, soft and fleeting, before sinking back into his pillow. His eyes flutter shut, a contented sigh slipping out like this moment is the most perfect he’s ever known. 

You want to relax with him, to nuzzle into his chest and breathe him in, to forget about every anxious thought spinning in your mind. But you can’t. Because this is real, and what happened last night has changed everything. 

“I can hear you overthinking,” he mutters, eyes still closed. 

Your eyes linger on his mouth, and warmth rushes through you at the memory of everywhere it was last night. 

“Can you blame me?” you whisper. “Last night was—” 

“Perfect.” His eyes open fast, worry clouding them. “Right? You’re not regretting—” 

“No,” you cut in quickly. “Of course not. I don’t regret anything.” Your gaze falls to his chest. “Unless you regret—” 

“Never.” 

He tilts your chin up with gentle fingers, green eyes searching yours as if to be sure. Then he kisses you—soft, slow, reverent. Everything he couldn’t say, everything he showed you last night, pressed into the shape of your mouth. 

You want to be cautious, to protect yourself, but you can’t. Not with Jake. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted, and being here with him feels inevitable—like this was always where the two of you were meant to end up. 

Sure, it’s been complicated. Nothing about Jake has ever been simple. But when it’s just the two of you, all the noise disappears. Alone with him, you’ve always felt like you mattered. Like he loves you just as much as you love him—maybe even needs you in ways he can’t show anyone else. 

You know what people think. That you should hate him for keeping you a secret, for pretending you weren’t important when others were around. You’ve heard it enough times—from friends, even family. But you never could hate him. How could you? He’s Jake Seresin—the golden boy, the one everyone wants a piece of. You never blamed him for holding one piece back for himself. The piece that was you. Because with you, he’s real. And you’ve always known him better than anyone. 

Maybe you were naive to accept the way things were, to let him look right through you in public just because you didn’t fit into his world. But that was then. He’s not that boy anymore. He’s grown. Changed. You can’t hold the mistakes of a kid against the man he’s becoming. 

Deep down, you’ve always known he cared. Even when he didn’t show it the right way, he was still there. Last night only proved it. Proved that what you’ve always felt—that you were more than a secret—was real. That he sees you. All of you. 

And even if everything changes after last night, you know you’ll never regret Jake Seresin being your first. And you know you’ll never stop loving him. 

“Coffee?” Jake offers, snapping you out of your spiralling thoughts. 

His eyes are open now, wide and soft, full of something you can’t quite place. 

You hum. “Yeah, but does that mean I have to get out of bed?” 

He chuckles. “Nope. Just me. I’ll run down to the café.” 

He kisses you again—firmer this time—before slipping out of bed and grabbing his clothes off the floor. The same ones you’d tossed there last night, after undressing each other. Because last night you had sex with Jake Seresin. And that’s not something you’re ever going to be sick of reminding yourself. 

“What’s that grin for?” he asks as he pulls his shirt over his head. 

You tug the covers up to your chin. “Nothing. It’s just—” 

“We had sex last night?” 

You roll your eyes, hiding your stupid smile beneath his duvet. “Yeah. Something like that.” 

He laughs softly as he leans down and presses his lips to your forehead—a simple gesture, but one that makes your chest ache with fondness. 

“I won’t be long,” he says, swiping his wallet and keys off the bedside table. 

Then with a crooked grin and a cheeky wink, he’s out the door. Leaving you in his bed, staring up at the ceiling of his dorm, replaying every moment of last night like you’re trying to catalogue every touch, every look, every feeling. 

You lie there for a good five minutes, reminding yourself that this is real. That Jake is going to walk back through that door soon. And when he does, he’s going to touch you again, kiss you again—be with you in ways you’ve dreamt about for most of your life. 

With a soft, almost dreamy sigh, you slip out from beneath the covers and start gathering your things. You know Jake has class sometime this morning, so you don’t plan on lingering like some clingy girl who doesn’t know when to leave. You pull on your clothes from last night and grab the sweatshirt draped over the back of his desk chair—the weather’s turned colder overnight, and you know you’ll need the extra layer. 

You tidy the few things that got knocked over last night and loosely make his bed before settling at the foot of it, phone in hand. You scroll through a few missed notifications and quickly reply to your friend, the one who had so reluctantly left you in Jake’s care last night. 

It’s not that she doesn’t trust him—she just doesn’t like him. None of your friends do. They think he’s cruel, shallow, all ego and no care. But they don’t know him the way you do. They don’t see the sweet side—the quieter, insecure parts of him that you’ve always believed were yours alone. They don’t know how much he really does care. 

After about fifteen minutes of scrolling through your phone, you realise that Jake is taking a little too long. You know the café he likes, and you know it wouldn’t be busy at this time on a Thursday—most students are either in class or studying at the library by now. 

You wait two more minutes before pushing off the bed and heading for the door. You yank it open and stick your head into the hallway, like maybe checking will magically make him appear. For a moment you just stand there, listening to the distant shuffle of feet and scattered voices. You’re about to give up and step back inside when— 

“Seresin! Where you off to in such a rush?” 

“Hey, McNeil.” Jake’s voice echoes down the corridor. “What’s up?” 

You twist your head both ways, but you can’t see anyone. You can’t even tell which direction the voices are coming from—but the hallway is carrying them straight to you, loud and clear, like it wants you to hear. 

“Not much, man,” McNeil—whoever that is—says. “Thirsty this morning?” 

Jake laughs, but it’s off, forced. “Oh. Yeah—uh, this one’s for a friend.” 

“A friend?” McNeil presses. “Wait... don’t tell me you had a sleepover with that freshman four I saw you bring back last night?” 

Your chest tightens. Your breath comes sharp and shallow, panic pressing down on your ribs. 

“Yeah… I mean, she’s a family friend,” Jake says, letting out another awkward laugh. “I was just trying to be nice. My mom would kill me if she found out I left her drunk and alone at some frat house.” 

Your stomach drops. Heat prickles up the back of your neck, humiliation burning hot and mean behind your ribs. 

McNeil snorts. “You’re a saint, Seresin. I bet she was all over you too.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Jake says, voice deeper now, slipping into that fake bravado that makes him sound like the worst kind of asshole. “She was drunk off her ass, a little desperate. I just didn’t have the heart to toss her out.” 

McNeil laughs. Loudly. Like Jake is hilarious, and not breaking you apart with every word. 

Tears sting your eyes, falling fast and hot down your cheeks. Your stomach twists, nausea clawing at you, but you don’t have time to let it take over. You let the door fall shut with a thud loud enough that you know they’d have heard it, then scramble to gather your things, slip into your shoes, and yank the door open again. 

You turn sharply into the hall, swiping furiously at the tears blurring your vision. Your whole body is shaking—trembling—with a mix of anger, embarrassment, pain. You never imagined anything could hurt this much, but hearing him say that after you gave him everything? It’s unbearable. 

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Your chest aches, your limbs feel like lead, and nausea presses against the back of your throat. You’re not sure you’ll even make it out of the building without collapsing or throwing up. 

You reach the end of the hall, swing around the corner—and freeze. 

“Wait,” Jake says, eyes wide, coffees in hand. “Let me—” 

“Fuck you,” you snap, voice sharp. “Get out of my way.” 

“Please, just listen. I—” 

“You what?” you cut him off, wiping more tears from your face. “You’re sorry? You didn’t mean it? How the fuck do you even start to fix this, Jake?” 

His mouth opens, then closes. No words come out. He’s frozen, eyes wide and glossy, as if they might fill with tears too. 

“I know I’m not very pretty,” you breathe, voice breaking. “I know I’m not like the other girls you’ve dated. I know you were embarrassed of me when we were kids—but that was then, Jake. Back when you were too young to understand, and I was too naive to know how much it hurt. But this? This is now.” You swallow hard, blinking fast to try and clear your tears. “We’re done. I don’t want anything to do with you. I don’t want to be your dirty little secret. I don’t want to be the girl you’re ashamed to be seen with. I don’t want you in my life. Ever.” 

“No,” he whispers, desperate, almost pleading. “Please… don’t say that.” 

You hold his gaze for a moment, letting it hurt, letting him feel the weight of what he’s done. Then you drop your eyes and shoulder past him. 

“Bye Jake.” 

- Present - 

For some reason, living close to the beach makes you want to be the kind of girl who owns matching workout sets and jogs at sunrise on a Sunday morning. But after digging through your suitcase—still not unpacked—at ten a.m., which is obviously well past sunrise, and finding nothing but a pair of black leggings and a threadbare Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt, you have to admit you’re not that kind of girl. 

Still, you force yourself to get dressed, lace up your shoes, and leave the apartment. You’ve been unpacking boxes for over twenty-four hours now, after giving up on sleep Friday night and needing the distraction all day yesterday. Your hands are covered in little cuts from the carboard edges, the floor is littered with packing paper, and your back is aching from hauling overstuffed boxes. 

You need air. Sunlight. Maybe even human interaction. 

And you need to text Jake. 

You need to apologise, because freaking out on him Friday night was totally uncalled for. Sure, you hadn’t seen him in person for more than ten years, but that doesn’t give you the right to let every feeling you’ve ever had boil over all at once. He was right—it’s been over a decade. You should be over it. You are. You just… felt a lot of feelings when you saw him again for the first time. 

And you want to explain that to him. Tell him that you really don’t hate him, you really are over it. That maybe, you even want to be friends again. 

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t still have feelings for him. Feelings like that don’t just disappear, no matter how badly someone has hurt you. And it isn’t even that night, or the morning after, that lingers the most—like you told him last night—it's everything else. Every year leading up to it. As a kid, you had no idea how much it hurt until you grew up and looked back. Until you realised that the way he treated you is the reason you’ve never felt worth anything. 

That kind of mould doesn’t break easily. 

Even now, you’re still unsure of yourself. Nervous. Self-conscious. Always worrying about what others think. 

But you can’t blame Jake. You can’t hold it against him. He was just a kid too, and he didn’t know any better. His dad was barely around—too busy being an admiral to bother actually fathering his son. And his mom? She was kind but soft. Oblivious to the way her husband cared only about Jake becoming a military man, never about teaching him right from wrong. Jake had to figure that out on his own. 

And you know he was always desperate for his father’s approval. He couldn’t be weak, he couldn’t be truant, he couldn’t fall short. He had to be perfect. With perfect grades and perfect friends. You just didn’t fit in that perfect picture. 

In a twisted kind of way, Jake was almost protecting you. He knew his father didn’t like you—you knew it too. To him, you were a rambunctious child, given too much free will and not enough military discipline. He never said it to your parents—wouldn't dare—but you’d overheard him say it to his wife once or twice. Jake’s mom still loved you, though. 

It’s complicated. Almost too complicated. And that’s why you can’t blame Jake for everything. Yes, he hurt you, and you’ve always needed him to take responsibility for that. But you’ll never blame him. Not completely. 

You can’t. 

You still love him. 

“Watch it,” someone snaps, yanking you out of your thoughts. 

You stumble to the side of the path. “Sorry,” you mutter, breathless. 

A woman jogs past with a small curly white dog that looks like it would rather be anywhere else but tethered to her leash. Her face is twisted into a scowl, eyes flicking over your well-worn sweater like it personally offends her. 

Maybe she’s not a Cowboys fan. 

You shake your head, take a deep breath, and turn to continue your walk. Not jog—because jogging is hard. You could barely breathe after running to the end of your block. 

You’re just about to pull your phone out and start drafting a text to Jake when— 

“Hey.” 

You glance up, and your heart lurches. “Jake?” 

There he is. In all his sweaty glory. Jake Seresin, looking like absolute sin in a pair of gym shorts that would make a nun blush and a tight-fitting t-shirt that makes your fingertips itch to touch it. 

Yeah. Even after all these years, Jake still has the same effect on you. Breathless, frustrated, and a little horny. 

“What—uh, what are you up to this morning?” he asks with a tentative smile. 

“Just thought I’d come out for a jog on the beach,” you say—and immediately regret it. 

Jake knows you. He’s not stupid. You’ve never gone for a jog in your life, and in the decade you spent apart, that hasn’t changed one bit. 

He smirks. “A jog?” 

You tilt your head. “Okay. More of a walk.” 

He nods, eyes dropping to your sweater. “Is... is that mine?” 

You glance down, face burning. “Uh, maybe.” 

There’s a pause. Not awkward, but charged. He keeps staring at the sweatshirt like it’s trying to tell him something, whispering a secret he’s been desperate to hear. A confession. It’s almost unnerving. And the old woman walking past definitely thinks he’s just staring at your tits. 

“Listen, Jake,” you say finally, shifting awkwardly to the side of the path. “I want to say sorry.” 

He blinks, lips twitching. “Sorry for what?” he asks, echoing the words you said to him two nights ago. 

You give him a flat look. “I’m serious. I need to apologise. I shouldn’t have freaked out on you like that.” You pause, clearing your throat. “I know it might not seem like it, but I really am over it. It was just... a lot, seeing you again for the first time.” 

His expression softens, his eyes tracing your face like he’s afraid to miss a single detail. “You don’t need to apologise.” His voice is low, steady. “And you don’t need to be over it. What I did was... horrible. Unforgivable. Not just that morning, but our whole lives.” 

“You were just a kid, Jake.” 

“A kid that should have known better,” he says, brows pinching. “And... a man that should have learnt how to apologise properly and take accountability.” 

You shrug, lips tugging into a small sheepish smile. “I didn’t really give you a chance.” 

“I should have tried harder,” he insists. “I should have slept on your doorstep telling you how sorry I was, how much I needed you. But...” he takes a deep breath, jaw tight, “I’m trying now. And I swear, I’m going to do everything I can to fix this. To make you know how much I care. How much I missed you.” 

His eyes are wide, pleading, overflowing with that emotion you know but still can’t name. The noise of the beach—the gulls, the waves, the chatter—falls away. All you can hear is the pounding of your heart and the echo of his words ringing through your head. 

“Okay,” you mutter, blinking up at him. “So, what now?” 

“Friends,” he says, smiling now. “And promise me you won’t disappear again.” 

“Disappear?” you echo. “Jake, you always knew where I was.” 

He frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, for starters, you texted me at least once a month.” 

“But you didn’t always reply.” 

You roll your eyes. “Okay, but you saw me on those stupid family video calls our parents make us do.” 

“That’s true,” he admits, “but you never spoke.” 

“Alright.” You cross your arms, lips tugging into a small smirk. “I also know you used to call my mom every few months to make sure I was alive. Ask if I was engaged or dating anyone or—God forbid—married.” 

Jake’s eyes go wide. “She told you?” 

“Of course she told me, she’s my mom.” 

He pouts—actually pouts. “She said it was our little secret.” 

You snort. “Yeah, no. Nothing is a secret when it comes to you, Seresin. If Mom had her way, I’d have been walking down the aisle to you the minute I turned eighteen. Pretty sure she’s still holding out hope.” 

Jake’s eyes narrow. “Hope for what?” 

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Us, idiot. You and me, together. God, if we ever told either of our moms that we slept together, they’d have the glory box out and the wedding planner booked in seconds.” 

Jake hesitates, then frowns. “You didn’t—you didn’t tell your mom?” 

“Tell her what?” 

“That we... you know—” He winces. “I just thought that was the kind of thing moms and daughters talked about.” 

“About losing my virginity?!” you hiss, horrified. 

A few passersby glance your way—some curious, some disgusted. One teenage boy—seventeen, maybe—bursts out laughing until his mother swats him on the arm. 

Jake chuckles. “I know it was good, but I’d rather not broadcast it to all of North Island, if that’s okay with you.” 

You freeze—cheeks burning, heart pounding. Good? He thought it was good? For you, of course it was, but for him? You’d expected... mediocre at best. You never imagined he’d still think it was good ten years later. Surely he’s had better sex since then. Surely you don’t even measure up to what he’s experienced since then. 

“Good? It... it was good?” 

His smile falters. “I mean—yeah. It was... really good. Was it not good for you?” 

Your pulse thrums in your throat—and lower. Heat crawls across your skin. How are you having this conversation in the middle of Coronado a decade later? And why is it making your entire body blush? 

“Yeah—of course it was good for me,” you mutter, eyes dropping all the way down to your shoes. “I just didn’t think it would’ve been... for you.” 

He scoffs. “Are you kidding? I still think about that night.” 

The words hit like a spark in dry grass. Your head jerks up, your breath catching, and suddenly all you can hear is your heartbeat. He’s staring at you like he can’t believe what he just admitted, like he’s waiting—pleading—for you to answer. 

But you can’t. How could you? 

It feels like the entire world has narrowed down to the space between your bodies, your chests rising and falling in the same jagged rhythm. Every thought, every impulse, every memory of that night is screaming behind your eyes, but all you can do is hold his gaze. 

He leans in—just a fraction—but it’s enough, and it’s too much. Too close. Too raw. Your stomach twists, your pulse races, and the seconds stretch out into something heavy and electric, until the air between you feels like it could ignite. 

You blink and force an awkward laugh. “Okay, I—uh... we probably shouldn’t talk about this.” 

He laughs too, strained and uncomfortable. “You’re right. We shouldn’t.” 

You hesitate for a moment, then hike your thumb over your shoulder. “Well, I should get back to unpacking.” 

“Of course,” he says, a little too quickly. “I told my friends I’d meet them for coffee so...” 

You step back, as if a few feet of space might stop you from wanting him so badly. “Right, well—um, see you around, I guess.” 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “See you... around.” 

He starts to move past you with a tight smile—but stops. Mid-step, mid-thought. Then he turns to you with an unreadable expression tugging at his features. Something between a frown and a grimace, like he’s physically holding himself back. 

“Come to the bar tonight,” he blurts. 

You lift a brow. “The Hard Deck?” 

“Yeah. It’s trivia night. First Sunday of the month. My squad and I always go. They’re all really competitive, but... it’s fun.” 

“Your whole squad?” 

He nods. “I promise they don’t bite.” 

Your lips twitch. “Not even the tall one with the moustache?” 

His eyes widen just slightly, his jaw tightening. “Don’t even joke.” 

“About what?” you ask, all faux innocence. 

“Flirting with—or, I don’t know, hitting on my friends.” 

His shoulders go rigid, his whole body tense. He looks genuinely annoyed. Whether it’s because he doesn’t want to share his friends—or doesn’t want to share you—you’re not sure. All you know is that you hope it’s the latter. 

You decide to push it. “What if they flirt with me?” 

“They won’t,” he snaps—not harsh, just quick. 

You huff a laugh. “Okay, ouch.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he sighs. “I mean, they probably will flirt with you, but—” He stops himself, brow furrowing, throat working on a swallow. “They’ll like you. Trust me.” 

He looks frustrated, conflicted. Like there’s something he wants to say—something burning to be said—but it’s stuck somewhere in his chest, and he just can’t get it out. 

“Like me?” you echo. 

He nods. “Will you come—please?” 

You hesitate, blinking up at him with a small frown. “Huh. I think this is the first time you’ve asked me to hang out with your friends.” 

“Shit,” Jake mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “I… guess it is.” 

He looks bashful, boyish. Like the kid who used to stay up with you until midnight the night before your birthday, waiting to hand you the most thoughtful present you’d get that year. 

“I’ll come,” you decide. 

His face lights up. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

“Okay, good. It starts at seven. Do you need a lift?” 

You snort. “I’m not getting back in that truck. Ever.” 

Jake slaps a hand to his chest in mock-hurt. “Don’t hate the truck.” 

You roll your eyes despite the smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll meet you there. Now aren’t you late for coffee with your friends or something?” 

“Yeah, I am,” he says, his voice lower, almost disappointed—as if he doesn’t really want to leave. “I’ll see you tonight.” 

You nod. “See you tonight, cowboy.” 

He gives you one last, tight-lipped smile, full of something he isn’t saying, then nods and continues down the path. After a few steps, he breaks into a jog. He risks a glance over his shoulder and almost trips—which makes you giggle. And when he turns his head back around, you shamelessly watch his ass in those criminal little shorts until he’s too far away to see. 

- 

You spend the rest of the day unpacking. And ignoring the growing weight in your chest at the thought of meeting Jake’s squad. 

Because what if they don’t like you? 

Just because you’re older now doesn’t mean you’ve miraculously gained confidence. Sure, you’re a little more self-assured, but most of the time you’re just faking it. Deep down, you still feel like that awkward, unconventional little girl who was never pretty enough to stand in the middle of the class picture. Or make it into the yearbook. Or get asked to prom. 

Well, technically, Jake did ask you to prom. He’d already graduated, but he offered to take you to yours. You were flattered—of course you were—and you wanted to say yes, but you knew it was just out of pity. You knew he didn’t really want to take you. That he wouldn’t know how to explain to his friends why he was taking his weird little family friend to prom. 

So you told him it was fine. That you had a date already. 

You lied. 

Jake only found out that you’d gone alone years later, when you told him in college—the night everything changed. The night you lost your virginity. 

You were at a frat party, overwhelmed and uncomfortable, when Jake texted you to meet him in the quad by his dorm. So you went. Talked. Laughed. Reminisced. Slipped back into the easy rhythm of sharing secrets the way you used to when you were kids. When you’d build blanket forts and whisper to each other past bedtime. 

You don’t remember exactly how it came up, but somehow you ended up talking about prom. Jake was telling you some ridiculous story about one of his friends—the last in the group to lose his virginity—who was determined to make prom night his big moment. And that’s when you decided to tell him two of your own secrets. 

The first was that you’d gone to prom alone, and you apologised for lying to him about it. He was a little upset that you'd had to spend prom night all by yourself, but he didn’t hold the lie against you. 

And the second? You admitted that you were still a virgin. And while it wasn’t all that unusual for a college freshman not to have lost their virginity yet, you were still aching to know what it would feel like. 

The air shifted then—suddenly charged, crackling like static before a storm. You could feel the way his body moved even though he wasn’t touching you. Your pulse was too fast, your skin too warm, every nerve on high alert. 

The memory of that night is a blur now, more feeling than detail. What you do remember is Jake kissing you. Touching you. Taking you up to his dorm and making you see stars. 

Then... the morning after. And heartbreak. 

Even though it hurts to think about it, you still do. Often. Because even though you’ve slept with other people since then—good, attractive people—Jake is the best you’ve ever had. And you worry that he always will be. There was something deeper about that connection, something woven into your souls. Like he knew your body better than you did. Like you just fit together. Every touch was electric, every breath magnified. He was gentle but commanding, coaxing and generous. God, you think about that night way more than you should. 

And sometimes you wish you hadn’t done it—because maybe then you wouldn’t still be tethered to him, even now. Maybe you’d have a chance at moving on. But the truth is, you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Because no matter what came after, despite all the fallout and all the ache… it’s still the best night of your life. 

The sharp ping of your phone bounces off the tiled bathroom walls. Your thoughts scatter, memories dissolving, and you inhale too fast, too shallow. It’s almost time to leave, but you’ve been frozen in the mirror for at least five minutes now, still debating whether to put lip gloss on. 

Your phone pings again, and you glance down. 

JAKE: Let me know when you’re here. 

JAKE: We’re at a table just inside the main doors, to the left. 

You draw another deep breath, longer this time, and tuck your phone into the pocket of your jeans. You smooth your palms down your thighs, give your reflection one last searching look, then grab your jacket, slip on your shoes, and force yourself out the door. 

The Uber ride to the bar is too quick. There’s hardly enough time to quiet your nerves or breathe through the knot in your chest. And before you’re ready, you’re walking up the sandy steps to The Hard Deck’s front doors. 

You hesitate before pushing them open, hand hovering, and tell yourself to keep it together. It’s just Jake. Just Jake’s friends. Just a bunch of incredibly skilled, ridiculously smart, and unfairly attractive fighter pilots. Not intimidating at all. Right? 

“Hey!” Jake calls the second you step through the door, like he’d been waiting all day just to see you. 

His friends, all crowded around the table, snicker and exchange knowing glances. 

“Hey,” you greet, reaching them in only a few strides. 

Jake pushes to his feet. “Guys, this is—” 

“We know,” the moustached one cuts in with a grin. “You’ve been talking about her nonstop for the past fifteen minutes.” 

Jake shoots him a flat look. “Thanks, Rooster.” 

You laugh softly, eyes darting around the group of—quite honestly—obnoxiously attractive people. 

“That’s Bradley,” Jake tells you, “or Rooster. Then there’s Mickey—Fanboy—Reuben, or Payback, Javy, also known as Coyote, Natasha, who’s also Phoenix, and Bob.” 

You blink. “Bob?” 

Bob smiles softly. “Just Bob.” 

You turn back to Jake. “What’s your nickname again? I can’t remember.” 

“Bagman,” Natasha answers before he can, smirking. 

You press your lips together to keep from laughing. 

“It’s Hangman,” Jake says, narrowing his eyes at her. 

You grimace. “Yeah, that’s not much better.” Then you pull out the empty chair beside Bradley. “But it’s fitting, at least.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs and muffled laughter from the table as Jake’s jaw tightens, his cheeks flushing the faintest shade of pink. You bite back a smile and settle into your seat, trying not to look at him as he drops into the chair on your other side. 

“So, let me get this straight,” Natasha says, leaning forward. “You’ve known Bagman for… how long?” 

 “Met him before I was even an hour old,” you reply. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” Bradley mutters into his beer. 

Natasha’s eyes widen. “I have so many questions.” 

You risk a glance at Jake—and heat rushes to your cheeks when you catch his eyes already on you. “And I have answers.”  

“No you don’t,” he says firmly, pinning you with his gaze. 

“Yes, she does,” Bradley cuts in, draping his arm across the back of your chair. “And I, for one, can’t wait to hear them.” 

You turn toward Bradley, eyes tracing the sharp lines of his profile. He’s handsome—that’s for sure—and the moustache is criminally hot, even though it shouldn’t be. He could be your type, if you had a type that existed outside of Jake Seresin. And he gives off that flirty, fun, no-strings-attached kind of energy that most people probably mistake for genuine interest. But the only thing you’re genuinely interested in is getting under Jake’s skin, and if the look he’s giving Bradley for draping his arm over the back of your chair is any indication, this is the perfect target to flirt with. 

Not that you’re trying to cause any real drama. You would never. You’re just… testing the boundaries of this new dynamic. Seeing if Jake really means it when he says he wants to be friends again. Making sure his words weren’t empty, and that he genuinely wants to fix things between you. 

And okay—maybe you have a little something to prove. Maybe you want to prove that you are desirable. Flirty. Fun. That you can hold your own with someone as charming and attractive as Bradley. It’s not even about Jake—well, not entirely. It’s about proving it to yourself. About believing it. 

“Our team’s called The Wingmen,” Bradley says, nodding toward the papers in the middle of the table. 

You squint to see the team name written at the top of each sheet. One sheet per round, ten questions—ten answers. And since Natasha is the only one with a pen in front of her, you’re guessing she’s the scribe. 

“The Wingmen?” you echo. 

“Yeah.” He tilts his head toward you. “When we fly, whoever’s second in formation is called the wingman. They cover our six, make sure no one gets in trouble.” 

“Oh.” You nod slowly, lips twitching. “So, nothing to do with helping each other get laid or anything like that.” 

Bradley’s lips curl into a smirk, his mahogany eyes sparkling under the dim bar lights. “No,” he chuckles, “nothing like that. But something tells me you don’t need much help in that department.” 

You arch a brow. “That so?” 

He nods. “In fact, I don’t think you’d have to do much more than flash that pretty smile to get me into—” 

“All right, North Island!” Penny’s voice crackles through the mic. “Welcome to The Hard Deck’s trivia night. We’ve got teams all over the place tonight—and some new faces—but I’m assuming you all know the rules.” 

There’s a soft round of applause, and you swivel in your seat to see her standing in front of the bar.  

“No phones, or your team will be penalised,” she goes on. “Write your answers on the answer sheets, then bring them up at the end of the round. My lovely assistants Amelia and Pete will be marking and tallying scores.” 

Across the table from you, Mickey whistles, and the rest of the squad whoop and clap. 

Bradley leans in again. “That’s Maverick. Our CO. He’s dating Penny—and that’s her daughter.” 

You raise your brows. “Go Penny.” 

Bradley’s eyes widen, a grin tugging at his lips. “Did you just call my godfather hot?” 

“Godfather?” you echo. 

He nods. 

“Guess it runs in the family, then,” you say with a small smirk. 

He chuckles, colour blooming across his cheeks. “Smooth. But we’re not technically related.” 

“It worked, though,” you point out. “You’re blushing.” 

He shakes his head, laughing under his breath again as Penny rattles off all the categories for the night—movies, music, geography, history, science, literature, and pop culture. Then she tells everyone they’ve got five minutes to grab a drink, put their phones away, and get ready for round one. 

When you turn back to the table, you can feel Jake’s stare burning into the side of your face. 

You glance at him, brows raised. “What?” 

His shoulders are tight, jaw set, brow furrowed. “Nothing,” he mutters through his teeth. 

You tilt your head. “Doesn’t look like nothing.” 

His eyes flick past you, just for a second—toward Bradley—and they narrow slightly before snapping back to yours. 

“It’s nothing,” he insists, even though he sounds anything but convincing. 

“Okay,” Natasha cuts in before you can push further. “You all know the rules. Use your inside voices. Don’t yell out the answers—I’m looking at you, Fanboy. If you’re certain you’re right but someone disagrees, swear on Bob’s life. If you think you’re right but not totally sure, swear on Hangman’s life. And if you need to check your phone, take it outside, but don’t bother coming back until the round’s over. I’m not getting penalised because of you idiots.” 

“Wow,” you murmur, leaning just slightly toward Bradley. “She’s competitive.” 

“You have no idea,” he says quietly, his arm brushing yours as he leans closer. 

On your other side, Jake clears his throat—loudly. 

Natasha’s eyes cut toward him. “Something to add, Bagman?” 

He straightens quickly. “No—sorry. Just… something stuck in my throat.” 

She frowns, sceptical, but doesn’t push it—she just launches back into her speech about why everyone needs to focus tonight. Apparently, they broke their winning streak last month, and second place isn’t good enough. According to Natasha, second place is just the first to lose. 

It isn’t long before Penny returns to the mic to kick off the first round, and the buzz of conversation dulls to a low hum. Even the patrons not playing seem invested as she starts reading out questions. 

“Which 2005 sci-fi thriller directed by Steven Spielberg grossed over six hundred million worldwide?” 

“Ooh,” Mickey says, leaning across the table. “War of the Worlds.” 

“You sure?” Natasha asks. 

He nods vigorously. 

“Wasn’t it like… a Star Wars movie or something?” Reuben pipes up. 

Mickey’s head snaps toward him, eyes wide. “Spielberg didn’t direct a fucking Star Wars movie, you idiot.” 

Reuben just shrugs. “Yeah, but War of The Worlds kinda sucked.” 

“Just because you didn’t like it doesn’t mean it bombed,” Bob mutters. “It’s a sci-fi classic.” 

“I’m with Payback,” Javy chimes in. “I didn’t really like that main guy—what’s his name again?” 

“Oh my God,” Natasha hisses, smacking both hands on the table. “This isn’t a film critique. Fanboy—are you sure that’s the right answer?” 

Mickey nods again, and Natasha scribbles it down on the sheet. 

“Okay,” Penny calls over the chatter, “question number two: which actor played Jack Dawson in the 1997 film Titanic?” 

Beside you, Bradley scoffs. “Way too easy.” 

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Familiar with your heartthrob actors, are you?” 

“I had to learn from somewhere,” he shoots back with a smirk. 

Your eyes narrow. “Did you just call yourself a heartthrob?” 

He opens his mouth to retort, eyes sparkling, when— 

“Can you two shut up?” Jake hisses, leaning forward with a glare. 

Your brows pinch, indignation rising in your chest, but before you can fire back Penny is already on the mic with question number three. 

The rest of round one passes in a blur. Mickey and Bob field most of the answers—apparently the group’s film buffs—while you sit and quietly overanalyse every detail of Jake’s body language. Every muttered word. Every sidelong glance. He hasn’t smiled once since you sat down. Not since you slid into the seat beside Bradley and started innocently chatting. 

When round two begins, you quickly realise that Javy and Reuben are the squad’s main music enthusiasts—because they’re already whispering answers to Natasha before Penny even finishes the question. 

“Which song by American singer-songwriter Kenny Loggins was made famous by the 1986 film—” 

“Danger Zone,” Reuben cuts in under his breath, and Javy nods 

Natasha writes it down without hesitation and then slides the answer sheet toward Mickey—who is apparently the volunteer runner for the night. And just like that, round two is over. 

“So,” you say, glancing at Bradley, “what happens if we lose?” 

His eyes go wide as he drops his empty beer bottle on the table. “Don’t say that too loudly, or Phoenix will kick you out just for jinxing us.” 

Heat creeps into your cheeks, and you glance across the table to make sure she didn’t hear. 

“We came second last month—by one point,” Bradley explains, lowering his voice. “She blamed Bob because he swore on his life that orcas are whales. They’re called killer whales, right? But Nix knew it had to be a trick. She still wrote down whale anyway… and turns out, they’re dolphins.” 

Your brows lift. “Dolphins?” 

He nods. “Yep. She didn’t speak to him for a week—and he’s her back-seater. They literally have to fly together every day.” 

You huff a laugh. “That’s actually kind of impressive.” 

“Incredibly impressive,” Bradley agrees with a smirk. 

You open your mouth to press him further about Natasha’s competitive streak when the loud scrape of chair legs on hardwood cuts you off. You whip around to face Jake, who’s now standing with his chair shoved roughly back. 

“Anyone want a drink?” he asks, his voice clipped. 

Bradley, Javy, and Mickey all take him up on the offer, and just as he’s about to walk away, you reach out and grab his hand. 

He freezes mid-step, turning back slowly. 

“Could you get me one too, please?” you ask. 

His gaze drops to your hand curled around his, and his expression softens. “Yeah,” he mutters, “of course.” 

He clears his throat, but doesn’t let go right away. He lets his hand linger in yours for as long as both your arms will allow, and when he finally lets go, your skin burns with the memory of his warmth. 

“Wow,” Javy chuckles. 

You turn back to face the table. “What?” 

The whole table looks like they’re holding back a smile or a laugh, each one of them eyeing you carefully—like they’ve been warned to keep their mouths shut. 

“Nothing,” Natasha says before anyone else can crack. “It’s just—he’s different with you.” 

Your cheeks burn. “Oh.” 

“Not in a bad way,” she adds quickly. “Just... softer.” 

You open your mouth to ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean when Penny’s suddenly back on the mic, announcing the start of round three. Jake returns a minute later with a tray full of drinks and sets it in the middle of the table, completely oblivious to the way you can’t take your eyes off the strain of his t-shirt sleeves around his biceps.  

“Alright, geography time,” Penny says into the mic. “First question: what is the highest mountain peak in North America?” 

“Denali,” Mickey replies almost too quickly. 

Natasha narrows her eyes. “I don’t trust you. How do you know that?” 

His cheeks flush the faintest shade of pink. “I just do.” 

Reuben leans forward. “You sure, man? Geography isn’t your strongest—” 

“Yes,” Mickey snaps. “I’m sure. Swear on Bob’s life.” 

Natasha’s brows shoot up. “Bob’s life—you sure about that?” 

“You better be sure,” Bob mutters. “I’m not dying just because—” 

“It’s in Twilight, okay?” Mickey hisses through his teeth. “There’s a vampire coven in Denali, Alaska—also known as Mount McKinley. Highest point in North America.” 

Bob’s eyes widen. “You’re gambling my life on Twilight knowledge?” 

Reuben snorts. “You’ve watched Twilight?” 

“I read them, actually,” Mickey mutters, sinking lower in his chair. 

“Oh my God,” Natasha sighs. “Does anyone have a credible answer for this?” 

The table falls quiet, the mic crackling softly as Penny lifts it to her chin again. 

“Fuck it,” Natasha mutters. “You better be right, Garcia.” 

She scribbles it down and shoots Mickey a pointed look—one that says if this loses us the game, you’re dead. 

“Okay, question number two,” Penny announces. “What is the capital of Australia?” 

“Sydney,” Javy says immediately. 

You lean forward. “Actually, it’s Canberra.” 

Natasha frowns, pen hovering. “You sure?” 

You nod. “It’s one of the most commonly mistaken trivia questions. I got it wrong once, and now I’ll never forget it.”  

“Nice,” she says, flashing you a smile before writing it down. 

You lean back, taking a long sip of your drink to hide your smile—because of course you’re a little smug about finally getting to answer a question. 

“Not bad,” Bradley murmurs, leaning in just a little. “Didn’t have you pegged as a geography nerd.” 

You roll your eyes, a smirk tugging at your lips. “I’m not. But at least I’m contributing. You haven’t answered a single one yet.” 

He shrugs. “Trivia’s not my strong suit.” 

“Then what is?” 

His grin spreads slow, all confidence and ridiculous sex appeal. “Charisma. Good looks.” 

“Ohhh.” You nod with mock seriousness. “So you’re the hot but incredibly unhelpful friend?” 

His brows lift. “You think I’m hot?” 

You meet his gaze, unflinching, voice dropping lower. “You know you’re hot.” 

“But you just admitted it.” 

“Must be all that charisma of yours working.” 

For a beat, you just stare at each other. Both smirking, both daring. It isn’t charged the way things with Jake are—not even close. Those moments are heavy, weighted with everything unsaid. This is lighter. Just fun. Just banter between friends—or potential friends. And Bradley is charismatic, it’s hard not to flirt a little. 

Then— 

The harsh scrape of chair legs on hardwood—again. 

You whip around, startled, but this time Jake’s already gone. And when you spin toward the door, you only just catch the back of him as he stalks out into the night. 

“Uh oh,” Javy mutters. 

Bradley winces. “Shit.” 

“I’ll—um—” you push your chair back gently, “I’ll go make sure he’s—yeah.” 

You slip away as quietly as you can, ducking your head to avoid everyone’s eyes as you follow the same path as Jake out the doors. 

The night air hits cooler than you expect. The sun’s almost gone now, and the sky is a swirl of deep blue and fading orange that’s getting darker by the second, making the poorly lit car park feel a lot sketchier than it had an hour ago. 

Jake is only a few feet ahead, his head bowed and hands shoved as deep into his pockets as they’ll go.  

“Hey,” you call, lengthening your stride to catch up with him. “Jake.” 

He slips between two cars, and you can hear the jingle of keys. 

“Jake,” you try again, louder this time. 

He ignores you. 

“Jake!” you all but shout, trailing him until he finally stops—until he has no choice but to acknowledge you. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

He spins around, jaw set, brow furrowed. “What the fuck am I doing? What are you doing?” 

You rear back, stunned. “I—I’m… playing trivia and talking to your friends.” 

He scoffs. “You’re not talking. You’re flirting.” 

Your brows shoot up. “Seriously?” 

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t soften. He just pins you in place with those green eyes—so clouded with emotion they almost look black in the dim light.  

“Okay, firstly,” you say, folding your arms, “that was barely flirting. And secondly, who are you to tell me who I can and can’t flirt with?” 

He blinks, almost like he’s buffering. “I’m not—I just… they’re my friends.” 

You snort. “Right. They’re your friends, so they can’t be my friends.” 

“What? No—no, that’s not what I’m saying. They can be your friends, they just—” he hesitates, drawing in a sharp breath, “they can’t be your… boyfriends.” 

“Boyfriends?” you echo, incredulous. “I mean, I don’t usually juggle more than one at a time, but…” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as you stare up at his stupidly perfect face—then you shake your head hard. “Look, if you’re trying to look out for me, or whatever—I’m sorry, you missed out on the whole protective older brother act when you ignored me for most of my teenage years.” 

His expression falters, eyes going wide. “Brother act?” 

“Yes.” You huff. “And I get it—you’ve known me since we were kids, and maybe you think you need to protect me. But we’re adults now, Jake. I can flirt with who I want, date who I want, without needing anyone’s permission or approval.” 

The air hangs thick between you, your chest is rising and falling faster than it should beneath your tightly crossed arms. Jake just stares, brow furrowed, jaw clenched like he’s physically biting back the words he really wants to say. 

“You think I’m being… protective?” he says finally. 

“Well, obviously.” You drop your arms. “If your friends are off-limits, just say that. But for the record, that was barely flirting. It was friendly banter.” 

His brows shoot up, and he takes a half-step back like you’ve knocked the breath out of him. “Banter?” he echoes. “If that’s not flirting, then you are way more dangerous than you realise. You just—” He cuts himself off, eyes squeezing shut as he sucks in another sharp breath. “You don’t get it, do you?” 

“Get what?” 

“Come on,” he sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re smart. You can figure it out.” 

“Figure out what?” You throw your hands up in frustration. “Why are you being so weird and cryptic?”  

“Because I’m jealous!” he blurts, his voice sharp, almost desperate. “I’m not being protective, or trying to keep you away from my friends… I—I’m jealous.” He drags a hand down his face. “I’m jealous of every single person you look at that isn’t me. I’m jealous of everyone you’ve been with since me. I’m jealous of all the people who got to know you in the last ten years while I—while I did nothing but miss you. While I wished I had the balls to tell you back then that I—I’m… that I’m in love with you. And no amount of distance or time is ever going to change that.” 

You’re almost sure your heart stops—if it weren’t for the deafening pound of your pulse in your ears. Your chest tightens, breath catching. All you can do is stare at him, his words stretching taut between you, heavy with everything unsaid and far too much that was said. 

“Jake…” you whisper, voice barely audible. “You’re not—” 

“Don’t—” He steps closer, eyes burning. “Don’t tell me how I feel. Because I have always known that I would love you forever—I just didn’t know how much until it was too late.” 

Heat crawls up your neck, nerves prickling every inch of skin. Your limbs feel weightless, numb—you don’t even know how you’re still standing. But you are. 

“Okay.” You nod slowly, pulling in a shaky breath. “I’m not trying to invalidate how you think you feel, but Jake… I’m not stupid. I know I’ve changed—I worked really hard to change, to feel better about myself. But just because I look better now doesn’t mean—” 

“Not better,” he cuts in, quick and firm. “Just… different. But you’re still the same girl I grew up with. The same girl I’ve always loved. And it’s never been about how you look—God, I wish I never let it be about that. Because I—I’ve always thought you were beautiful. Always. I was just too chickenshit to tell you. To tell anyone. Except—” he huffs a broken laugh, running his hand through his hair again, “I think I told my mom one Christmas when I got drunk and started rambling about how much I missed you. And maybe I wrote it in a journal once, because I read somewhere that journalling helps—but, fuck, please don’t tell anyone about that.” His voice cracks. “I just… I don’t know what to do.” 

When his gaze finally finds yours again, his eyes are shining—brimming with sincerity, with emotion threatening to spill over. 

“I’ve only had you back for a few days, but I can’t lose you again,” he murmurs, voice low and breaking. “Not because you hate me. Not to anyone else. I—I feel like I’m going insane. I can’t just be your friend. I can try, but I can’t lie. I can’t pretend I’m not in love with you, that I haven’t been for most of my life.” 

Your breath catches, your chest heaving, and for a long, trembling moment you just stare at him. Everything he’s said, everything you’ve felt but buried, it’s too much. Too heavy. Too dangerous to keep shoving down. It slams into you all at once, leaving you reeling, until standing still feels impossible. 

Your hands move before your brain can catch up—fisting in the collar of his shirt, yanking him down until his mouth crashes against yours. The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s a collision, sharp and searing, years of silence and longing tearing wide open in the span of a heartbeat. 

He gasps against you, as if this—finally kissing you again—was more than he ever allowed himself to hope for. 

And then he’s devouring you—hands clutching your waist as you surge forward, pressing flush against his chest, arms locking around his neck. He’s solid, warm, unrelenting, his lips claiming yours with a desperation you’ve never known—but that you answer in kind, matching him with every ounce of ferocity you’ve held back for far too long. 

The taste of him is dizzying. Familiar, foreign, forbidden. Like a drug you swore off years ago but were never truly free of—one hit and you know you’ll never stop craving. 

His tongue grazes your bottom lip—hesitant, pleading—before slipping past your lips as you part them for him, and the sound he makes deep in his chest has heat flooding your veins. His grip is bruising, desperate, like if he lets go for even a second, you’ll vanish. 

You want everything. All of him. Every piece he’s kept hidden. You want to take until there’s nothing left, until he’s burned into you so deep you’ll never know where you end and he begins. It feels ridiculous to admit while making out in the middle of a half-lit car park, but it’s truer than anything you’ve ever known. 

“Need you,” you breathe against his mouth, your lips brushing his with every word. “Jake, I need you.” 

His hands slide higher, spanning your ribs, pulling you tight against him like he could weld you together. “‘M so sorry,” he murmurs raggedly. “You have—you have no idea how sorry—” 

You catch his bottom lip between your teeth, silencing him with a sharp tug that rips a groan from his throat. “Stop apologising,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “It was over a decade ago.” 

He pulls back suddenly, brows pinched, lips swollen and kiss-bruised. “Don’t say that. I was... I was horrible. You deserve so much better than me. I don’t even know why you just kissed—” 

“Because I love you too.” 

He gasps—literally gasps—green eyes wide as they search your face for any trace of insincerity. 

“I mean,” you sigh, eyes dropping to where your fingers are twisted in his shirt, “you have no idea how much I’ve wished I didn’t over the past ten years, but...” you meet his gaze again, “I do.” 

His lips twitch. “You love me?” 

You nod. “You, cowboy.” 

You only catch a glimpse of the breathtaking grin that splits across his face before he’s kissing you again. Hot and urgent, every apology and unspoken word pouring out in the way his mouth moves against yours. 

One arm bands tight around your waist while the other slides up your side—over the swell of your breast, your chest, until his fingers settle at the base of your neck. And the lightest curl of pressure there makes a breathy moan break from your throat. 

He smiles against your lips, tightening his hold until your body is crushed against his, your lungs fighting for air. You can feel every line of him—solid muscle and heat—and the rigid press of his cock straining against your hip. 

You can’t help but roll your hips into him, drawing a groan from his throat. 

“Careful, darlin’,” he murmurs, that country drawl thick and low. “Or we won’t make it home.” 

Your lips drag across his jaw, down the curve of his neck, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against hot skin. 

“I don’t wanna wait anymore,” you whisper. 

His breath stutters. “What d’you mean?” 

You pull back and meet his eyes. “Get in the truck.” 

He just stares, stunned, eyes wide and unreadable. 

“What?” you ask, frowning. 

He shakes his head quickly. “Nothing, I—” He scans your face again, like he’s half-convinced this is some kind of cruel joke. “I thought you hated the truck.” 

You roll your eyes as you slip your hand into his pocket, fingers moving deliberately slow. He gasps again, startled, and you can’t help but laugh softly as you fish out his keys and turn toward the truck. 

“Why don’t you give me a reason to love the truck, then?” 

He hesitates for a moment, like his brain short-circuited and needs to reboot—but then he snatches the keys from your hand and quickly unlocks the door. 

You’re giggling again when he spins back around, arms wrapping tight as his lips find yours without hesitation. He pulls you close, stumbling backward until the backs of his legs hit the rocker panel. Then, lips never leaving yours, he pivots you both until you've got your back to the truck. 

“Ready?” he murmurs, his hands clamped at your waist. 

You barely have time to nod before he lifts you, setting you inside—and only then do his lips leave yours. You scoot back across the bench until you’re nearly against the passenger door, and Jake reaches down to jerk the seat lever, shoving it as far back as it will go—before climbing in after you. 

You bite your lip, sliding down until your elbows sink into the cracked leather seat. Jake crawls forward, yanking the door shut behind him. His broad frame devouring the space you thought would be enough—but still, it’s perfect. 

The cramped cab forces every inch of him against you. One knee slips between your thighs, the other planted at the edge of the seat as he hovers over you. Instinctively, your body arches to meet his. You wind your arms around his neck and fall back until you’re lying flat, dragging him with you. His hands brace on either side of you, arms taut and trembling with the effort of holding himself up in the tight space. 

His lips meet yours slower this time, gentler, like he's trying to memorise the taste of you. Trying to burn the shape of your mouth into his with every slow brush and lazy flick of his tongue. His weight sinks heavier with each breathless whimper you give, like your voice alone is enough to undo him. 

One hand glides down your side, curling beneath your lower back and pressing you closer, moulding you to him. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging lightly as he exhales against your lips. 

“God, I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, mouth trailing across your jaw, “every day,” his lips ghost your skin, “for the past decade.” 

You tilt your head as he works lower, his mouth hot and insistent against your throat, heat coiling deep in your belly. 

“Making out in your truck?” you manage, the words faltering when his teeth catch at your collarbone. 

“No.” His voice roughens, vibrating against your skin. “You.” 

His hips grind forward, the solid line of him hard beneath denim, pulling a desperate arch from your body—seeking more friction, more heat, more him. Your hands roam his shoulders, down his arms, feeling the tension ripple in his muscles as he moves against you, each motion frantic and aching. 

His arm slips out from beneath you, hand trailing down the curve of your hip, dragging over your thigh as you rock into him, chasing every scrap of pressure. Breathless, your mouths crash together again—teeth clashing, tongues tangling, daring each other closer. 

“Fuck, you’re… perfect,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough, low, heavy. 

You arch harder, hands sliding down his chest until your fingers hook into the waistband of his jeans. “Jake… I wanna—” Your words break on a gasp when his hips grind down again. 

He groans, deep and raw, his grip locking on your waist to pull you flush as he rolls into you, slow and deliberate. Every drag, every shift leaves you unravelling, thoughts dissolving in the haze of touch. 

“Tell me what you want, darlin’.” His accent thickens with heat, each word heavy, edged. 

“Don’t… stop,” you breathe, lips brushing his jaw, voice caught between plea and command. 

“I’m not,” he rasps, eyes locked to yours with an intensity that makes your knees tremble. “Never stopping.” 

Your hand drifts lower, cupping the length of him through the denim, and his groan breaks rough, forehead dropping against yours. You tilt your head to catch his mouth, nipping at his lower lip as your fingers tighten around his shape of him through his jeans. 

“Fuck,” he chokes. 

His hips jerk forward, chasing your hand, chasing friction. You drag your palm over him again before fumbling with his belt, yanking it free of the loops. 

“I thought we were just making out,” he mutters, breath harsh, voice thick. 

“And I thought you said you weren’t stopping,” you counter, your lips grazing the line of his jaw. 

His breath falters as you finally work his belt loose, fingers moving quick over the button and zipper before shoving his jeans down his hips. Then your palm finds him again—this time only thin cotton in the way—and his head drops to your shoulder on a ragged exhale. 

“We should be quick,” you whisper. “Before we get caught.” 

He lifts his head, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed. “Trust me, baby. ‘M not gonna last long.” 

You grin up at him—dopey, lovesick, and not caring in the slightest. Because you’ve thought about this man every day for the last decade. You’ve missed him, loved him, cursed yourself for it. And now? Now you know you’ll never want anyone the way you want him. 

And you believe him when he says he loves you—how could you not, when he’s looking at you like this? Lips bitten, eyes glassy, devotion and sin bound together in one. 

“Then what are we waiting for?” you ask, your hands already at your own jeans. 

You fumble the button and zip, then lift yourself just enough to shimmy them down. Jake shifts above you, trying to give you space even as he shoves his own pants down to his ankles. Both of you are panting, breath fogging the warm cab, condensation gathering at the windows. 

You kick one foot free, leaving your jeans tangled around the other leg—just enough to move, just enough to hook your thighs around his hips and drag him down to you. His briefs are still on, straining painfully tight over the thick line of his cock. 

Your arms lock around his neck as his lips crash back onto yours. Urgent now, rushed, but still reverent—like he’s trying to worship even in the hunger. His teeth catch your lower lip as his hips grind into yours, the heat of him pressed hard against your bare core. 

You gasp at the friction, dizzy with it. You shouldn’t be this far gone after a handful of desperate kisses, but you are—soaked and aching, sprawled in the cab of Jake’s old truck, seconds away from begging him to fuck you. 

“Do you need—” His words cut off the moment his hand slips between your thighs, fingers dragging through your slick. 

You gasp at his touch, back arching, eyes fluttering shut. “No,” you pant. “Just—just need you.” 

He groans into your mouth, the kiss hot and desperate—searing, then gone too soon. You chase his lips as he pulls back, earning a low, rough chuckle that vibrates in his chest. Through half-lidded eyes, you watch him shove his briefs down and wrap his hand around himself—thick, aching, already slick at the tip. 

You’ve seen him before—of course—but it still knocks the breath from you. Still makes your mouth water. Still makes your body clench and flutter, helpless in its need for him. 

You whine—actually whine. “Jake—” 

“I know, baby,” he coos, eyes flicking up to catch yours. 

His face is flushed, lips red and swollen, pupils blown so wide the green is barely there. You drink him in, your gaze darting over every detail, before dropping lower—down to where his hand is wrapped around himself, poised just above you. He strokes once, slow. Twice, sharper. Then his hips dip, lining himself up. 

“You ready?” he murmurs. 

You tighten your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him in. His breath stutters as he presses forward, the swollen tip sliding against your slick heat. 

“So fucking wet,” he groans, eyes falling shut. 

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the closeness—the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, the dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him, here, now, inside. 

For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really. Eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders, clenching around him like you’re trying to hold him there forever. He buries his face in your neck, breath hot against your damp skin. 

Then he shifts above you, hips rocking back, his cock dragging against your walls, making your stomach coil and electricity spark across your skin. You draw a sharp, shaky breath—and before you can brace yourself, he snaps forward, thrusting deep. 

“Fuck—” you cry out. “Jake.” 

“Shh,” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear. “Don’t want anyone to hear us, darlin’.” 

“What if I don’t wanna be quiet?” you whisper. 

His hips roll back with a controlled slowness, his head lifting to meet your gaze. “Then ‘m gonna have to make you be quiet.” 

Anticipation coils tight in your chest, a dangerous current coursing through your veins, lighting every nerve ending on fire. 

Then his hips slam forward again—and again—rougher now, losing restraint. Your whole body jolts with each thrust, and you moan—loud, too loud. The sound bounces around the small cab, a filthy echo that anyone passing by could hear. 

“Darlin’,” he growls, warning thick in his tone. 

You can’t help but grin, dizzy and cock-drunk, bouncing beneath him as his hips piston into you, finding that perfect spot every damn time. 

The sound is obscene—skin on skin, slick and messy, perfect. His pelvis smacks yours in a brutal, intoxicating rhythm. Your arousal coats him, dripping down your thighs and onto the leather seat—but still, it’s not enough. You want more. You want everything. 

“Jake,” you pant, “touch me.” 

A guttural sound rips from his chest. His arms shake as he shifts his weight, one hand slipping between your bodies to find your clit. The pressure is immediate, devastating, and your vision whites out as a sound bordering on a scream tears free. 

“Baby,” he chokes, thrusts faltering as you clamp down around him, “you gotta keep it down.” 

His words are useless. You moan again, clawing at his back, dragging his shirt up so you can feel his skin, the roll of muscle as he drives into you. The friction is perfect, the heat unbearable—building fast, sharp and coiled, like lightning in your spine. 

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries. He grunts against your shoulder, biting back his own noises, panting as his hips slam into you at a punishing pace. Your head bumps the passenger door with each thrust—just barely—but you’ll worry about the concussion tomorrow. 

The weight of his body on yours is perfect—too much, and not nearly enough. You wish there were no clothes between you, that you could strip him slowly, taking your time to worship every inch of his skin—but there’ll be time for that later. 

Right now, you just need to come before trivia ends. 

“Jake—fuck—” you choke as his fingers press down on your clit. 

Your hips buck up to meet his, chasing the friction, the pressure, the rhythm he’s setting. His touch doesn’t falter—circling, pressing, coaxing that little bundle of nerves with almost cruel precision. Every movement sends jolts of pleasure ricocheting up your spine. The knot in your belly pulls tight, your arousal making a mess between your bodies, your orgasm rushing in hot and fast.  

“Jake, ‘m gonna—” 

“I know, baby,” he mutters against your neck, voice rough and wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?” 

That’s all it takes. Your body locks up, back arching, legs trembling, hips grinding desperately to meet his thrusts. He slams into that spot over and over again, relentless, while his fingers work your clit—slick, practiced, merciless. You cry out, the sound strangled and raw. 

Your orgasm tears through you like a live wire, white-hot and all-consuming. Your walls flutter and clench around his cock, dragging a hoarse, broken moan from him as his thrusts falter. He spills inside you, shuddering, his whole body seizing above yours. 

The two of you pant through it, chests heaving, grinding lazily to ride out every last wave. Clinging, shaking, sweat-slicked and breathless and undone. 

Eventually, he collapses fully, face buried against your shoulder. The weight of him presses down heavy, making it hard to breathe—but you don’t mind, not when you can feel his heartbeat thundering against your chest, steady and real.  

“Sorry,” he mutters, shifting slightly. “You okay?” 

You blink up at the windshield—completely fogged, opaque. You couldn’t see out even if you wanted to. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m okay. You?” 

He sits up, bowing his head—thanks to the low roof—as he tucks himself back into his briefs.  

“I’m more than okay,” he says with that signature little smirk. 

Heat floods your cheeks, your face burning impossibly hot in the sauna you’ve both created in the cab.  

“Good,” you say, smiling like a lovesick idiot as you prop yourself up on your elbows. 

Jake somehow wrestles his jeans back up his legs and then moves to help with yours. He catches your ankle and guides your foot through the loose pant leg before shimmying them higher, both of you dissolving into giggles as you writhe on the bench until you can finally button them at your waist.  

“You look a little...” His eyes gleam wickedly. “Freshly fucked.” 

You snort. “Funny that.” 

You shift until you’re side by side, neither of you ready to leave the hot box of sex and condensation you’ve created.  

“Do you want to go back in or just go home?” he asks. “I can just tell them we fought and I drove you home, or something.” 

You frown. “Why would you tell them we fought?” 

“Because we did,” he says, brows knitting. “And they probably wouldn’t be too happy if I said we fought, made up, and then went home to fuck.” 

Your lips twitch. “Leaving a few details out of the ‘made up’ part of that story.” 

He chuckles, leaning in until his nose bumps yours. “You want to tell my squad we fucked while they potentially tanked trivia?” 

“Phoenix would be so mad,” you giggle—even though the thought of her wrath makes your stomach flip. 

“Exactly.” He kisses you quick, then again, lingering this time. “So either we go back in there, risk them realising what just happened—and also face Phoenix’s fury when she finds out we ditched the team. Or...” He kisses you again, slower, hungrier. “We go home and do what we just did a few more times—at least until you can’t walk.” 

Your cheeks blaze, but you bite down on the grin threatening to break loose. “Who says I’m going home with you?” 

He shrugs, smug. “Or we can go to yours.”  

“So, you think a love confession and the best orgasm I’ve had in ten years is enough of an apology?” you tease, brow arched. 

His eyes go wide. “Best orgasm since—” 

“Don’t get cocky.” 

He smirks anyway. “Darlin’, if that was the best orgasm you’ve had in ten years, I’m about to blow your mind. And for the record—” He kisses the tip of your nose before settling back in the driver’s seat. “—I plan on apologising a lot more than that. Repeatedly. With my mouth, my fingers, my cock. Baby, when I’m done apologising, you’re not even gonna remember your own na—” 

Knock, knock, knock. 

You both freeze, heads whipping toward the driver’s side window. Silence hangs for a heartbeat—then a faint giggle breaks it from outside.  

“Hangman,” Bradley calls, voice dripping with laughter. “You in there?”  

“No,” Jake blurts instantly. 

You swat his bicep, eyes wide. “What the fuck?” 

He shrugs helplessly, panic and amusement twisting across his face.  

“We can’t exactly drive away,” he hisses, jerking his chin toward the fogged-up windows.  

“Open up, Bagman!” Natasha shouts, punctuating it with a sharp bang on the door. 

Your fingers clamp around Jake’s forearm, nails digging in as mortification floods your chest. God, if the seat could just open up and swallow you whole, you’d gladly go. Because of course you’d get caught fucking—or freshly finished fucking—in Jake’s truck by his squad on the very first night you met them. 

Slowly, Jake leans toward the driver’s side window, dragging his palm through the condensation. A clear streak forms—just enough to reveal them. All six of them. Standing there, staring in with varying degrees of amusement—Bradley barely holding it together, Javy giggling behind his hand, Mickey grinning, Bob’s ears turning red, Reuben trying not to smirk. And Natasha. Arms folded, glaring like she’s two seconds away from murder.  

“Do either of you know which colour pill Neo takes in The Matrix to discover the real world?” Natasha’s voice cuts through the door, sharp and unshakeable. 

Jake glances at you, brows raised in question. 

“Um... red,” you whisper, praying she can’t read lips.  

“She knew!” Mickey shouts triumphantly. 

Natasha’s arms drop, her jaw slack. “We lost by one point!” 

“Okay, time to go,” Jake mutters, snapping the lock down with a decisive click. 

Then he yanks his shirt over his head and starts wiping down the windshield. You whip around, lock your own door, and scramble to clear the window. Natasha rattles the driver’s side handle with a sharp yank, then storms around the front of the truck and starts pounding on your side instead. 

“Bagman!” she growls, rattling the handle. “I’m not mad at you, I swear,” she says, softer now, eyes cutting to you. “But I’m gonna fucking kill Bagman.” 

You can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out of you as she continues to yank at the door, rocking the truck with her effort. The rest of the squad are doubled over, wheezing and cackling, tears streaming down their faces while Natasha keeps trying to break in. 

You do your best not to ogle Jake—shirtless, muscles flexing, biceps straining as he clears the fog from the glass.. Instead, you lean over and twist the key, letting the engine roar to life. The whole cab shudders with the obnoxious growl, but this time, you don’t mind. For some reason, you kind of like his stupid old truck now. 

“Don’t you dare drive away,” Natasha warns. “I swear to God, Seresin. I will find you and I will make you pay.”  

“Bye, Phoenix!” Jake calls sweetly, tugging his shirt back on and flashing the rest of the squad a shit-eating grin. “See y’all at work tomorrow!” 

Then he turns to you, the bravado melting off his face. His eyes catch yours, warm and unguarded, and before you can breathe, he leans in to kiss you—soft at first, then with a playful nip to your bottom lip that makes your stomach flip.  

“God, I love you,” he sighs as he shifts the truck into gear. 

Your heart swells, aching with the weight of it, because God—you love him too. You always have. Always will. And there isn’t a shred of hesitation this time. Jake loves you, wholly and fiercely. You know he’ll never hurt you again—not on purpose. There’s still stuff to work through, sure. But you’ll face it together. Heal together. Be together. 

Because that’s all that’s ever really mattered—that despite everything, you found each other again. Waited for each other. Needed each other more than anything.  

“This is definitely going to come up in a wedding speech,” Jake mutters, almost to himself. 

“Wedding?” you echo, breath catching. 

“Oh yeah.” He glances at you, that ridiculous smirk stretching across his face. “I’m marrying you. And unfortunately, those idiots are probably going to be the entire bridal party.” 

Your stomach twists, not with dread, but with anticipation—warm and electric. Because yeah, you’re going to marry him. The certainty of it surges through you, fierce and undeniable, stealing the breath from your lungs. 

You can’t fucking wait to marry Jake Seresin. 

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[perfectprettypisces]

NO ROSTER, JUST YOU — BUCKY BARNES ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS you've been friends-with-benefits with bucky barnes for what feels like forever. it's fine. great, even. but when you slowly notice he's open to being with other people, you pull away before he has the chance to let you down easy. besides, you're too busy to waste your time thinking about him, ego too high to let him beat you to breaking it off. yet suddenly, when you take your foot off the gas, he notices. astronomically so.

WORD COUNT 10.2k......uhhh sure?? my bad?

WARNINGS & NOTES fluff, suggestive content and sexual language, no actual smut (would be open to adding maaaybe). self deprecating behavior? first time posting some bucky barnes, surprise? fwb!bucky is very important to me, he's such an idiot. post grad au, everyone’s alive. enjoy???? 18+ mdni.

You've met all kinds of people in your life.

Some are incredibly down to earth, others so shallow the water barely grazes your ankles. A few so detrimentally chatty that you thought their tongue would light on fire as one would light a match, and others so painfully quiet that getting something as simple as their name is comparable to pulling teeth. Once in a blue moon, there's the cocky frat Wall-Street wannabe attempting to pick you up at the bar not suited for such painful small talk, or the girl who drunkenly approaches you in the bathroom complimenting your lip combo and insulting your outfit in the same breath.

But there's no one quite like Bucky Barnes.

On the outside, he's undeniably handsome in a way that turns heads, with a chiseled jaw and bright ceruleans and a smile that could bloom wilted flowers. Not only that, but the deep baritone of his voice simply compliments his looks, laced with a honey cadence that makes you weak in the knees, even if he's saying the most vulgar shit to ever grace planet earth. Dimples indent deep whenever he smiles, creases the corners of his mouth and around his eyes when he laughs, almost another pretty sound.

Yet on the inside — past all the handsome and picturesque physique — there's a sense of rawness to him you've yet to crack.

You've seen glimpses of it, of him, taking in the way he can go from joking in a sense of self deprecation to contemplating the foundation of the universe within a five minute span. He's smarter than he lets on, and way more interesting than simply a pretty face and nearly picture perfect body. One time, he let it slip how obsessed he is with The Hobbit, and you've never been able to see him in the same light since, knowing underneath all those muscles and incessant fuck-boy flirtatious tactics there's a dormant nerd.

It...also doesn't help that he says the most gut-wrenching things in bed as if you were ever his to begin with.

Sometimes you forget you aren't his. Especially when he praises how pretty you look with his cock in your mouth or how you're taking him so well from the back, side, top, any angle possible. It only gets worse after you both finish (yes, he makes you finish. It's impossible to stop sleeping with him) and you're tangled together under his sheets that seem to now smell of you, one of his hands tracing shapes on your vertebrae and the other tangled in your hair, talking about things you wouldn't even confess to a journal. Not the dirty shit. The real shit. The I'm borderline having an existential crisis and simply need to talk out my hopes and dreams and fears and nightmares without anything getting fixes shit. The I just learned about the Fourth Turning and need someone to contemplate the universe with shit. The shit that normal friends with benefits don't engage in.

The whole friends with benefits ordeal happened merely by accident. All your friends had coupled-up by the end of the night, leaving you and Bucky to twiddle your thumbs and keep up your playful banter as long as you could to avoid the obvious seventh wheeling (eight?). Yet, one thing led to another (i.e. a guy approaching you and asking you to dance, and when you realize just how fucking awful he was, you simply sunk your talons into Bucky's bicep and said you had a boyfriend. Not that Bucky minded. At all. Because he almost missed your words because of how hyper-fixated he was on how nice it felt to touch you. For you to touch him? Semantics.). Regardless, you kept up the little act within your foreplay, and somehow found yourself tumbling into his bed.

Over, and over, and over.

And for a while, you thought he liked you, too. You also assumed he got the same kind of butterflies you did whenever you were in the same room. You figured you weren't just any hookup, especially when you've spent more time knowing the inner workings of his brain than you have his body. It almost seemed correct to assume you were friends, at that, who respected each other, who respected the deal you both had.

That is — until you see him getting a little too close with a strawberry blonde you've never seen before in the middle of a packed bar as if he doesn't give less of a fuck about your 'supposed' connection.

But it's actually fine. It is. It has to be.

Because you're not his, you remind yourself over and over, mumbled from chapped lips like a prayer and reiterated in your hurting mind like a mantra, something you're forcing yourself to believe. You down your drink, all hopes of getting laid tonight flying out the window, ignoring the sorrowful looks from Steve, Natasha and Sam, because they know you'll do nothing. Say nothing. And instead close yourself off to shield the last ounce of dignity you have left.

"You wanna leave?" Natasha asks you after another ten minutes of turning your back to Bucky and his new fling, almost forcefully manifesting the saying whatever is behind you is beneath you type bullshit.

But you shake your head, sending her a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes and doing your best to remain indifferent, because if you don't, it literally will kill you. Besides, he's never actually expressed an interest in being with you and you've never brought it up as a possible next step. So who are you to get upset?

You blink away the image of him and someone else out of your mind.

"Nah. I'll get another drink, though."

And that's what you do... You move on. Or at least go through the motions of doing so. Your friends stay stagnant for one, two beats before shrugging at your nonchalance, knowing they're not getting any sort of intel on your feelings tonight even though they can already tell how you feel. Washed up. Replaceable. Not special in the slightest.

Especially when the thought of being with another guy physically makes you sick.

Because you're too burnt out to be doing this will they won't they shit with him anymore. You hang out. You fuck. You pillow-talk like your lives depend on it. You go about the next day hanging out with all your friends and dismissing the fact you know everything about him, down to the name of his childhood pet to his greatest regret. The two of you converse in front of your friends as normal, civil people do, ignoring the fact you let him hit it raw a mere twelve hours ago. You think you love him, you'd be stupid not to, and that's the part that makes your heart ache more than anything.

You smell his cologne before you feel his presence.

"Hey."

Suddenly, the culprit is brushing your shoulder as he nudges towards the bar, murmuring a quiet, personal greeting to you before addressing the group.

"Christ. That was brutal. Did I miss anything good?"

You stiffen — only slightly, barely noticeable — as he stands arm-to-arm with you, pressing your lips shut as Steve, ever the savior, clears his throat to mediate the tension of the moment. Whether Bucky's aware of the clear apprehension of his friends towards him in this given moment, he doesn't seem to notice, too focused on being back with his group and how your perfume smells like absolute heaven, how nice it is to have you brushing your arm with his.

"No, Buck," Steve answers smoothly, bringing his beer up to his lips. "Unless you count the fact that Sam ate shit on the dancefloor twenty minutes ago and ruined his jeans."

"They're Levi's!" Sam's voice comes from above the music.

And suddenly you're all back in the same rhythm. Joking, laughing, reminiscing over anecdotes that happened ages ago and sharing drinks and shots as if you're back in college again. You nearly lose the image of Bucky with the girl from before, solely focused on how beautiful it is to be out with your friends on such a nice night, all together and happy and enjoying yourselves.

It’s light. Easy. Fun. In fact, it’s so fun that you nearly miss that Bucky’s hand has been pressed against the small of your back for the betterment of a half hour. Light yet firm. Casual but possessive. Cool despite the fire burning in your chest.

You subtly shake it off when you leave briefly to grab another drink, and when you settle back in your spot with a considerable amount of distance between you and him (i.e. not touching arms anymore, practically continents away), he doesn’t put his hand back, instead keeping it polite at his side for the rest of the night, almost as if he noticed his handsy nature and reeled it in.

That is, when Sam is ranting on and on about some nim-wit coworker in his department, you feel a gentle nudge on your arm.

You look up to the left to see Bucky already staring at you. Intent. Soft. Something else behind his eyes that you can't seem to recognize, and you're not really sure that you want to.

"You wanna get out of here soon?" Bucky asks softly, a tone just reserved for you.

And as much as you want to say yes to that, as much as your body wants you to say yes to that, your mind betrays you. It replays the image of him and the strawberry blonde, and it seems to solely remember his face, blue eyes blown black with lust and that half smirk he has when he's trying to pull, when he's flirting. It remembers his hands on her waist, polite yet implying something further, and even if you never saw them kissing, it still fucking hurts.

So you protect your peace.

"I'm actually gonna stay for a while."

You don't miss the way his brows shoot up in surprise, as you've never really turned down his wanna get out of here one-liners before, not that they're even a flirting method. But you stand your ground, sending him an easy smile before turning back to the group, tuning back into Sam's story and even laughing along when it's needed. In the corner of your eye, you see Bucky shrug at your casual brush off, probably thinking nothing of it and assuming you'll be in his bed tomorrow night instead.

Whatever. Water under the bridge, right?

Especially when you give him the same side-hug you give all your friends when you all catch your separate cabs back to your respective homes, not giving him an ounce of special attention he's used to. Especially when you dodge his second attempt to bring you back home with him, blaming your lack of sleep and busy upcoming day. Bucky doesn't argue and lets you leave, but not without a five second are you actually being serious stare as all of your friends have already left.

"You're actually going home?" He asks incredulously as he watches you hail a cab, ego half bruised and half aching with something he isn't ready to confront. "What about last night?"

Your eyes don't leave the road.

"What about it?"

Bucky blinks stupidly at your profile, confused why you aren't looking at him.

"You said you'd come over again tonight."

"Didn't think I'd be this tired."

“We can just go to sleep.”

You pause, heart aching. Stop making this difficult, you think bitterly. Of course you want to be with him. Stay with him. Allow yourself to fully indulge in your feelings for him. But not when he’s had his hands on another merely hours ago, not when it’s all you can see burned fresh in your mind, embers still catching. You know the outcome. You know if you spend the night, you’ll initiate something your heart desires and mind despises. You know yourself too well.

“Bucky,” you sigh, half amused, half exasperated. “You and I both know that’s not gonna happen.”

A beat.

You change the subject before he can protest. "I'll see you this weekend for Steve's movie night, yeah?"

That's when you turn and flash him a warm smile, one that says everything is fine, nothing's unusual. You ignore his pinched brow and head tilt, probably more confused than ever. But he doesn't linger on it, instead blinking and nodding slowly, as if he wants to argue with it but knows better than to confront whatever weird fluttering his heart is doing the more he looks at you.

"Yeah," he says eventually. "Alright."

Finally, a car approaches the curb and you nearly sigh out of relief, not bothering to try and save yourself further as you move to leave. You opt for a polite wave, get in your cab, and force yourself to not turn around and watch him get smaller and smaller as he stands dumbfounded on the curb.

So, in a feeble attempt to be dignified, you simply pull back.

Not loudly, or explicitly, or anything synonymous to drama. It's quiet, calculated, nonchalant. On nights he texts you at an ungodly hour, you're pretending you slept through the fuck-sesh window. When your friend group gets together, you're sticking with Nat and conversing with him when it's convenient. When he shows up to Sam's birthday celebration with the intention of spending the night with you after, you disappear with Wanda before the final goodbyes and smoke a joint for a little too long on the fire escape.

If he wants to treat your connection as something casual, as something he does with the other girls he may bring into his bed, then you want no part of it.

You work later hours. You pick up hobbies to distract yourself from the incessant buzzing of your phone on the kitchen island. You cling to Natasha and Wanda and lean on your support systems. Does part of you miss him? Oh, absolutely. All the time. He’s been your friend longer than most. He’s helped you through your worst and lifted you up at your best. You’ve been platonic. You’ve been lovers. You’ve been strangers. You’ll always love him, regardless of the emotional toll this situationship is taking on your heart, because he was your friend first. A good one, at that.

But you're smarter than this, smarter than letting yourself get strung along by a man who won't put you first, a guy who will make you say you’re his when he’s buried to the hilt inside you, only to spin around and go on a coffee date with a girl from work the next morning, a guy who seems to be dangling the possibility of a relationship on a fish hook right in front of your face, even if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it or not, a guy who is — undoubtedly — the best lay of your sexual career.

(Though you’d rather die than admit that to anyone).

The next time you see him, it's for another one of Tony's charity benefits.

Turns out that when his father left his multi-billion dollar company and said go nuts, Tony didn't take that as a joke. A fairly large portion of the funds go towards these charity events. Another big chunk to his progressive research. Parts to mainly force all of his friends to look nice and be in one place for the night, promising an open bar and free range of the liquor cabinet on the outdoor rooftop patio, to which you and none of your friends can resist in the slightest. Besides, it's a nice excuse to put on a pretty dress and stand in the corner with Natasha and Wanda and viscerally judge everyone's outfits and guess which trophy wives are cheating on their old, wrinkled creeps of husbands.

Tonight you opted for simple, not necessarily in the mood for an over the top get-up. The dress is floor length, hugging your body in the places that make you feel confident while giving you space to breathe all the same, with an open back that dips low, exposing everything down to the base of your spine.

Not that it matters, anyway, because you've been standing with your back against the outdoor concrete walls nursing a now-luke-warm champagne flute, studying the partygoers and trying your best not to bleed green as you watch all your friends break off with their partners, dancing intimately and smiling and looking so disgustingly (and endearingly) in love that you have half a mind to chug the rest of your drink. You politely declined a handsome man's earlier request to share a dance, mind stuck somewhere else. Particularly on someone else.

And — perfect timing — because suddenly, he's leaning his back against the wall next to you.

"Oh my god," he mutters irritably, bumping your shoulder. "That girl from the copy desk would not stop talking."

You ignore the way your heart lurches. "The one who laughs like a dj board or the one who always has lipstick on her teeth?"

He hums amusingly. "No, the other other one. The blonde who's all legs."

Riiiiight. There's no way he's not going to have women approach him all night looking this dangerous, like straight out of a model's fantasy. Or have him approach women. You don't want to think about the semantics of it all.

"Oh," you murmur.

"Yeah," he responds, missing the way your voice gets quiet. "She was explaining her astronaut calendar to me, or something. Honestly, she lost me after she starting talking about dinosaurs."

Bucky sighs like he's had a long day at work, plucking the champagne flute out of your hands like second nature and downing the drink in one go, missing the way your brows furrow and the gears turn in your brain at his last sentence. You sneak a side eye to him, really trying to ignore how beautiful he looks: tie a bit loosened, cheeks flushed, still ridiculously handsome in the all-black suit, not noticing your confusion in the slightest.

"...What are you saying to me right now?"

"Sweet girl, your guess is as good as mine."

"Do you mean...astrology chart?"

"Sure?"

"And Sagittarius?"

"Is that the one with the really long neck? You know, the herbivore?"

You blink at him. "Bucky, that's a star sign. She was telling you about zodiacs."

All he does is stare back at you, a smirk tugging the ends of his lips to mask his confusion. It's clear he's had a flute or two or three, because suddenly his eyes soften as he takes in your appearance: a near-scowl on your face as you hide the best feature of your dress — the open back — scanning the crowd like it's done something to personally offend you. You look like an angry, beautiful fairy. He's decided you've never looked more ethereal in his life.

Suddenly his smirk grows into a grin.

You ignore how it makes your heart lurch. "You do know what zodiacs are, right?"

"Yeah, sure," he says distractedly. Then, "You look beautiful tonight."

You suck in a harsh breath, caught off guard immediately.

All the responses you had in your head suddenly dissipate, evaporate into thin air as you come up blank in how to react, what to say, how to feel. On one hand, your chest constricts at the casual intimacy of it, how he's looking you up and down not lustfully, but in admiration, like you're a portrait in a museum he's been waiting in line all day to catch a glimpse at. On the other hand, you assume that's his opening liner to all the women he's conversed with tonight.

The expression on your face must not be what he was expecting, because his grin slowly morphs into a softer one, brows furrowing in confusion. That's never not worked on you before, as you'll usually quip something playful back at him or compliment him too or try and suppress a smile to appear indifferent. But now you just...don't give him anything besides something that resembles hurt. And, oh, he notices. It kills him.

"What?" He asks quietly, nervously smiling. "Should I have bought you a drink first?"

You attempt to laugh at the joke, but it comes out as a short exhale, not even sure what kind of response you're trying to give him.

"Or..." Bucky trails off, softer. "...asked you to dance?"

Your knees nearly buckle.

"I'm not—" You swallow thickly. "I don't really dance."

He shrugs, not seeing the problem. "Me neither."

"I'd step on your feet."

"I wouldn't mind."

"My stiletto could puncture your toe."

"Is it made of steel?"

"It could be. You never know with shoe manufacturers, these days."

"Sweet girl." A warning.

You suck in another particularly harsh breath, not sure on why he's so adamant on the matter at all. Doesn't he have at least five other girls he could've asked in the time span he's spent trying to get you to say yes? What about the astrology blonde? She'd definitely keep him company, and not only that, she'd keep him entertained, that's for sure.

Because you know if you dance with him now, you'll never get over him, never get over how good it feels to be touched by him, held by him. You need to stay dignified. Stay true to your wordless promise. Keep your distance, protect your heart.

You're about to let him down easy. "Bucky—"

But fate decides to enter the scene like a modern day Superman. And she looks killer with bright red hair and a low cut dress that's comparable to sin.

Natasha pokes her head onto the rooftop, swaying only slightly given all the drinks her and Steve have been pounding all night. When her eyes land on you, they brighten along with a beautiful grin that immediately gives away her elatedness to see you, pointing at you so staggered that the champagne nearly flies out of her flute.

"There you are," she hisses quietly, pearly whites on display. "C'mon, the timeshare guy's wife is about to fuck the bar back. Are you coming or not?"

Your eyes dart between her and Bucky, who is solely amusingly looking at you and waiting for you to make your decision. Yet something catches your eye just over his shoulder: a sliver of beach blonde hair staring at his back, wringing her fingers together as she patiently waits for her time slot with Bucky to open back up. You recognize her from the copy desk, and especially recognize her from Bucky's story from earlier as you can faintly make out a Libra necklace from all the way over here.

So you sheepishly smile up at him. "Raincheck?"

It doesn't look like he wants to take a raincheck. Not in the slightest. But, nonetheless, he nods and smiles gently back at you, a look seemingly reserved for you. He ignores Natasha's incessant prompting for you to hurry up, not taking his eyes off of you while you walk past him and slip back into the ballroom. Bucky's eyes slide down the slope of your exposed back, watching you weave in and out of the crowd with Natasha firmly holding your hand, wishing it was him holding you instead.

He doesn't see you for the rest of the night.

And, later, after your little adventure with Natasha, you poke your head back to peer out onto the rooftop, seeing a very familiar broad backed brunette talking to an overly annunciated blonde.

You don't stay much longer after that.

It isn't until now, three weeks into your internal giving your heart space entourage, when you see a text pop up.

You're sitting comfortably on your couch, half an edible deep with your laptop open idly on the side with today's crossword and a mindless reality show playing softly on the TV. A nearly full glass of wine is perched pretty on the coffee table, as well as a bowl of popcorn you never touched. Wanda left a half hour ago to spend the night at Viz's down a few blocks. Now, left to your own devices, you figure you'll take advantage of the night of solace after three weeks of working late and burying yourself in papers and projects in a feeble attempt to silence the way your heart is screaming for love.

Like an idiot, you check your phone.

Bucky: Sweetheart, when can I come see you?

The words sit like a rock in your gut, and suddenly being crossed off a gummy and a few glasses of wine doesn't seem very fun anymore.

Because the whole point of detaching yourself from the friends with benefits was to get him off your radar. It was to simply keep the friends title and drop the with benefits bit, since it's not like you don't want him in your life anymore, because you'll always want him in your life. But just not in a context where he constantly strings you along emotionally. That's all. Nothing more to it. You need to remind yourself he only wants sex, he only wants your mouth, he only wants your hands, he only wants the parts of you that serve as a convenience to get him off. It has to be.

Your thumbs move before you can stop them.

You: Hey, B. Not tonight.

Staring at your response, a kettlebell settles in your gut, absolutely wrecked and also relieved and also sick to your stomach knowing what you're typing next.

Almost immediately, you follow up.

You: Been meaning to text you for a while. I've got a lot going on and don't have the time anymore to be missing around. So. You can take me off the roster.

Send. Oof. Put the phone on silent, turn it face down on the couch, and pretend it didn't carry an astronomical amount of emotional turmoil that's borderline making you go into cardiac arrest. Take a sip (chug) of wine. Grab a handful of popcorn and ignore your shaking hands. Attempt to mindlessly finish the crossword you started and tune one ear into the soap operatic drama displaying on the television. Refrain from checking your phone with all the strength you can muster. Because it’s not a big deal. At all.

Right?

You fall asleep like this: curled up on the couch, clutching a throw pillow as if it’ll float away if you let go, the mindless tv playing low in the background mixed with the soft sounds of your even breathing. Tears never came, why would they? You know what you’re doing, you’ve known for weeks what the end game was, and you finally cut the string, no longer a puppet to the show of love. It’s agonizing. It’s freeing. It’s lonely.

In the midst of your sleep, you miss the string of notifications that immediately follow your message.

Bucky: Wait what 1 Missed Call From: Bucky Bucky: Roster? Bucky: Sweetheart 2 Missed Calls From: Bucky Bucky: You can't say shit like that and then put your phone on do not disturb. 3 Missed Calls From: Bucky Bucky: If this is what you want, then that's fine. Can we at least talk about it?

When you wake the next morning, you don't reply.

You're actually having the worst day to grace the planet.

The subway was late — what else is new — and by the time you got to work, your heels already started burning blisters into your feet. Your coffee order was wrong, still drinkable, but wrong, and it simply wasn't worth it to jump back into the ten minute line for a minor change. The projects you've been working on need to essentially be redone since another department you've been partnered with decided to send you a new list of completely different numbers than what you've been working with. You were originally supposed to go home at six. It's nearly eleven.

It's just been long. Mentally. Physically. You can't even bring yourself to emotionally bring up the past few weeks of ignoring Bucky. It's all too much, and all you can do at this point is attempt to turn your brain off as much as you can so you can actually sleep tonight. You hope the late night walk home will give you a sense of fresh air and clarity. It doesn't do much, but it helps you unwind slightly.

But of course things can't be good for too long.

Because when you get back to your apartment, Bucky's leaning patiently against your door.

You freeze in the hallway, and the sound of your heels skidding to a stop makes him look up, eyes burdened with something raw and upsetting that it makes your heart flutter. He stands a little straighter, perhaps trying to mask the fact that he's been waiting here for hours without complaints, simply holding onto the mere fact that he has to talk to you, get a gauge on your feelings, because you've been practically radio silent. And it's killing him.

The two of you stare at each other for a few beats, almost surprised to see each other. He, surprised to see you still in your work clothes and heels, and you, surprised to even be seeing him at all. You never thought he'd actually come here and confront you in person, yet you can't necessarily blame him as you've been dodging his messages and treating him as if nothing's wrong in social gatherings.

"Hey," you say eventually, drawing it out in skepticism.

"Hi," he breathes out quietly, voice light. "Are you— Were you working?"

You take a cautious two steps forward, fishing through your bag to find your keys. "Yeah, been stupid busy lately."

When you move to unlock the door, he steps to the side to let you do so, and it takes everything in you to focus on the task at hand yet it's proving increasingly difficult when his cologne gives you a sense of nostalgia you didn't even know you missed. It's like grieving an ex you never had. You were never his. He was never yours. Get a grip.

"I've noticed," he says after a minute.

The door creaks open gently, and you pause for a moment, internally deciding if you want to let him in or not. Part of you knows what will happen if you let him in, physically and mentally, and the thought of rehashing it right here, right now, almost makes you sick to your stomach. You're too tired, too burnt out to even think about what to eat for dinner, too exhausted in every single way possible.

Bucky notices your apprehension immediately. "You alright?"

Well. That's a loaded question if you've ever heard one. How much time does he have?

You decide to play it safe.

"Just exhausted. Is there— Did you need something?"

Bucky's mouth opens and closes, especially when you peer up at him and he notices just how fucking tired you are. All the words he's been dying to say rise and dissipate in his throat, nearly shocked from your appearance. He wants to say something, to say anything, to help you get ready for bed and tuck you in and let you fall asleep in his arms.

But he can't. Not when he can tell some of your exhaustion is from him.

"I— Uh, I just wanted to talk," he murmurs sheepishly. "But it can wait."

You frown, not expecting that. "You sure?"

Then he smiles. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, but he smiles nonetheless. Soft. Reserved for you. Understanding.

"Yes, sweetheart," he reassures gently, nodding towards your apartment. "Get some rest. We'll talk later, okay?"

You ignore the way your heart lurches at the pet name, how selfish he is to say it as if he ever had the right, how wanted it makes you feel. Like you’re his. Claimed. Taken. Yearned for. It’s awful. It’s beautiful. You want to throw up and also feel his arms bear wrapped around you. You want him to call you that forever yet never again. Not if you aren’t his.

"Okay." You find yourself murmuring sleepily. "Goodnight, Bucky."

The last thing you hear is a soft hum behind you when you step into your apartment, send him a tired, apologetic smile, and shut the door. The only image in your head when you're going to bed later that night is how pretty he looked standing in that hallway.

"Have you always been this prone to self sabotaging or am I blind?'

"Natasha, I'm seconds away from flying all the way to San Diego just to kick your ass."

"I'd like to see you try."

You roll your eyes as you prop your phone between your ear and your shoulder, thinly slicing eggplant to meal prep for the work week ahead. Do you want to forget all about being a responsible adult and simply rot on the couch until it's time to go to bed? Absolutely. Have you been slacking on being a real adult lately? Also absolutely. Between work and doing your best to stay busy nearly all the time, you're forgetting to take care of yourself. So, exhibit A: making actual meals for the week instead of relying on foods primarily stuffed with GMOs.

Natasha and Steve are on their annual west coast voyage, but your best friend always finds time to carve you into her schedule. Granted, they're in their siesta hours at the moment, as you can hear Steve gently snoring in the background as she yaps to you, not even caring about her boyfriend finding any peace and quiet to sleep.

You don't mind the company in the slightest, even if it is virtual.

"Seriously, though," she adds after a moment of laughter, tone dropping with an edge of seriousness. "You really should talk to him at some point instead of avoiding him like the plague."

Huffing, you slice an eggplant particularly aggressively.

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"You know I'm all for hating on men."

"Of course."

"But—“

"Natasha—“

"This is Bucky we're talking about," Natasha says almost incredulously, as if him as a person is an excuse in itself. "Yeah, he's one of the biggest idiots I know, and I know a lot of them, but he's not a bad guy. You and I both know he cares about you more than the rest of us, whether you want to accept that or not."

Another harsh slice. Channeling your frustration out on a poor eggplant who did nothing to you.

Sighing clear into the microphone, you relent. "I don't even know where I would start besides standing there like an idiot."

"You could be sitting."

"What would I even say to him?" You say, exasperated and ignoring her smart-ass-itry.

"Maybe, 'hey, sorry for ghosting you for the past month but I am experiencing an influx of emotional volatility at the moment and can't process my feelings for you.' Something along those lines."

"Really?"

She snorts. "The truth would be a good start, no?"

You pause, chopping movements halting as you stare off into space, pondering the simple concept of talking to him. Blabbing your incoherent feelings to him. Letting him in with the possibility of being shut out. You'd think that would be the reasonable course of action as a responsible adult, but you never said you were one. Part of you wants this to fizzle out as quietly as possible, to let your feelings subside like the tide and strictly go back to being friends without any of the weirdness. However, you know that can't slide, not with a guy like Bucky who has no concept of letting bygones be bygones.

Granted, you haven't really been playing fair by dodging every single one of his attempts to clear the air, opting for the safe excuse of being too tired or working or anything synonymous to that. And he's been respectful enough, even though you can tell he's been itching to push you into a conversation. He keeps a distance. Approaches when it's right, not forced, only to be shut down all the same. You know it isn't fair. At all. But your heart can't handle that right now.

"Later," you say simply.

Natasha sighs over the phone, but drops the topic for now.

“I’ll be asking again later," she grumbles. "Anyway, do you remember that old Cape sweatshirt you bitched and moaned about losing like three months ago? Viz said he found it in his closet with Wanda's stuff."

You hum cheerily. "No shit? I thought Yelena accidentally donated it?"

She snorts at the mention of her sister. "Apparently not."

"That'll give me an excuse to leave the apartment."

"Oh, actually you don't have to," Steve pipes up in the background, suddenly awake and alert and interjecting so casually it shocks you. "I asked Bucky to drop that off to you tonight. You're home, right?"

You stop slicing immediately.

"What?"

"Yeah, I texted him like thirty minutes ago," he adds nonchalantly. "He should've been there by now."

Your veins turn to ice. "I thought you were fucking asleep?"

"Why would I be asleep?"

"I heard you snoring."

"Oh," Natasha hums. "That's just his deviated septum."

Steve mimics the noise, instigating further by almost sounding like he had no idea. "Oh, yeah, that explains it."

The knife clatters to the cutting board as you sigh gutturally deep, the sound coming deep from your soul as your irritation skyrockets to amounts unknown. Your friends fully know what they were doing, and you can't even pride them on the setup since they got you right where they want you. You can picture them right now: sitting snug in their hotel bed, suppressing shit eating grins and probably quietly celebrating their successful mission of trapping your situationship back at your apartment. Fool proof.

As if things couldn't get worse, three soft knocks rasp against your apartment door, sending your blood pressure to numbers a doctor would faint at.

“Wonder who that is,” Steve ponders innocently.

You shake your head, knowing you're not getting out of this one.

"You guys fucking suck," is all you meekly respond with.

Natasha snorts. “I hope you shaved your—“

You hang up immediately.

Sighing, you throw your phone face down on the counter and forget all about the boiling food you have on the stove, thoughts instead filling with the man on the other side of the door, who no doubt wants to continue the conversation he tried to start last week.

That was until you practically slammed the door in his face and continued to ghost him into oblivion.

Your feet move before your mind can process it, shifting your body towards the door. A sweaty palm hovers over the knob, almost shaking with the anticipation of seeing his pretty blues up close again, of being in the vicinity where you can smell his cologne and resist the urge to pull the loose threads of his sweaters since he always forgets to. Who knows — maybe he’ll just hand you the piece of clothing and leave. Respect your space. Space that you aren’t even sure you want anymore.

Because truth be told: you fucking miss him. More than you’d like to admit.

You miss his hands that often held your trembling ones. You miss the way his laugh reverberates a room. You miss the way he was so eager to please and made you feel so fucking good every. Single. Time. Like you were the only person on earth worth paying attention to. Like you hung the stars yourself. Like he loved you.

Suddenly, you’re whipping the door open (frankly to avoid hanging onto that last thought that will — no doubt — make you spiral if you dwindle on it).

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes stands tall, shifting his weight between feet and cradling the sweatshirt as if it’ll shatter into a million pieces. His hair is lightly askew, hoodie a bit mussed, as if he’d thrown it on in a rush, yet he looks handsome all the same. His bright blue eyes lock on you immediately, almost surprised at the speed at which you opened the door. But they soften immediately at the sight of you, nearly relieved that you’re giving him some sort of time of the day.

And your heart races. Instantly. Muscles frozen in place as you stare right back at him, ignoring the sizzling from the stove and trying to swallow the giant lump in your throat. No words come. Absolutely nothing. The only thing that you can coherently conclude is how handsome he looks like this: casual, soft, domestic. It’s not fair.

“Hey,” he greets gently. “Delivery for the prettiest girl on the planet?”

“She’s on sabbatical,” you deadpan.

Bucky’s lips twitch as he rolls his eyes playfully. “Steve told you I was dropping by?”

Only forty seconds ago, you think bitterly.

Instead, you nod. “Yeah, he might’ve mentioned it.”

Bucky hums amusingly. “Hope my delivery skills are up to par.”

“Debatable,” you respond pointedly.

Bucky stares at you quietly for a beat. Two. Three. Studying your expression and taking in all your pretty while he still has the chance.

It makes you squirm.

You hand your arm out, palm upturned in anticipation.

“Uh, the sweatsh—“

Suddenly, the smell of fresh burning fills your nostrils, and you whip your head towards the culprit — your kitchen — and forget all about the man standing in front of you, cursing loudly under your breath and dashing to the stove. The batch of three eggplant slices you’d been frying are indefinitely inedible, charred to black and wasted. So much for trying to be a responsible, independent, slightly put together adult.

You wave your arm above the stove, moving the pan off the burner and shut everything off as you see Bucky in your peripheral cautiously enter your apartment, shutting the door gently behind him with the sweatshirt still sitting idly in his hands.

“Motherfucker,” you hiss with annoyance, sighing through your nose, suddenly overwhelmed with his presence lingering in your kitchen. “Uh, you can leave it on the barstool. I’ll rate you five stars, or whatever.”

When you don’t hear an immediate response, you pause your movements of waving the light smoke out of your face, dropping your arm at your side to glance at him. Bucky simply stands, watching you intently. Half amused. Half with a look in his eye that makes your heart flutter uncomfortably. A look you don’t want to begin to decipher, only knowing it’ll hurt your soul in the long run.

Blue eyes bore into yours. As if he’s not interested in looking at anyone else ever again.

“Are you gonna—“

“You look pretty.”

The words die in your throat, actually more like violently sucked out of you at the sincerity of his tone, as you open and close your mouth, agape like a fish. You blink stupidly, hating the way your heartbeat is utterly erratic just from a simple sentence. And whether he means it or not, it makes you a fucking mess of emotions anyway. Regardless if he’s just saying it to be back in your good graces, or if it’s true.

You can’t dwell on the semantics.

All you can do is shut your eyes and sigh quietly. “Bucky…”

“Sweetheart, when are we gonna talk about this?”

You dare to peek your eyes open, taking in his intent expression, almost desperate, as he darts his gaze between your eyes. Flustered, you shift weight between feet, feeling your face flush and palms immediately grow warm. Half of you wants to say forget it and jump into his arms, forget all about your hurt and push it down and pray it goes away. The other half stands dignified.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you defend meekly.

“I would completely beg to differ.”

Your eyes drift down, locking on his hands as you can’t even bring yourself to look at him in his pretty blues. “We were sleeping together. Now we’re not. Not sure what you want me to say.”

Bucky snorts devoid of humor. “How about an explanation, to start?”

“I’m too busy.”

“I’ll make time for you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“How?”

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Bucky—“

But he doesn’t let you get far. “I’m serious. I’ll work around your schedule,” he says casually, as if it’s the easiest solution in the world.

“That’s inconvenient,” you defend weakly.

“That’s called problem solving,” he corrects pointedly.

You nearly scream in frustration, because you knew you’d have some sort of pushback with this, especially with the world’s most stubborn man to ever grace the earth. When he’s set on something — or in this case, someone — it’s nearly impossible for him to back down, to concede into neutral territory and go with the flow. It’s not that he doesn’t see it, in fact he’s fully aware of his ability to argue with a brick wall if it looked at him funny. He uses it to his advantage, like right now.

The other part of you wants to scream in terms of the emotional intensity of it all. Why does he care so much? Why is he blindly opting to carve a chunk of his time and effort out of his day solely for you? When all it’s ever been between you two was casual intimacy? Why is he offering the choice as if it’s the simplest solution, as if it isn’t the most inconvenient option.

Bucky notices your silence immediately, and decides to fill it. “There’s no way I’m gonna just stop seeing you, sweetheart.”

“Don’t—“ You say before you can stop yourself, aching. “Don’t say that.”

“Say what? That I care about you?”

God, he’s not fucking getting it.

You shake your head, exasperated.

“No, the whole sweetheart, baby, sweet girl bullshit,” you sigh tiredly, not even caring about holding back anymore. “I’m not your sweetheart, I’m not your sweet girl, I’m not yours, Bucky. Never have been.”

His jaw slacks.

Despite the way your skin feels like it’s on fire and that your heart is beating so erratically it’d make a cardiologist faint.

“And it’s—it’s fine,” you pointedly admit. “Really. But it’s confusing, and it drives me fucking crazy, and I need space. That’s all.”

Silence engulfs the room.

Bucky simply just…stares at you. Half in awe and half something you can’t pinpoint, as if the gears are turning in his head and he’s understanding your frustration, the reason for your distance, your coldness towards him. It wasn’t out of dislike or disinterest. No. It’s the opposite. You care too much. Feel too much. Felt that you needed to separate to shield your heart, protect your peace, put yourself first.

It’s almost as if the expression happens in slow motion. Because his look of shock and confusion morphs into understanding, almost relief. A noticeable tension releases from his shoulders as he puts two and two together, gaze softening so disgustingly endearing that you swallow thickly. There’s the truth. Floating in the air. Coming to bite you in the ass, as you presume he’s figuring out an easy way to let you down gently.

God, why is he looking at you like that?

“When you texted me,” he starts slowly, calculated. “I had no fucking idea what you were talking about.”

You blink at him.

He continues. “That was the first time I’d heard about a supposed roster. Didn’t even know I had one. Didn’t know that was the impression you had of me.”

A wave of guilt washes over you. “Bucky—“

“Sweet girl—“ He interrupts softly, almost in a gentle warning to let him finish. “I don’t know where you got that from, but there was never anything like that. No one else I was even thinking about.”

The confession makes your blood run cold.

“But— But that girl from the bar,” you defend meekly. “Or the blonde from Tony's party. The girl who’s all legs, remember? You’ve been seeing other people, and, again, that’s fine—“

He grimaces at the mentions of both women, the blonde he really wasn't listening to in the slightest and the redhead from that night at the bar, the night you started distancing yourself from him. He remembers it perfectly: how you leaned away from his touch, dodged his invitations, looked at him like he was everybody else, like he wasn’t special anymore.

Now it makes sense. Total sense. You saw him practically cuddled up — well, if you were any closer, you’d see his clear apprehension and gentle rejections — with a random girl as if it was just another average night. And then cozied up with the blonde at Tony’s gala (not really by his choice). No one to be tied down to. As if you weren’t the only thing on his mind for the entirety of each confrontation. The way you subtly swerved him both nights made his stomach twist so uncomfortably that he felt sick for days after, not understanding your sudden cold — luke warm? — shoulder.

But now he sees it, he sees you. And it gives him all the confirmation he needs to speak carefully. Tread lightly. Let it all out.

“The night at the bar, that was Mariah.” Then, after a moment, adds, “Um, Madison? Something like that. One of my sister’s friends who always got a little too close, you know?”

Heart thumping, you nod slowly. Cautiously. Not trying to appear as though the mere thought of him talking with other girls makes your chest do this weird thing where all you can see is green. Jealousy. Possession over a man you aren’t even with. Pathetic. Trying to appear indifferent because you should be indifferent.

He continues. “She kept talking and talking, it was brutal. Couldn’t get out of it. After a second attempt to ask me out, I just… I don’t know.”

Your chest aches. “You what?”

“Pointed at you,” Bucky says. “Told her you were my girlfriend.”

If your eyes widened any more, they’d bulge out of the sockets.

Because what? He didn’t just— He just said— He couldn’t have possibly meant—? No, he just got tired of her asking. That’s it. That has to be it. There’s no way he casually said that without ever being promoted to, it was simply just a ruse to get this girl to back off, that’s all. No further implications. No secret manifesting techniques. Only a way out. An escape.

“She backed off, and all. So did the blonde, I told her the same thing,” Bucky continues casually, as if he didn’t just short circuit your brain with a simple sentence. “The first time I said it, back at the bar, I came back to the group as soon as I could. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

You dare to bite. “About which part?”

His blue eyes have never been more focused on you. “When I said that to her, it felt… right.”

“Right?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nods, almost a little too quickly. “Real. Forgot it wasn’t true until you went to get another drink.”

“Oh,” is all you can murmur.

“Then I couldn’t stop thinking about if… you know… if we were actually together,” he ponders aloud, spilling his guts with every word. “How nice it’d be to have danced with you. I didn’t realize how much I wanted it to be real until I thought of the possibility.”

The expression on your face must be comedic gold.

“Oh,” you repeat quietly.

“Yeah,” Bucky muses low. “Oh.”

You blink stupidly at him, mouth agape as you take in his words, his confession, especially how sincere he sounds recounting the night. It makes sense: how overtly touchy he was with you right up until you rejected his first attempt to bring you home, and how his hands kept to himself for the rest of the night, how uncharacteristically quiet he was standing broad next to you. You didn’t think about it, about what his interaction with that girl actually could’ve been, and rather jumped to conclusions on what you expected.

In the midst of your self deprecating inner dialogue, you don’t notice Bucky slowly walking towards you, getting closer and closer with each cautious step. When you don’t jerk back or create more space between you, he allows himself to step into your vicinity, now merely a foot away as the sweatshirt he’d need cradling is now forgotten behind him, folded idly on the barstool.

And now — once his cologne has invaded your scent as his pretty blues are suddenly way closer than you remember — you realize just how much distance he squashed in a matter of a few mere steps.

You peer at him, frozen as a statue and confused as an idiot as one of his palms experimentally ghosts over your jaw. When you don’t pull away, he presses it gently against your smooth cheek, burning under his cool skin, and you can’t deny how nice it is to finally feel him again, and you especially can’t deny how pretty he looks like this: lopsided smile and gaze so soft it’d resemble the touch of a warm fire.

“Breathe,” he guides gently.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. And suddenly it’s alllllll coming out.

“Sorry,” you say immediately, almost panicked. “I just— Phew, okay. You have to know what it looked like. Really. But I shouldn’t have cared because we aren’t together, we never were, and I’m not that kind of person to, like, monitor who you sleep with— You know I’m not like that—“

Bucky’s grin grows.

“I never wanted to make you think I was trying to sink my claws into you, or some bullshit, I don’t know,” you continue your incoherent rambling, missing the way he’s already made up his mind. “I figured you wanted to explore options? Or something like that? So I gave you space. I needed space to… You know... To get…”

When you trail off, Bucky cocks his head to the side, inviting the gentle confrontation.

“To get what, sweet girl?” He coos gingerly, pressing the pad of his thumb near the swell of your bottom lip.

You blink stupidly at him, wide eyed and embarrassed at your incessant rambling. But when he looks at you like this: soft, intent, as if nothing else in the world is even worth glancing at, you let your guard down slightly. For fuck’s sake, he just poured his heart out to you earlier, you know how he feels, where he stands, what’s the reason of holding back? What’s the harm in keeping your feelings to yourself? Especially now when you’ve practically exposed yourself, anyway.

Your mouth moves before your brain can comprehend it.

“To get over you.”

His brows raise, half surprised and half condescending. “You wanted to get over me?”

Swallowing thickly, you nod. “I thought you had a roster.”

“No roster,” he responds immediately. “Just you.”

“Well, I thought you didn’t like me like that.”

“Sweetheart, I love you.”

Your jaw slacks in his hold, and now his palm presses a bit harder, grounding, firmer, all to confirm his feelings, to get you to understand, to feel him. His hands are cool, calm, composed, whereas your skin is on fire, heart thumping a million beats per minute with a shock value so high that your ears might be ringing. They must be. Because you couldn’t have heard him correctly, right? Because he just— he said that he— he lo… he loves—

“Breathe,” he reminds you again, an endearing smile ghosting his pretty lips.

For the second time, you’re letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been keeping in, staring into those pretty blues as they crystalize into yours. His palm holds your jaw in place, secure, as if he has all the time in the world to do so, to be here with you, regardless of all rhyme and reason. The touch is warm, familiar, something you missed a lot more than you'd like to admit, and you can't help but lean into the content, pressing your jaw and cheek further into his hold.

To think he was off sharing an ounce of this bravado with others is almost comical, because Bucky can't recall ever feeling this gravitates towards anyone. You're the first person he thinks of when he wakes up and the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep. After you spend the night, he hopes you'll take one of his hoodies to bring home so that when you give it back to him, it has your scent. When he arrives at any function, you're the first person he's searching for the immediate second he walks through the door.

Because, sure, the two of you have always been friends. Friendly. Comfortable. But the first time you slept together and created your little agreement, Bucky already knew — from that moment forward — that there was absolutely no way he wouldn't fall for you. Fuck, the first night you fell asleep in his arms, he already knew he was in deep, simply because the mere sounds of your syncopated breaths brought him a sense of comfort no one else has ever been able to provide. And that was only the first night. His infatuation for you only augmented after that.

Meanwhile, your brain is slowly starting to work again.

"That's— When did— Are you sure?"

Bucky laughs boyishly, head tipping back and clearly amused with your shock as you stand befuddled. If you weren't so fucking blindsided right now, you'd take the time to appreciate the way the corners of his mouth crease and how his eyes seem to gleam at the mere sight of your slightly panicked demeanor, because how dare he have the audacity to look this handsome right now, especially when he's practically laughing at your self depreciation.

"Because I'm a lot," you continue pointedly, so serious contrary to his jovial nature. "You know that. It's not— Do you know what you're actually signing up for? Genuinely?"

"I've been signed up," he says casually, still coming down from his laughter. When he notices your perplexed expression, he cocks his head to the side. "What? Sweet girl, you must've known."

"How could I possibly have known?"

"I came immediately when we had sex for the first time."

"Well, I thought you were just...excited."

"Tried sleeping with another girl a week later to try and get over you, and said your name when I finished."

"Semantics."

"I measured your ring finger one night while you were sleeping."

The next retort dies in your throat as you quirk a brow at him, and given the way his eyes immediately widen and mouth agapes that he absolutely did not mean to say that. His pretty blues blink at you for one, two beats. You resist the urge to push the hair out of his eyes.

"For science," he adds quickly.

You suppress a grin. "I don't remember you ever having a PhD."

You don't let him respond before you move without thinking, gripping the collar of his hoodie and tugging him taut to you, stealing his breath with a kiss so sudden that he mmrphs low into your mouth, half in surprise and half in need.

His hand cradles your jaw, feeling the movements of your mouth beneath his palm and kissing you back with just as much fervor, if not more. His unoccupied hand takes its rightful place on your waist, pads of his fingertips indenting deep into your skin almost as a wordless claim, a confirmation that this is real, this is happening, you're here in his arms after what feels like forever. You make a noise you didn't even know you had in you — a mix between a sigh and a whine and something else entirely unholy — and Bucky swallows it immediately.

Your hands brace on his chest, palm over his erratic heartbeat and the other trailing down his abdomen, ghosting the waistband of his jeans, an act all too familiar to you. And to him, because he gets the hint immediately.

When he pulls away a fraction, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaves, you let your heart speak.

"You really love me?"

Bucky responds immediately. "More than anything."

He's so close, so pretty like this. A bit dazed, soft, eyes set only on you and nothing else. Smile lines by the corners of his mouth, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip almost in admiration, his eyes darting at all parts of your face as if he's studying you intently, remembering your features and taking note of how they look in this lighting. As if he wants to remember how you look in every possible way. Just for his own sake, to picture you in his mind when you're not physically with him.

And your heart just...aches.

But in the best way possible, knowing all your worrying and self doubt was for nothing. In the time you spent wondering if you were his, he was already dead-set on being yours. Irrevocably. Occupying so much space in his mind that there wasn't much space for anything else. He loves you. He loves your smile, your laugh, the way you hold him at night and listen to his dreams and nightmares all in same breath, the way you've made him feel important, like he deserves to be happy, like he's a good person. There's no one else on this planet he can say has made him feel like this, already missing you before you've even left and already wondering when he's going to see you next.

"Sweet girl, let me show you, hm?" Bucky asks gently, a tone reserved just for you.

You're hardly one to refuse that request.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

notes sooooo hey? first bucky fic? sorry for the hard launch. hope you enjoyed!

[perfectprettypisces]

[perfectprettypisces]

put down that c.ai thing and read y/n fics like god intended.

[perfectprettypisces]

bucky bossa nova.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader. synopsis. opening night of your broadway debut, the last thing you expect to see is a familiar set of blue eyes watching from the balcony. is it normal for fuck-buddies to show up for each other’s big moments? alternatively,, is bucky barnes an emotional fuckboy or is local woman oblivious to signs and in need of a visit to an opticians? this, & more, at 11! based on this request by @calmgloomyday warnings. smut ( pwp, unprotected piv, oral - f receiving, pussy pronouns for the win!!, pussy spanking, can i get a hell yeah for messy makeout session!? 🗣️ hell yeah🙂‍↕️🙌🏻, mating press, fingering, foot grinding??? idk but m receiving, thigh riding, faux-cheating kink?, spitting, consensual recording of a sexual interaction aka they're making a movie they'll have to hide, send help! my pwp accidentally ended up being more sensual than sexual :/), no use of y/n, friends with benefits to lovers, congressman!bucky, broadway starlet!reader, secret hookups, the good old uh oh, feelings! trope, fluff, jealousy, possessiveness, silly miscommunication, one too many references to phantom of the opera (forgive me, it's been my comfort film/play since i was 7 😔). i put minimal effort into the reader’s characterisation in this fic bc it was fully just meant to be a slutfest, so idk how it ended up being this long and unslutty. reader inclusivity. bucky speaks a few italian and latin phrases, reader is cast in a role that has historically been presented as a petite girl, but there is absolutely no mention of the reader's weight nor height in this fic! wordcount. 11.9k hyde's input. i am battling unimaginable horrors ( a bellyache ) and yet i persevere ( finish writing this silly slice of pwp )

He comes without a warning.

Thirteen minutes before the curtains rise and the spotlight is set to trace your every graceful step across the stage, there’s a burst of commotion. Two stagehands and a handful of the ensemble cast stand gathered around a tiny screen, squealing and giggling amongst themselves.

“The hunger I feel for that man is insatiable,” a fox-eyed, red-haired spitfire wrapped in the ballerinas’ opening attire throws her head back, clutching the phone against her chest. “I mean fuck congress but… I wouldn’t mind fucking that congressman.”

Like birds of a feather, the squad of cackling voices all fall into perfect harmony.

“And you’re sure he’s actually here?”

“Take a look for yourself if you don’t believe me, Josh,” the command is followed by a hand signalling towards the side of the stage. “Balcony C-3, he’s wearing a tux and sitting alone.”

“Maybe he’s waiting on his date,” it’s hard to tell who’s voice chimes in next.

“Date? Please, that’s my man,” Josh cuts back in after a peak out into the awaiting audience, new excitement in his eyes at having the illusive guest’s presence confirmed. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Just as curiosity gets the better of you, propelling your feet those few steps forward toward the gossip squad, the stage director is at your side and pulling you in for one final pep-talk alongside the rest of the cast.

You spot him in the dark.

Your first big number, a nervously performed romance ballad in which your dear Christine goes from background ballerina to prima donna of the stage. As you cast your eyes to the reserved balcony where your co-star awaits you with a ballad of his own, your gaze latches on to Balcony C-3.

Instinct, human nature. Months of casual affairs bring you to this, picking out his silhouette in a sea of faces desperate to see you dazzle them or crumble into ash beneath their burning stares. Breathtaking as the congressman can be, you’re not about to let a handsome face ruin your first big break. You glance towards the show’s second leading man, just in time to catch the beginning of his verse.

“Can it be, can it be Christine?”

For every song you sing and scene you dance through, he stands the tallest among the sea of cheers.

Something burns at your skin, prickling your nerves as you sway through a scene imbued in fiery passion and red hot anger, playing the role of a seductress sent to disarm the show’s masked leading man. Hands you’ve come to know through chemistry tests and dress rehearsals grapple at your body, pressing you back against a solid figure as they dance up the length of your torso. Ring clad fingers flex around the base of your neck, a possessive claim to match the words being cooed into your ears and through the speakers.

Up in the balcony, he straightens his spine.

Some kind of miracle carries you through to the end of the show and drags you back on stage for curtain call. Bowing out to thunderous applause, you feel yourself become wrapped in a group hug made up of the faceless arms of your co-stars, nothing but pride and joy for one another.

“We did it!” Someone exclaims, a voice of pure ecstasy. “We survived opening night!”

Backstage is all hustle and bustle. Corks are unscrewed and the orchestra’s flutes are traded in for the champagne kind; the theatre’s walls pull in on themselves as bodies flood the space, faces — new and old — filing in to embrace their loved ones.

After a handful of congratulatory obstacles, you spill into the bliss of an empty dressing room. Void of noise and free of strangers, exhaustion finally nestles into your bones when you collapse back into a chair. Still wrapped in the tattered fabrics of a wedding dress, you block out the buzz of notifications flooding your phone and let your eyes slip shut.

“Little Lotte let her mind wander,” familiar words interrupt your peace and quiet; once spoken across the stage, they now fall from the congressman’s lips.

Bucky stands by the door, a bouquet of your favourite flowers in hand and amusement on his face as you jump out your skin at the sudden intrusion — he still moves like an assassin, you hadn’t even heard the door open.

“You’re here,” the words come out a little breathier than you intend, a mixture of abusing your vocal cords for two hours and the bewilderment at his unexpected presence.

“Where else would I be?” Bucky asks with a twinge offence, like him showing up here is nothing beyond ordinary, routine, as natural as all the rest of the supportive audience members who have filtered backstage to praise their loved ones. “It’s your big night.”

The congressman is most definitely not your loved one.

He’s not your anything, in truth. A set of limbs that tangle with your own, and a velvet mouth that caresses your skin, and a body that occasionally fills the emptiness that festers in your soul.

Tied to each other by a common thread — your best friend, who took on the role of managing his congressional campaign. A chance encounter in a hotel bar and two glasses of low self-esteem was all it had taken for you two to wind up tangled in bed sheets. Come morning, you swore to yourself it would only be a one time thing as you crept out the room.

But, like an avalanche, it’s hard to stop once it starts.

After eleven months and a growth spurt in both your careers, the hotel lobbies have been traded in for the safer territories of private residencies.

His a townhouse, a little slice of suburbia nestled in the busy streets of Washington, D.C., and yours a studio apartment, the stereotype of every struggling artist that walks the streets of a movie set in NYC.

“Isn’t there a congressional meeting tomorrow morning?” He’s growing closer as you speak, discarding the boxed bouquet onto the vanity along the way. “I thought you were dedicated to dethroning Miss De Fontaine, Congressman Barnes.”

It must be too early in the evening still, for your usage of his governmental title rouses only a bashful eye-roll instead of the much preferred tightening of his slacks.

“They invented this wonderful thing,” both the congressman’s metal and flesh hand take hold of the chair’s armrests, holding him steady as he dips down and lets his lips brush over the length of your jaw, veering off to whisper in your ear. “It’s called an early flight.”

Like a hot knife to butter, you feel yourself melt as his mouth finds your neck, teasing the delicate skin with marks you know you can’t afford to have him leave — the last thing the poor make-up techs need is for you to show up to the second show baring bruises all over you. But every weak-willed protest dies at the tip of your tongue when Bucky latches onto flesh; a gentle, toe-curling, heart-racing suckle against your pulse.

Moving at their own accord, your arms wind their way over his shoulders and meet at the back of his neck, fingertips grazing over a fresh trim.

“You cut your hair,” you don’t mean to actually say it.

The stretch of his smile against your skin is instant. Your habitual need to speak each thought aloud is ever an endearing trait to the congressman, a man who measures the weight of every word before he dares speak.

A strangled noise threatens to leave you as Bucky pulls back, blue eyes coming into full view and shoulders shrugging beneath the weight of your embrace, “You complained it was getting too long last time I saw you.”

“I wasn’t complaining!” The defensive fit flies out of you, a need to clarify words from your past — whispered in the dark of his home while both of you lay entwined atop a mattress, his head resting against your naked chest and your hand carding through the tresses of his hair. “I was observing. I actually prefer longer hair on a man.”

“Is that so?” He hums in amusement, the tip of his nose bumping against your own before he’s retrieving his hands off the armrests and de-invading your space.

You don’t let him go far, arms still locked at his back and forcing him to take on the burden of your body. He shoulders your weight like any worthwhile super soldier should: effortlessly, as easy as a child lifts a feather.

“Mhmm,” an affirmative hum bubbles up inside your chest when Bucky pulls you to a stand, the heat radiating off his body enough to soothe the tired ache in your bones. Renewed exhaustion slams over you with the force of a concrete wall, months of stress-filled rehearsals, and evenings inflated with the anxiety of willing the phone to ring, and hours of nerveracking auditions all hitting you at once. “Means there’s something to hold onto.”

His eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise, like the suggestive tone behind your words is not the exact reason he’s here.

Never had you thought your pussy was worth crossing states over — enter stage left, Bucky Barnes, willing to prove you wrong and inconvenience himself just for another rendezvous.

The two of you seem to be swaying to unheard music, the congressman’s hands moving deftly over your hips and guiding you backwards. The sway transitions into something more intimate — slow and sensual, the back of your thighs press against the vanity’s edge and Bucky invades your space once again.

“That’s not why I’m here,” he’s lying — the way his eyes search over your figure, scanning down the length of your costume for scraps of bared skin, a dead giveaway.

“Are you sure?” Head cocked to the side, you make a point of staring him down as you lift your knee and drag it up the expanse of his thigh, all the way to where his bulge lays heavy in tailored trousers.

“That’s not only why I’m here,” Bucky corrects himself.

“What else are you here for then, Congressman Barnes?” There is the reaction you’ve been anticipating, something flickering behind those blue eyes that leaves you aching with need.

“To congratulate you,” there’s a twinge of frustration in his voice, the final threads of his sanity pulled tight and ready to snap at the earliest convenience.

Unfortunately for him, you plan on ripping those threads apart.

“And how are you planning on doing that?” Hands still at the level of his shoulders, you watch him visibly shudder as you teasingly drag your nails up the back of his neck. “The same way I congratulated you in your office?”

Your voice is a vehicle for the past to flash right back into both of your minds.

Mid-afternoon, Bucky’s first day in congress, you figured there was no better way to shake off his imposter syndrome than to show up — no warning and certainly no panties — and help him christen the new office. Bruises on both knees and the taste of super soldier buried into your tongue, you departed with the promise of more and a sweet-as-pie smile for the receptionists.

Head bowing low, the congressman’s answer is a mumble brushed against your collar, “La mia donna intelligente(my clever woman).”

Outside your dressing room door, the halls are alive with ruckus. You can hear every wail of excitement, every cry of laughter, and every sob of pride spilling out of faceless mouths. Stampedes of feet tremble through the backstage area, doors slam shut as often as they screech open, and variations of your name tickle at your ears like a siren tempting you to throw yourself overboard into the ocean of bodies.

Everything falls silent as the congressman falls to his knees.

Inches away from where either of you truly want him to be. The leather of Bucky’s shoes creases under the pressure of his weight, knees pointed to the floor and body leaning back on his haunches. While Bucky’s mouth is an enduring mystery, with which words are shaped rarely and vows are sealed with a press against heated skin, his eyes are a window into his mind.

Soft where the rest of him is stoic. Hardened where the rest of him is calm. Hungry where the rest of him is quiet, an all consuming need that first take over his icy blue stare and turns it into an inky swirl of lust, and later sets its sights on you, devouring any apprehension that lingers within you and digesting it until it becomes a lust equal to his own. With how the congressman’s staring up at you now, one thing is clear.

He is famished.

“Don’t let me buy balcony tickets for any of your shows ever again.”

The game of cat of mouse comes too naturally to you both, instinct directing you to flee as Bucky all but crawls closer, two firm hands taking grasp of your ankles. With nowhere to go but up, the well-organised display of products clutter into a pile as you find rest atop the vanity.

“Why?” You demand an answer, but the congressman at your feet is too enthralled with watching how the ends of the costume slowly follow the path of his touch, spilling out inches of tights like a secret only he is privy to.

A simple tug at his hair — shorter than you’re used to, yet just as effective at capturing his attention — wins you the response you were looking for.

“You weren’t put on that stage to be looked down at,” Bucky moves faster than your fabrics can handle, touch grazing over your lower thigh while the faux wedding dress tangles in a mess beneath your knees. “I should’ve been in that crowd, staring up while you dazzle the room.”

Your throat pulls tight.

The problem with a man like Bucky is that there are no men like Bucky. A man who is equal parts friend as he is a lover, content if the little free-time he chooses to spend on you ends in a tangle of limbs or a series of teasing jokes. A man who listens more than he speaks, absorbs the words you say like he is a sponge and your voice is the last drop of water, meant to be soaked up and held safely within him. A man who spews prose in place of sin, a sharp tongue that willingly dulls itself as to never cut you when he speaks, in measured words and through laboured breaths. A man who takes the casualness of sex between two friends and moulds it into something far more sacred in nature, without even trying.

Call it old-fashioned charm, call it eighty years of being out of the dating pool, call it simply the nature of Bucky Barnes. Whatever name you give it, it’s becoming dangerous. A hindrance that stops you in your metaphorical path and has you questioning why your palms are sweating, why your stomach is fluttering, why you’re having visions in sleep of a life you most certainly do not lead: lazy mornings in bed, breakfast come noon, evenings in a home made by two.

Bucky and you.

Congressman and starlet.

Friend and other friend, and absolutely nothing more.

He keeps making it harder to remember that last part, decadence in the way he speaks to you, nourishing at the neglected sweet-tooth of your heart and rotting it right down to the root.

“Stop thinking,” there he is, pulling you out of your head while his own presses itself to the inside of your knee, eyes closing and nose tickling against your skin.

“Sorry,” you stutter, half-hearted. “Reviews will be out in a matter of hours. Someone could be out there, right now, flippantly writing an article that may make or break my career.”

“Anyone with taste worth writing about knows you were amazing out there,” his touch edges over the inside of your thighs, while his voice lulls you out from the trap of your own mind. “Now is when you should be relaxing, doll. Let me help.”

Bucky’s idea of helping is a lot more heavy handed than either of your anticipate, as he takes a grip of your sheer tights and tears them down your legs. Literally tears them, in tatters and almost completely in half, leaving them null and void of further use as he tosses them blindly over his shoulder.

How fortunate the costume department has an overflowing bucket of spare tights.

Skin now bare to feel, the congressman takes on the ease of a man for whom time will never run out. Patterns trailed over exposed thighs, ends of a wedding dress tickling at your knees and his forearms, danger glued to you in the form of his stare.

“Fuck,” he breathes out against you in exasperation. With the state he’s in, it’s almost as though you are the one on your knees, teasing the beginning of his undoing with feather fingertips and a heavy gaze. “Been thinking ‘bout this, ‘bout you. Didn’t I tell you we need to make more time for each other?”

He did. Adamantly, and utterly unwilling to entertain the excuses rushing off your tongue. But, who could blame you for being so against it?

He sprung it on you when you stumbled out his bedroom, clad in nothing but his shirt and rubbing sleep out of your eyes. As if Bucky’s demand for more time and the image of him cooking breakfast wasn’t jarring enough, the kiss he planted on your cheek before heading out the door for work was enough to send you running for the hills.

An early flight home, a sorry excuse of unexpected rehearsals, and four missed calls from Bucky later, you were back in the familiar safety of your apartment, where no situation-ship nor his irritatingly tender actions could taunt you with visions of something more.

“I’m sorry,” you say. It’s equal parts truth, equal parts lie. You are apologising, just not for the reasons he thinks. “Things have been hectic the last few months with the show starting, and I’ve been helping a friend do-up her apartment in my free time, and-” a pause for a sigh. “I just haven’t been able to fly out to D.C.”

“Poor girl,” the congressman tuts, having now gathered the fabrics of your skirt and bunched them up the pathway of your thighs, inches away from exposing the very unsexy panties you’re wearing. In your defence, you did not know Bucky was coming and, at the time of getting ready to take the stage, comfort seemed more practical than seductive. “You’re supposed to tell me when the world stretches you thin. Stretching you is my job.”

In spite of the fact your eyes roll, his words dig their talons in and pierce your mind, unleashing a wave of lust down to your loins. Nerves that buzz with excitement, you’re slowly becoming a live-wire that threatens to electrocute the man who’s insistent on torturing you with a gentle prod and a teasing tongue.

“Did those little quips of yours work back in the day?” You press your foot to his vibranium shoulder and give a powerless shove.

In an act of servitude, the congressman pretends to be moved by your uncompelling strength, teetering back only to come back and snake himself a little closer, a littler further up your legs, the press of bitten-to-bluntness nails grazing over the crease where thigh meets glute.

“Things were naughtier than you think in the 40s. A society rooted in modesty breeds dirty secrets.”

Bucky may not mean to, but he’s conjuring something sickening inside of you. Something that is bitter to the taste, and ice cold in your veins, and stings at your pride.

You don’t want to know about his previous conquests; you want to live in the ignorance of believing you’re the first to satiate his appetite, the only to ever do things the way he likes.

“I mean it though,” he unexpectedly continues, rounding the insides of your legs, brushing over the seam of your underwear. “Don’t shoulder stress alone, put some of it on me. If you can’t fly to D.C., let me cross the distance and be here for you.”

How can he so flippantly ask such a thing of you? How does he manage to spew out words not even the most intimate of partners in your life have ever offered, while wearing the smile of a friendly neighbour and the eyes of a hungered lover?

Breathing feels heavier.

You shift your weight atop vanity, distract yourself with a search for balance on top of the aged wood, leaning back to feel the cool press of a mirror against burning skin.

The distance makes no difference, Bucky follows after you with the urgency of a dog pleading for scraps at a dinner table, down at your feet wearing a pleading look and nearly panting for a taste.

Butterflies fluttering around in the walls of your guts, you reach for the security of sarcasm, “Did you come here to monologue, Congressman Barnes, or do you intend to actually put that mouth of yours to good use?”

A squeal is the only appropriate response when Bucky responds with a sharp tap against your clothed core, three strong fingers coming down firmly against the dampening spot of your panties.

“A leading lady shouldn’t be so desperate.”

“And a congressman should be responsible enough to not flee the state the night before an important meeting,” you challenge his stare with a pointed look, nearly unconscious to how his fingers thread beneath the waistband of your underwear and how your hips lift off the surface to aid his ventures in removing them. “Yet here we both are.”

A grimace overcomes you as the congressman tugs your panties off your ankles.

Before Bucky, you had never cared about something as trivial as what kind of underwear you chose to walk out the door wearing. Now, the drawer at the side of your bed is overflowing with all colours of lace and scraps of satin.

In your defence, while it may have started as a way to quell the choir of insecurity ringing in your ears every time a rendezvous between you two sizzled on the horizon, the fancy regalia have quickly become a weapon you wield, something that adorns you like a bow wraps around a gift, the icing on the metaphorical cake that is the gift of you.

Naturally, you’re regretting having opted for something a little more modest, like a part of you is missing and has been replaced by the simple white cotton.

When Bucky shows no pause in their presence and mindlessly tosses them somewhere over his shoulder, you feel a little sick. While you don’t want him to care nor to question the change from the sensual attire he typically sees you in, the least he could do is notice.

Your name echoes between the cracks of the doorframe.

Hands grip at either side of your waist, buried beneath layers of costume, and sharply tug you to the edge of the vanity, “They’re looking for you, prima donna.”

“Then let me go greet them,” you offer with no conviction. Troubling as his presence may be, you would not trade the sight of him on his knees for the world, the galaxy, the entire tangled thread of the multiverse.

“You should know by now,” you feel Bucky’s voice, mere inches from where liquid arousal coats your folds. “I’m too selfish to share.”

Two things knock the air out of your lungs: first his choice of words, and then the kiss he presses to your clit.

Bucky doesn’t like to rush.

Time is nothing but a concept he bends and shapes to his own will, capturing a single second and somehow finding the power to stretch it into an hour or a lifetime. It always starts slow, teasing drags of rosebud lips over your most delicate parts. Kisses smooth as velvet pressed tenderly to a bundle of nerves, teasing the yet to come.

When alas he lets his tongue come out to play — a simple kitten lick over your clit, teasing himself with the taste of you — your legs involuntarily squeeze around his head and a strangled cry rips weakly through your abused vocal cords.

“I know, baby, you’re all sensitive. ‘S been too long for her,” head turned, he speaks into your thigh as both hands grip your knees and tentatively spread you open, fully on display for Bucky to marvel at. “But I need you to relax. These thighs can suffocate me later. Right now I jus’ wanna touch you how I like.”

If not for the tongue delving further down, cutting through the seam of your cunt, you would be keening at his voice alone as it slips into that endearing Brooklyn lilt that so often appears in the privacy of the bedroom — the undressing room, in this case.

The costume clings to your skin with perspiration, the front of it bundled up to your waist while the trail of the dress sits comfortably beneath your ass and dangles down to Bucky’s kneeling figure. Tomorrow, when you tiptoe around a spotlight and toil through song with the two male leads, the memory of tonight — Bucky between your legs and mouthing at your pussy — will tease the fraying edges of your mind, tempting you with distraction.

Like thunder within a stormy sky, a groan rumbles from between your legs. Lighting strikes in the form of his tongue breeching the surface of your hole, the pink tip barely pressing into the tight squeeze of your walls. Where fingers once pressed against your knees, they now burn fingerprints into the meat of your thighs, finding anchor in the heat of skin.

Never has a man devoured you quite like him.

Pre-Bucky, the thought of any lover finding pleasure in serving at your feet, or laying you down like a feast, or dragging you up the length of a wall and forcing your hands to grip at the ceiling in search of stability as two biceps — one muscle, the other metal — pin your thighs down to his shoulders, it had seemed maddening, outlandish, pure fantasy stripped directly from one of those bodice ripper romance novels that line the walls of the clit-terature section at your local grocers.

The congressman brings each of those fantasies to life, proves himself to be more than a willing participant.

He does not eat you out, no — he savours you, peels you apart slowly like a fruit, ripe and ready to have its sweetness drank up by his eager tongue. What starts with a press of lips and a lap of tongue, devolves into something more when his hand joins the mix. Always the thumb first, pressing at the pearl of your cunt and rubbing in a soothing circle. Then the index and middle join the fray, mouth latching back onto your clit as fingers dance over puffy lips and part them as easy as dear Mosses parted the sea.

“Dulcissima (so sweet),” Bucky kisses into your skin, marking you with the seriousness behind his whispered sweet-nothings. “How does she keep getting sweeter, darling?”

“Buck,” an incomplete version of his name is all you manage, lips parting with a repressed moan as you feel him sink into you, knuckles deep in a matter of seconds and curling his digits up against your gummy walls.

Outside, something slams against the door and sends an ice-cold shockwave down your spine.

Before you can attempt to flee from his hold, Bucky winds his hand around your left ankle and guides your foot over the hardened bulge between his legs. No pressure placed against it, the congressman simply holds you there, laying the cards of his desire flat on the table with no shame as he repeatedly edges his fingers out only to burrow them that little bit deeper.

The madness of the situation pounds against the door to the rational side of your brain.

Your dressing room is unlocked, completely willing and able to let any curious outsider spill into the room to be greeted with a most scandalous set of optics: a congressman staining the smoke grey of his suit with dust as he takes refuge against the half naked body of Broadway’s freshest face, her chin nearly glued to her sternum to bear witness to the view below and one foot resting against the boner confined beneath the man’s layers of clothing.

Were such a scandal to ensue, a career ending review would be the least of your concerns.

Teeth clamping down on your bottom lip, you choke back a moan.

“Why so silent, hmm?” The question Bucky poses is casual, as though he doesn’t follow it up with rocking his hips against the pressure of your foot, manufacturing friction straight to his aching cock while he pulls back to watch as pussy lips sit snug around the base of his fingers. “You were so willing to sing fo’ the crowd, but you won’t even give me one measly note? You aren’t playing nice, baby.”

You must be losing touch with reality, you’re sure of it.

Clamping down on the edge of the vanity, you try to rush oxygen into your chest and up to your brain only to have the breath stolen from you in the form of a whine, eyes rolling back while his tongue sinks fully into you, all pretence of opening you up thrown out the window as the congressman deems you ripe to eat.

“You’re not playing nice, Buck-aah,” not quite a gasp, not quite a moan, yet it pleases him all the same.

Head forcing itself impossibly deeper between your thighs, nose clashing against the throb of your clit, cock rutting unabashedly against the curve of your foot — the portrait Bucky paints on his knees may seem glazed in desperation yet he possesses complete control over you.

He’s a conductor, building the symphony that is you to a crescendo certain to put all the greats to shame. A string quartet tangles in your loins, pulling tighter with each note his tongue plays against you. You are the violin, he the bow, and the friction between you births a tune so pure it brings tears to your eyes.

You’re so close, Bucky can taste it, brows furrowing in concentration between your legs as he focuses on guiding you all the way to the sweet relief of-

“Hey, are you ready to leave?” The recognizable voice of your agent calls from outside the door, a series of knocks preceding her words. “The car’s just driving around the block.”

Oh no.

Oh shit.

Oh fuck.

“The after-party!” You whisper-yell, more to yourself than to the emerging figure between your legs. You turn away from where he searches the room for your discarded panties, gaze locking onto the door as you slip off the vanity onto shaky legs. Two measured breaths that do nothing to slow your heart, and then you finally muster the strength to reply. “Just a minute!”

“Are you struggling to get out your costume? I know the corset can be a bit awkward, I can help if you-”

“No!” The exclaim sounds stripped right from a low-budget horror, as your eyes widen and watch the door handle lower. Luckily, your agent releases it before it can unlatch the opening. You clear your throat, hands contorting around your back and shooting straight for the costume’s ties. “Uh, no, thank you, I’m fine! Just packing my bag, I’ll meet you at the car.”

Barely one step falls from your agent before you feel Bucky hovering near your back, panties hooked over his fingers.

“I got it,” he chuckles softly, swatting away your panicking hands, that only seem to have made the knot at your back tighter. One second is all it takes for him to get it loosened, nimble fingers unthreading the strings with precision. “So, should I be offended you’re still keeping me as your dirty secret?”

The lump in your throat is more uncomfortable than the wetness between your legs. It almost feels like it’s pressing against your gag reflex, threatening to spew your heart out onto the floor for Bucky to observe in mockery before he stomps on it with his expensive shoes.

“What was I supposed say?” Deflection is easily hidden beneath an outraged cackle, sweaty palms wiped against the fabric of your dress. “Oh hey, come on in! What was that? ‘Why is esteemed Congressman James Barnes between my legs?’ Because he’s eating me out, silly!”

Unamused by your sarcasm, the vanity’s mirror reveals how the congressman rolls his eyes while re-tightening your corset in an act of punishment. Even then, he’s careful not to hurt you, and quick to undo the ties once more.

“You didn’t need to send her away,” like a child sulking over a denied play-date, Bucky nudges his head against yours, nose brushing over your scalp before he presses a kiss to the crown of it, winding his hold around your waist. “It wouldn’t be a crime to be caught in my arms, y’know.”

It may not be a crime by any laws, but it would certainly be a crime against your own sanity. To be caught would mean to be questioned, and to be questioned would mean to struggle for answers.

Perhaps if Bucky were any other man, one who’s entire existence was not a defiance of both nature and nurture, one who isn’t the unwilling centre of attention of every room he walks into, one who hasn’t just committed himself to a life of politics, or one who hadn’t stood on a battlefield and gunned down alien life forces. If he were ordinary… Maybe then you wouldn’t have to worry.

But the congressman is anything but ordinary.

Wishing it away won’t change who he is, nor the life he has lead, nor the attention fixated on his existence, and so the worry will persist.

You cannot have people know about your complicated friendship with Congressman Barnes, because knowing about that is one step away from knowing about your increasingly complicating feelings.

“It’s more hassle than this is worth,” you speak offhandedly, not meaning to offend Bucky, and yet somehow you feel like you have.

His arms fall from your waist.

“Look, I’m gonna go-”

“Bucky.”

“Let me finish, baby,” he grips your shoulders when you turn to face him, apologies in your stare that he won’t give you the chance to speak aloud. Instead, he’s soothing his thumbs over your arms and offering you a barely-there smile. “I’m gonna go back to your apartment, okay? This is your night, go have fun and, when you’re tired, come home to me. Just… Make sure to text me when you arrive at, and leave the party. I like to know you’re safe.”

The cab rolls onto your street sometime past two am.

Exhausted, wind-swept, and verging on tipsy, the elevator ride up to your apartment is spent with your head against cold metal and eyes shut tight, blocking out the flickering white light above you. By the time you’re pushing the heavy door to your apartment open, you’re just about ready to collapse onto the nearest surface and give in to Lady Sleep.

Until you spot Bucky’s shoes, tucked neatly by the entrance and slotted perfectly beside the miscellaneous mess of your own footwear. A giddy feeling creeps up your spine as you unhook the straps to your heels and lay the pair neatly next to his dress-shoes.

To the untrained eye, both pairs of shoes tell the tale of a respectable couple.

He overworks, she overspends, and they bicker over the lowest stakes imaginable. Fridays are date nights, while Sundays are for takeaways and snuggling into the couch to watch a movie. Each morning he wakes her with a kiss to her forehead, while each night she brushes the overgrown wisps of hair away from his eyes. Their friends no longer question if the two will marry but when, and the future holds more promise than threat.

Oh what a hindrance on the human soul, to be cursed with an overly imaginative mind! The flicker of a candle saves you from yourself.

No, not a candle — many candles, lining the surfaces of your apartment, a beacon of light driving you towards the bedroom. Following a trail of scattered rose petals, you find yourself faced with what might be the most erotic scene splayed across your bed: Bucky Barnes, fully dressed, bow-tie loosened, and snoring into the softness of your pillow.

Carefully treading towards the mattress, your gaze remains fixated upon the sleeping congressman. A basket sits at your bedside, a sarcophagus for petal-less roses picked right down to their stems. Paired with the red tint staining the fingertips of his right hand, it seems Bucky plucked each flower by himself.

One knee pressing down on the bed, you lean over the congressman and brush the nonexistent hair from his forehead, a cruel imitation of the imaginary shoe-couple. Hollow as your heart may feel, something about having him in your room like this — not in pursuit of pleasure and warmth, but in need of rest, seeking refuge upon the very same pillow as you — it makes sense. Like he is a part of the furniture, a permanent fixture in the space you call home.

Bucky’s eyebrows furrow and a groan punctuates his stirring figure. Just when you expect him to wake, he rolls onto his side and snuggles deeper atop your bedsheets. The fist around your heart clenches tighter, just like his grabs at the corner of your pillow.

Emboldened by the lingering buzz of champagne, you trace your touch down from his temple to his cheeks. Time’s spider must have burrowed itself into his skin, for the beginning webs of crow’s feet and frown lines have been weaved into his face. Politics has aged him, his outside slowly catching up to that old-soul it houses within.

Much to your chagrin, it only makes Bucky more handsome.

“You’re staring,” you nearly jump out of your skin as he speaks, eyes still closed and breathing still lax. He looks perfectly asleep — is this another of his assassin tricks?

“I’m not,” your lie breaks his cool demeanour, the tiniest smile splitting across his stoic face. “I’m trying to decide how to punish you for nearly burning down my apartment.”

He springs up so fast you swear you hear his spine snap, “There’s a fire? Where? C’mon, need to get you out-”

“Cool it, Mr Congress, I said nearly,” you push down against his chest, forcing him back onto the bed before his feet can meet the ground. Refusing to lay down, he settles for sitting bent at the waist, one hand snaking round the back of your neck and pulling your forehead to his. “What kind of idiot falls asleep after lighting enough candles to guide a plane to landing?”

“Your kind of idiot,” he musses, moments before his lips capture your own. The kiss is not possessive, nor meant to send your psyche spiralling down into a pit of lust. It’s merely a way of greeting you, like a welcome mat at the door or a wave from across the street. “Sorry, doll, I didn’t mean to. Been so busy lately, guess I didn’t realise how tired I was.”

“And you have the nerve to complain that I shoulder stress alone?” Speaking of shoulders, his right one is full of knots, stiff as a board when your fingers press into the muscle. “You should have called.”

You’re not exactly sure what you wanted him to call about: his busy schedule or his appearance tonight.

“Would you have answered?” Gently as he asks, it still manages to punch you in the gut. “It’s so hard to get through to you, sometimes I think you’re dodging my calls.”

You haven been… But Bucky doesn’t need to know that. “Sorry, I’ve had rehearsals, and costume fittings, and-”

“I know, it’s okay,” his hands hook at the back of your knees, pulling you into his lap as he throws his legs over the side of the bed, feet pressing to the cold floor. “That’s why I decided to not bother you and just… Showed up instead. Figured you could use a little in-person support.”

Why does he have to say it like that, in-person support? Why does he have to leave it ambiguous enough for your heart to long for more? Why can he never just call it what it is? Two adults blowing off steam together, with no strings to bind them.

Shuffling further up his lap, you lay your palm over his jaw and tilt his face back. If Bucky will not outright say it, you’ll take matters into your own hands and satisfy those hedonistic needs. Ocean blue eyes staring up into your own, you count the lashes as your head dips lower, breath ghosting over his lips.

“You were breathtaking up on that stage-” cut off mid-sentence, Bucky melts easily into the kiss you plant on him.

Eyelids flutter shut, shoulders relax, arms wind over your waist — the congressman welcomes you in with open mouthed and flushed skin. Possession is a venom and your lips are the fangs, sinking in and infecting his bloodstream. Blind to the corruption, Bucky holds you closer, palm spread flat against you, mid-back, and pinning you both chest to chest.

Teeth scraping over the swell of his bottom lip, the groan you rouse sends a shiver crawling down your spine and melting into the rising heat of your loins. Mirroring his earlier actions against the vanity, Bucky drinks you in, tongue eager to taste every crevice of your kisses.

Once, months ago, beneath the light of daylight searing through a hotel’s window and between frantic attempts to discard layers of clothing, the congressman told you he hungered for you, craved you like a bodily need. What you disregarded as nothing more than words slurred in a fit of lust are more and more proving themselves to be Bucky’s personal gospel, a prayer dedicated to no other than you.

You taste him too, tongue laving into the molten warmth of him. Peppermint, and whisky, and day-old cigarettes stain his affection, a heady mixture that pulls your mind out from its own orbit and drags it into him, handing over ownership to a man that’s in no better state than you are: panting into your mouth, smushing his nose against your cheek, rolling his hips up into the swell of your thigh, cock hard and aching and straining beneath tailored pants.

The buzz of a phone ruins your fun.

You pull back, a string of spit connecting your lips, untethered when he turns his face over to the nightstand and reaches for the object of interruption. Before you can even attempt to crawl out his lap, that vibranium hand plants itself firmly around your thigh and pins you in place, all the while Bucky remains nonchalant as he swipes up on his phone.

You watch those hawk eyes scan over an offensively bright screen, casting a hue of white across his pretty face and illuminating a shadow over his brows. His hold on you tightens momentarily, metal fingers flexing as if to whisper ‘don’t move’ against your flesh. Then, he tosses the device to the side and pulls you back in.

Your jaw in his grasp, he tilts your head to the side and deepens earlier’s kiss, tonguing so deeply into your mouth it’s a miracle you don’t choke on him. You meet his fire with gasoline, knees dimpling the mattress while you shift your weight fully onto his groin.

A chain reaction sparks, one where his bulge pokes against the damp patch of your panties and your hips wind down against it, a slow burn of friction lighting both your nerves with want.

“My girl,” face turning, he sighs those words against your cheek, baby blues trapped behind closed eyelids. Vibranium grips punishingly at your thigh before trading skin for skirt, tangling itself in fabric. “D’you want some help out this dress?”

There’s a high chance Bucky doesn’t even notice how eagerly you nod your head, too busy focusing on his mission of dragging the dress up your torso and over your head, tossing it somewhere on the bedroom floor and leaving you in nothing but cotton panties.

A hot summer night, no breeze in the air and, yet, goosebumps rise down your navel, a pathway that the congressman’s mouth is quick to walk down. Your nipples harden before a single kiss is even placed upon them, prodding against Bucky’s tongue as he laves over your right breast.

While he covers your chest in kisses, you glide his jacket off broad shoulders and weave his tie from around his neck. With a whine of Bucky’s name, you pull at his hair and arch your back into him, head thrown back while the congressman continues to trace his mouth over your skin.

Bucky is as submissive as a guard dog, aggressive to all but his handler. For reasons unknown to yourself, he appears to have deemed you safe to handle him months ago, willingly giving his body over to your whims.

“Don’t hold back,” Bucky’s lips are swollen and pink, grinning up at you as he shifts you onto his thigh. “Use me.”

You barely manage a single roll of your hips before that damn phone buzzes again.

He reaches for it with immediacy, so much so that you feel a twinge of guilt for wanting to snatch it out his palm and toss it out the nearest window. Who knew it was possible to feel jealous of a hunk of lithium and aluminium?

Because that’s exactly what you are, jealous of the device that’s holding his attention captive while you’re perched in his lap, nearly nude, and dragging your soaked cunt back and forth over his thigh. Seconds blur into minutes of the congressman scrolling his screen, the corners of his mouth stretching wider the longer he stares at the offensive burn of blue light, all the while you’re losing your patience.

Bucky, conscious enough of your desperate efforts for stimulation, pinches at the skin of your hip, vibranium plates imprinting themselves into flesh and forcing you to wear his touch like a branding — the price of his subservience is to match it with equal measure; mind, body and soul delivered into the palms of his eager hand.

A slow grind over hard muscle, the wet patch of your panties grows tenfold, staining the grey of his suit in liquid lust. Madness is the only word tailored to fit the way he makes you feel, a low effort put behind how he holds you in place, metal wrist moving fluidly alongside your hips and aiding you as you continue to ride his thigh.

“Bucky,” you rasp as the cotton snags along the seam of your pussy, outlining the shape of your folds. You lay claim over his cheek, trying your best to turn his stare away from the screen and down to the erotic dance of your body winding down on him. “Look at me.”

“Just a minute,” uninterested as he may seem, Bucky catches you off-guard and clenches his thigh, shooting juts of pleasure up the length of your spine as you grind over the ridge of super-soldier muscle. Nails piercing into his shoulder, you steal his gaze back for a moment, just long enough for him to witness your heavy-lidded gaze and lips parting in the shape of his name. “Let me finish reading this.”

“The only thing you should be finishing is me.”

“You seem to have that under control yourself, baby,” he mutters, his left hand offering a supportive caress from hip to lower back, and down again to pin you against his leg.

There’s an aspect of his touch that hurts, clit flattened and smothered. But then there’s other side of it, where you physically throb into his thigh and taste the headiness of metal beneath your tongue, blood rushing anywhere and everywhere but your cerebrum — thoughts are off the table and all that remains is to feel.

You grant him two more minutes of scrolling and, then, the phone is in your grasp.

Where you expect Bucky to fight back, pin the device against his chest and deny you the view of whatever — or, worse, whoever — has his focus locked onto the very same phone he protested against needing, he instead gives it to you willingly. Eagerly, in fact, brows jumping up his forehead and a cheesy grin overtaking his handsome face.

The bright red font of a breaking headline — Upcoming starlet steals the show with the sound of her music!

“They all loved you,” Bucky matches his voice to the moment, intimate and gentle like the hands trailing up your skin, grounding you to the bed as your mind ascends elsewhere, tears brimming at your eyes as you scroll through the review. “How could they not?”

His phone buzzes in your grasp, a notification bubble that reads a new headline — Don’t worry, Miss Christine Daaé, we’ll definitely be thinking of you.

“Did you-” Your heart clogs your windpipe, choking down the words as you try to speak. “Is this a google alert?”

His nod is sheepish, his ears red and his demeanour sincere, “Needed to see what the rest of the world thinks of my little starlet.”

A chill to rival the Artic washes over you, from top to bottom, as a tear at last slips down your cheek. The congressman catches it before it travels far, mouth pressing against flesh and wiping away the salty residue.

Overwhelmed, under-loved, and wishing he would make things easier on your feelings, you blindly swipe over his screen, vision blurred and searching for a camera icon.

Mind at last made up, you do your best to swallow back the lump in your throat.

Tonight will be the last time you let yourself have this, have him. And so, you may as well leave with a trace, something to be remembered by, something for him to miss.

Pressing the phone back into his grasp, camera open and pointed at where your cunt rests on his thigh, you try to memorise how quickly his pupils dilate at the display on his screen, the effect your naked skin has on a man who’s very existence is composure.

“If you’re not going to lock your phone,” you shift atop him and, a second later, the screen catches up, a mirrored version of you moving too. “You better be looking at me.”

Like fish to bait, Bucky’s hooked within a second, studying the device with more interest than ever before. A display of pure eroticism taking place in 4K, the camera captures the renewed sway of your waist, clothed crotch grinding slowly over his pants. A puddle of desperation and need stains the fabric, and you can’t help but hope he thinks of you the next time he wears these, hope he’ll glance down in the middle of a mind-numbingly boring meeting in an attempt to avoid rolling his eyes at one of his fellow congress members and suddenly he’ll picture you in his lap.

If undressing is the price of being longed for, even if only through physical reminiscing, you’ll gladly pay it to haunt Bucky to the end of the line.

Phone in one grasp, his other hand roams freely over your body — gripping at your thigh, soothing over your mid-riff, tickling down your back, pinching at your nipples. Your head falls to his shoulder as the mutual torture continues, each touch a greater curse than the last.

“You’re so-” Your congressman is at a loss for words, transfixed with watching you come undone on screen, in his lap, atop his thigh.

It’s your turn to cum without a warning, legs locking up and fingers gripping Bucky’s hair, tugging all sorts of noises out of him as you whine and whimper, mouth turned to meet his own as he swallows the song of your pleasure.

Just as you lose yourself in his kiss for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, Bucky pulls back.

“These,” he drags out the word, index fingers sliding over the soiled cotton of your panties. When the tip finds your clit, he delivers two deliberate circled motion against it, delighting in how you throw your head back and your hips twitch with overstimulation, the remnants of an orgasm still lingering along your nerve endings. “Are soaking, baby.”

You still have half the mind to feel embarrassed, heat creeping over your cheeks as you suddenly remember how certifiably unappealing your underwear is. “Sorry, didn’t think you’d show up.”

“Why’re you apologising?” You almost believe Bucky’s confusion is sincere. If ever he decides to give up on congress, he has a promising acting career ahead.

“They’re not exactly the sexiest thing I could wear.”

“Are you messin’ with me?” The congressman is outraged. “They’re cute.”

“I think you mean ugl-” Bucky silences you, grappling at your jaw with one hand and forcing you to look him in the eye.

“You just made yourself cum against my thigh, and now you’re so wet that I can see her through your panties,” every one of his words is dripping in wonder, the most innocent of smiles crossing over his face as he spews sentences congress would crucify him for. “There’s nothing ‘unsexy’ about you.”

“Shut up,” there’s no oomph behind your order, no commanding tone to get the ex-soldier to obey.

All you can muster is a shove to his shoulder, bashful in nature and delivered weakly.

Against your thigh, his cock strains heavy in its confines, begging through fabric to be set free and enveloped in the warmth of your cunt.

You wrestle with the buttons of his shirt, yearning to have him match your state of undress. The sleeves roll down his arms, clinging momentarily where sweat lingers before collapsing to the mattress and pooling around his figure.

“Sit still for me, doll,” Bucky splays his palm over your midriff, tilting you back while his other hand brings his phone back into view, camera app still very much open and tempting someone to press the white circle. “Looks so pretty, she deserves a picture. Am I allowed?”

The nodding of your head comes before the realisation — try as you might to change your ways, Bucky has you wrapped around those vibranium fingers, willing to bend and break to grant his every wish. Fortunately for you, this request only requires you to sit there and look ‘pretty’.

Camera angled down at where your cum marks his thigh, the flash winks at you as he captures the moment.

“Don’t worry,” he says, phone pulled up to his face as two fingers zoom in on you. “This won’t be for sharing.”

Somewhere in the night, this goes from one picture to a feature film.

Splayed out on the bedroom floor, Bucky has you speaking in tongue, eyes rolling into the back of your skull while he splits you open on his cock, every thrust sending you to a new plain of existence. Back against hardwood and both legs dangling from the congressman’s slutty little waist, you lay there losing your bearings.

“Eyes on me, baby,” he directs, right hand effortlessly tilting your hips and burrowing himself deeper, blissfully unaware to the burn in your core as he borders on folding you in half. His left hand though, that is where he wants your attention. “Smile for the camera.”

Blissed out, you let a giggle escape your grinning lips only to throw your head back when Bucky brushes a thumb over your clit.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” the slip of his accent has your walls tightening around the girth of him, forcing his hips to stutter on their next thrust, balls slapping heavy against your flesh. He’s watching you through the screen, a cameraman dedicated to the craft of capturing the art of two bodies merging into one. “Takin’ me like she’s made for me, ain’t she?”

When you fail to answer, Bucky comes to a halt and lands a stinging hand against your clit.

“Ngh-” you grit between teeth, chin pinned to your chest as you struggle to look up at the soldier’s looming figure.

“Words, doll,” he tuts, soothing away the sting out of your clit in apology. “Need you to use ‘em. Reassure me that you’re mine, or I’ll start worrying you’re fooling around behind my back.”

Oh the irony, to tease you with accusations of bringing another lover into your bed and between your legs, while you lay here trying to memorise every streak of pink scar tissue, every line of silver stretchmarks, every freckle that dots his golden skin before you kiss him goodbye, send him off to his early flight, and never speak to him again. A full body cleanse, quitting the drug of Bucky Barnes cold turkey and with the harrowing knowledge that you’ll never want another like him.

“Who could it be, hmm?” Bucky continues to spew his fantasy version of you, the one whose heart doesn’t pick up at the sound of his name and whose mouth doesn’t miss the shape of his own when he’s not around. “One of Christine’s lover-boys?”

The mention of your character while he’s fucking the shape of you both into the floor feels like theatrical blasphemy, something holy mentioned in pure sin.

“Thought they looked a little too comfortable groping you on that stage,” it’s entirely lost on you how the hell he’s able to form full sentences while you’re struggling to even think coherently, toe-curling pleasure pouring into your bloodstream the deeper Bucky fucks you, the head of his cock battering against that spongy, soft spot inside of you.

Just as you expect, the hold he has on your heart is suffocating while yours barely manages to touch the surface of his.

“They can have a taste of you, if you want them to.” Does Bucky realise you’re on the edge of telling him to shut up? Treachery against your own mind, you feel yourself gush more, slick leaking down the swell of your ass and soaking the floor. “And when their cum drips out your unsatisfied pussy, you can crawl back to me so I can remind her why I’m what’s best for her.”

If the suffragettes were to ever know of how down-bad it gets you every time Bucky refers to your cunt like it’s a sentient being, something entirely separate from yourself, they’d likely declare feminism a lost cause and in need of complete reconstruction.

But, then again, maybe they would have decided that the moment you agreed to star in his dirty movie.

You’d always figured your on-screen debut would go a little differently than this, but hey! What screams Hollywood! more than shaky-cam footage of an aspiring actress getting pounded by an ex-assassin, alleged murderer of J.F.K., and now somehow — by miracle of the country’s greatest pardoning — turned congressman?

“‘S that sound like something you need?” Bucky’s back to fixating on the screen, camera flicking up from your joint pelvises to catch the shake of your head. “No? Then what do you need?”

The sweetest torture one could ever bare, he taps the tip of his dick against your clit. Bucky’s lips are parted, tempting you to reach up and kiss them, while he watches on video the slow grind of his cock splitting through the puffy and soaked lips of your cunt.

“You,” your lungs heave under the weight of truth, condemned as much as you are saved by the confession. “Just you, Bucky. Only yours.”

The phone slips out of his hand.

No, actually, he willingly let’s it fall, freeing up the vibranium to lay claim of the underside of your knee before he’s fulfilling that earlier promise of folding you in half.

The position is primal, damn-right animalistic as he pins you beneath your own legs and cages you against the floor with the entire weight of him on top of you, cock sliding back in with little protest from your walls as they stretch and invite him inside your pussy.

While you expect pandemonium — pound-emonium, even — the congressman takes you by surprise.

A kiss to match the fervour of before, his tongue licks into your waiting mouth. It’s sloppy, and sweet, and messy, moans tangling in the back of each other’s throats. Bucky lays a little more weight onto you, trusting you not to break under the pressure of the mating press.

“Repeat it,” finally, he’s losing composure, soliloquy reduced to a barely-there sentence. “Say it again.”

“Yours?”

Ding ding ding, right answer!

The ex-soldier rewards you with something more possessive than a mere kiss, a droplet of his saliva spat into your mouth before he takes ownership of it again.

“You’re mine, baby?” Mumbled between lip-locking, he barely gives you chance to register the fact he’s fucking you again, that slow back and forth leaving pleasure to pool in your loins. “All mine?”

“All yours.”

You’ll repeat yourself as many times as it takes, until you tire of the shape of each letter and the words lose all meaning, until Bucky believes it enough to stop gazing down at you like you’re doing him a favour, answering his prayers.

He saves you from himself, hiding his face in the crevice of your neck.

“The reviews,” he pants, breath pouring into your skin like molten lava. “They’re calling you a star.”

“Bucky! Oh my-”

He’s so deep, you feel him in your cervix, in your guts, in your throat. The greatest conqueror your world has ever seen, not a single cell remains unawakened to how it feels to have him within.

“They’re all wrong, you ain’t no star,” Bucky pauses, breathing heavy and spreading an ache through his lungs as they demand less oxygen and more you. “You’re an entire galaxy.”

You want to cry.

You want to scream.

You want to sing the whole soundtrack of your show and erupt into a big, bright, burning ball of desire set to orbit nothing other than the man pinning you to your bedroom floor and pile-driving you into what is sure to be a happy, though early, death

Le petit mort, or whatever poetry the french use to denote the momentary effect cumming has on the human psyche.

“One more,” Bucky’s pleading, stare holding yours in the most intense display of eye-contact you’ve ever witnessed. He may as well be examining your heart under a microscope, poking and prodding to see what reactions he rouses. “Tell me you’re mine, darling.”

It takes a few strangled attempts —knees knocking against your collarbones every time the soldier’s cock delves even deeper into your pussy — but you finally manage to speak.

“Yours,” there’s every bit of hope he forgot to switch off the recording, phone still open and documenting the blank ceiling with a background of your wailing. “Yours, yours, yours.”

As blinding as a camera flashing, your orgasm crashes over you in wave after unrelenting wave.

The soldier follows seconds behind, the warm, sticky mess of his cum filling your cunt as his thrusts divulge into barely-there rocks of his hips, your walls milking every last drop.

“I’m yours,” you say one last time, voice spent and in desperate need of rest.

You die beneath the weight of him, legs numb at the press of Bucky’s chest against them and mouth panting heavy breaths all over the floor while the congressman trails kisses over sweat-slicked skin.

“Shh, I know, doll," he hushes the whine that slips through your cracks when he pulls out, cum spilling out of you with his dick no longer there to plug it. “Just need to do something.”

Then, Bucky is gone for an immeasurable time.

Warmth brings you back to life, first in the shape of two arms scooping you up into an embrace, and then in the literal heat of a freshly drawn bath, complete with bubbles and the last remaining lights of the candles he lit.

With a heavy heart, you sink into the bathtub, baptised by the water’s skin-tingling burn.

It hits you all at once, heart flattened and soul crushed.

“James,” his name comes out in a whisper, eyes staring down to watch how the bubbles swirl around your chest.

The congressman acknowledges you with a grunt, flesh arm tiring itself out as he reduces toothpaste down to a frothy mixture of grit and spit. He’s slipped back into his boxers and is unknowingly driving the crack deeper trough your heart as he looks over at you, eyes wide and glossy in question, mouth verging on a smile if not for the avalanche of white spilling down his chin.

“I,” want something more than this, don’t think I can see you anymore, think you should leave. Any of the three would have been a perfect choice of words, to the point and loyal to the message you aim to get across. What a shame you say something else. “Think I love you.”

Out of the three people you have confessed your love to, this reaction might be the worst.

Because, sure, while Toby from your 8th grade maths class may have wrinkled his nose and ran away to go eat his own snot, at least he didn’t laugh.

Bucky, on the other hand, is laughing so much that he’s chocking on his own spit.

If it weren’t for the questions it would raise to be caught with a US congressman dead on your bathroom floor, you almost wish the toothpaste would send him to his belated grave.

Your glare must carry a weight to it, for he waves his hand defensively while searching for a breath between inhales of minty freshness.

That’s right, choke on Colgate, you heartless dick!

“Sorry, sorry, I just-” he finally manages, with tears brimming his eyes and foam staining his lips. Two spits into your sink and a rinse of water later, his attention is back on you. “What do you mean think?”

“I mean, I know you wanted this to just be casual but,” oh no, the pitch of your voice is rising and you sound certifiably pathetic. Send in the tears! “You don’t have to be cruel about it. I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. Trust me, I’ve been trying to squash down these feelings for months-”

Your name reverberates off the bathroom tiles, not from any yell but from a stern faced Bucky.

“What the hell are you talking about? Casual?” He spits the word back at you, toothbrush clattering into the sink as he all but collapses onto his knees by the porcelain of the bathtub. “‘S that what you think this it? Because, last I checked, this is a partnership.”

“But, you never,” tongue twisting on its own vowels, your lips blubber over silence. All the while, his dry hand is reaching out to wipe bubbles off your wet face, thumb lingering longer than necessary as though to savour the simple pleasure of having you close to him. “We never spoke about being more than-”

“Baby,” Bucky follows the term of endearment with a repeat of your name, this time much slower, like he is trying to hypnotize you into truly hearing what he’s saying. “We have keys for each others homes, half of your wardrobe lives in D.C., you’re the first person named in my will. What the hell about that is casual?”

“I’m named in your what?”

“If I was aware you needed me to write it in the sky, or get down on my knees to say it, I would have, long ago,” water spills over the edge of the tub as Bucky hooks a hand behind your neck and drags you closer. “But I don’t have to think about if I love you. I just know.”

Just like that, Toby’s back in the lead for Worst Confession Ever.

The plane touches down an hour before he’s due in congress.

He waits fourteen minutes at the airport because his assistant is caught in traffic.

The congressional meeting drones on two hours longer than it needs to because politicians love the sound of their own voices.

He treats himself to take-out, too tired to cook once he steps through the door of his home.

He misses you already.

You know all of this because, when he calls, you pick up. Mid-stirring your spoon in a cup of coffee, a face-mask sitting uncomfortably slimy on your face, and a bowl of half-eaten pasta waiting to be devoured, the scene feels horrifically domestic as you lean your elbows on the kitchen counter, phone pressed to your ear and a smile splitting your cheeks in half.

You and your congressman catch each other up on the hours apart, before duty calls and you find yourself back in your dressing room, sitting in a make-up chair instead of perched atop the vanity.

“Fifteen minutes until curtain!” A discombobulated voice seeps beneath the door, reminding you that there’s a reason why your ribs are currently being pinched inwards beneath the pressure of an overly-tight corset.

It’s okay, it’s worth it, it will loosen once you’re out on that stage and sweating under the spotlight. Right now, your main concern is watching the screen in your hand, the same tiktok playing on loop for what must be the fiftieth time.

Posted last night by one of those overly invasive gossip sites — A!News, or GMZ, or whatever the hell it’s called — the first few frames are nothing but a shaky view of pavement, before the camera pans up to capture the shape of the same man who was kissing bubble-bath off your knuckles hours ago, the same man who laughed at your confession, the same man who’s spent the last however-long believing wholeheartedly that you two were a unit while you agonized over being separate concepts.

“Mr Barnes!” The man behind the camera bellows, offensively loud and cutting off Bucky’s much gentler greeting. Discomfort is clear in his stiff posture, yet he still takes the time to greet the paparazzi hounding around the theatre’s entry. “Who knew you were a fan of Broadway! What brings you here tonight?”

Cardboard is thrust into a vibranium hand, followed by a black marker. Bucky blinks in confusion before finally removing the cap and scribbling some form of a signature onto the board.

The frown of concentration is enough to have you giggling at the screen, or perhaps that’s just because you know what’s coming next.

“Oh, I’m, uh-” He pauses to accept another pen and paper, scribbling a signature completely different to the last one. “I’m here to support my girl.”

The statement sends the reporters and your heart into a frenzy.

“Your girl?” One of them echoes, but it’s too late.

Bucky is already gone, a wall of camera flashes casting a heavenly glow over his retreating figure.

Pavement back on screen, you sink deeper into your seat and let the video loop once more, counting down the seconds until you hear it again.

… my girl.

+ extra hyde !

· writing smut sometimes feels like the most sisyphean thing because what do you mean it’s still not done? i got my barbies (characters) naked and banged them together for a few minutes, is that not enough for you (aka me)?! · fun fact! i hate the word 'panties' & it lowkey killed me to add it in to this fic. · no unfunny meme this time around, please all marvel (teehee) at my new beta reader: funko bunky barnes !

[perfectprettypisces]

I’ve reread this one so many times and I think it’s blasphemous that I haven’t shared it just as many times 🥲

Quite possible one of the best Tyler fics I’ve ever read…

all yours ; tyler owens

fandom: twisters

pairing: tyler x reader

summary: after being best friends and chasing storms with tyler for years, one night changes everything... now you're staring at a pregnancy test with two pink lines—and just as you're working up the nerve to tell him, tyler announces to the world that he never wants to settle down or have kids

notes: i'm sorry? i want to say i have no words but apparently... i have nearly 15k of them right here!!! i don't know who this is for, i lowkey feel like it will flop because it's long and angsty, but please let me know what you think if you read this!!! i've been working on it on and off for a while, so i am very glad to finally get it posted!

warnings: swearing, angst (but happy ending), pregnancy, a lot of crying, very brief mention of abortion, very brief discussion about the possibility of losing the baby, talk about sex (18+ ONLY PLEASE), a bit of horniness, and just a lot of emotions!!! (please let me know if i missed anything)

disclaimer: i am not pregnant and have never been pregnant. all this information comes from quick google searches, and things i've read in books. so i'm very if it's wrong or dumb. please don't come for me!

word count: 14818

You’ve known Tyler Owens since you were ten. 

You’ve been chasing storms with him for nine years, and hopelessly in love with him for eight. 

You’ve laughed as he lost seven cowboy hats to tornados, and helped him replace six shattered windshields. 

You’ve loved him through five of his lousy girlfriends and four of your own doomed boyfriends. 

You’ve tried—and failed—to tell him how you feel three times. 

You’ve kissed him twice. 

And you’ve slept with him once. 

Once. Exactly three weeks ago. 

You were both drunk—though you were probably pretending to be more gone than you really were—and lonely. Sure, you’d kissed before that night—once, years ago, on a dare. But that night, the second kiss happened as you stepped out of the bar. It was misting lightly, streetlights casting a glow, and Tyler looked so damn good as he—drunkenly—told you that you looked beautiful. How were you supposed to resist that? 

Back at the motel, you tried to go your separate ways. You even made it to your room alone. You were just about to reach for your vibrator, hoping to ease the ache low in your belly, when there was a knock at the door. 

You knew who it was before you even opened it. 

Tyler. 

You let him in—because of course you did—and he was on you in seconds. There was no way you were going to push him off. You’ve been in love with him for the better part of a decade. 

It was hot and desperate. All teeth and tongue, and handprints seared into your skin—ones you know you’ll never forget the feeling of. You were both so fucking wrecked there was no stopping it. 

Not even when the condom obviously broke while he was putting it on. 

Not even when something deep in your chest told you this was a bad idea. 

But now? Three weeks later—you wish you’d had more restraint. 

Sure, it was awkward the next morning—after Tyler snuck out of your room at three a.m., thinking you hadn’t noticed. It stayed awkward for about a week, with neither of you daring to talk about it. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t bring it up. It was obviously just one night for him. Maybe he was just curious. You’ve been friends for so long. A lot of friends have slept together at least once… right? 

But even in that painfully awkward week of trying to relearn how to be friends, you couldn’t quite regret it. 

Because eventually, he cracked a joke. Then you said something sarcastic. And although there was still a hint of something more simmering under the surface, things almost felt normal again. 

Almost. 

It’s only now that you regret it—everything. 

Right now, as you stare at the two pink lines on the stick beside the sink, your vision blurred with tears, and your stomach roiling with nausea. 

The harsh crack of knuckles against the bathroom door startles you, sending your heart leaping into your throat. 

“You alright in there?” Lily calls through the wood. “It’s been like ten minutes—I’m getting worried. Do I need to break down the door?” 

You swallow the lump in your throat, willing your voice to come out steady. “Y-Yeah, I’m all good.” 

There’s a beat of silence before Lily speaks again, her voice lower this time. “Are you sure? You don’t sound good.” 

You shake your head and hastily wipe the wetness from your cheeks. Then you snap a photo of the pregnancy test before tossing it into the trash—this is just a gas station bathroom. No one’s tracing that stick back to you unless they run a DNA test, and that’s not likely. 

It’s not like you plan on going missing. Just… away. For a while. 

You splash your face with cool water and stare at your reflection in the mirror until you’re convinced you look close enough to normal. Then you square your shoulders, take a deep breath, and open the bathroom door. 

It’s only Lily waiting there—thank God—but she’s already watching you with sharp, perceptive eyes. 

“You good?” 

You nod once, forcing a smile. “Never better. Sorry. Lady stuff.” 

Technically not a lie. Still, you cringe at the way it comes out. You’re not someone who shies away from saying things plainly—especially not something as basic as a damn period. 

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t push. 

“Alright. Let’s get going. Tyler said we’re only twenty minutes out from a decent-sized town. Should be able to find good food and a motel where we don’t have to share rooms.” 

You nod again, not trusting yourself to laugh or offer a sarcastic remark. You just walk past her, the fake smile still fixed to your face, and head for the door. 

Twenty minutes later, you’re climbing out of the RV in a motel parking lot. Tyler’s truck is parked beside the reception office, his hat on the dashboard and Boone waiting in the front seat. Dani and Dexter walk ahead of you, muttering about something they saw pop up on the radar earlier, and Lily is rummaging around in the back seat of Tyler’s truck—her butt sticking out the passenger door—looking for the headphones she lost yesterday. 

Your heart aches at the thought of leaving, throbbing dully behind your sternum. You’re not sure if the nausea swirling in your gut is from the idea of walking away from your friends—your family—or because of your newly discovered… condition. Either way, you feel sick. And you need space. Time to think. To breathe. 

Once everyone has a room, you lug your few belongings up to the second floor and collapse onto the bed. You text Lily, telling her you feel sick sick—period pains—and that you’re going to skip dinner. You ask her to tell the others for you, because you can’t stomach lying to their faces. 

You spend the next few hours on your laptop, reading everything you can about pregnancy. You scroll through pages about what happens to your body, how your life is going to change. You read about complications, risks, even abortion. 

It’s strange, really. You’ve always been practical, logical. And this doesn’t seem like the practical choice. But you knew the second you saw those two lines that you were going to keep it. 

Call it maternal instinct. Or just plain insanity. Either way, your mind is made up. 

Now you just need a plan. 

Most people don’t announce their pregnancy until twelve weeks—you know that much—so you’re giving yourself twelve weeks to sort your shit out. 

First, you need to leave. You’ll make up some excuse about a sick family member and tell the crew your mom needs you immediately. Tyler will try to come with you—call it a detour or a bonus road trip—so you’ll have to convince him your mom only wants to see you. No one else. 

Then you’ll leave for... an indefinite stretch. You’re not going straight to your mom’s. You’ll hole up in a hotel halfway home, see a doctor, get the blood tests, the shots, the supplements—all the crap you’re supposed to do. 

Once your head is on straighter and you’ve got a handle on things, you’ll start looking for an apartment. Something short-term, just in case… well, in case you lose the baby. At least then you’ll have somewhere to crash and recover before deciding what comes next. It feels morbid, sure, but you’re not a total daydreamer. Life can be brutal, and you know better than to think you’ll be spared. 

But assuming things go well—assuming you hit that twelve-week mark after moving in—that’s when you’ll start telling people. You’ll tell your mom first, maybe find a therapist and tell them too. And then... Tyler. 

The moment his name crosses your mind, your body reacts. You jump up from the motel bed and stumble into the tiny bathroom, hunching over the toilet and gagging like you’re going to throw up. But nothing comes up—your stomach is empty. You know this isn’t the pregnancy making you sick. It’s the thought of telling him. 

It feels cruel, waiting three whole months before telling the father. But you can’t bring yourself to do it any sooner. You know this isn’t what Tyler wants. Especially not with you. What happened between you was a one-time thing—a fun night, a way to blow off steam. It wasn’t meant to change everything. 

So you’ll wait. Make sure it’s real. Make sure it’s sticking. Plain and simple. Harsh? Maybe. But you need time to figure yourself out before dropping a bomb on him. And by the time you do, it’ll be six months to impact. Give or take. 

You have no idea how he’ll react, but you know it won’t be like one of those social media videos where the dad cries and jumps for joy. No—this will be very different. Which is exactly why you’re not telling him for at least a month or two. You’ll figure out exactly how far along you are once you see a doctor. 

You take a deep breath and snap your laptop shut. Time to get some sleep. You’ve got a full day of driving tomorrow, and you’re going to need the energy. 

- 

“What?” Tyler drops his bacon back onto the plate, staring at you wide-eyed across the diner table. “If you’re going home, then we’re all-” 

“No, Tyler,” you interrupt, sighing as you stare down at the table. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “She said just me. I know you want to help, but I don’t know how long I’ll have to stay. I’ll call as soon as I get there and keep you updated. I just—she sounded really fragile, alright? I don’t want to overwhelm her.” 

It doesn’t feel like that much of a lie. You’re not talking about your mom—you’re talking about yourself. At least, that’s how you justify it to your guilty conscience. 

“You sure?” Lily asks, leaning forward beside Tyler. “We don’t have to go see her. We can just come to town, hang out nearby. We don’t mind staying a week or so.” 

You take a deep breath, eyes locked on your untouched plate of plain toast and fried eggs. “It might not be a week,” you say, bracing yourself. “It could be a couple of months.” 

“Months?” Dani echoes, her coffee cup clattering against the table. 

Tyler looks stunned, frozen in place. His expression is unreadable—shock, maybe disbelief, etched into every line of his face. His lips are slightly parted—lips you haven’t stopped thinking about, hot on your skin—and his brows pinch together. His cheeks are flushed, but not with embarrassment. He looks... unsure. Concerned. 

“What are we going to do without you for a couple months?” Lily asks, her eyes wide. 

You wave a hand, trying to sound nonchalant. “You’ll be fine. I’ll only be a phone call away. If I can come back earlier, I will. But right now, I really need to be there for... for my mom.” 

God, you’re a terrible liar this morning. 

“When do you need to leave?” Tyler asks, his voice low and flat. 

You swallow hard, still staring at your toast. “Today.” 

A wave of protests, questions, and complaints breaks out—everyone but Tyler. He stays silent, still watching you like he’s trying to piece something together. Like you’re a puzzle he didn’t realise needed solving. 

He looks at you like he sees straight through the lie. His green eyes don’t blink, and it makes your stomach churn. 

For the next half hour, you lie and deflect as best you can. You keep your head down, your answers short. No promises, no explanations. Breakfast turns into a full-blown protest, your friends more upset than you expected by your sudden departure. But no matter how hard they try, nothing could convince you to stay. 

You can’t. 

Back at the motel, you pack your things. You’d already asked Dexter to drive you to the nearest car rental place—he grumbled but agreed. Now comes the part you’re dreading. 

The goodbyes. 

To them, this is temporary—a month or two, maybe. But you know better. This is something else. Something longer. More permanent. 

Moisture stings your eyes as you zip your duffel shut. Your nose burns, and this time, you don’t stop the tears from falling. 

“Hey,” Tyler’s voice startles you, and you realize in your rush to get into the room, you hadn’t fully shut the door. 

You sniff and wipe your cheeks, keeping your back to him. “Hey.” You clear your throat. “What’s up?” 

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re seriously asking me that?” 

You don’t respond. You just keep your head down and continue stuffing the last of your things into your backpack. 

He sighs as the door clicks shut behind him. A few steps bring him closer, and you can almost feel his warmth hovering just a few feet behind you. 

“Look,” he says gently, “I’m not going to press you about what’s really going on. But it’s obvious something’s got you rattled. I just want you to know that I’m here for you. We all are. Whatever it is.” 

You close your eyes, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks. 

“I’m worried,” he continues. “This isn’t you. Cutting and running like this? I know you. I know your family. This is something else. And I’m really damn worried.” 

“It’s fine, Ty,” you say, your voice catching in your throat, the words barely a whisper. 

“No, it’s not.” He steps closer, and now his warmth is unmistakable—his presence pressing in, impossible to ignore. “You don’t have to tell me everything, but I need you to promise me you’ll be okay. That you’ll come back.” 

You drop the sweater you’ve been folding and refolding, letting it fall from your hands. He reaches out, his fingers wrapping gently around your bicep, coaxing you to turn toward him. Then he lifts your chin with one curled finger, forcing you to meet his eyes. 

You can barely make out his face through the tears—hot and heavy, falling faster than you can blink them away. 

His voice cracks. “It’s not the same out there without you. You know that.” 

A sob breaks from your chest, and you fall forward. He catches you easily, arms strong and sure around your trembling frame. Pressed against him, for a moment it all feels like it might be okay. Like maybe this whole life-altering thing won’t change everything after all. Tyler makes you feel like you can handle anything. Like you’re more than human. Invincible, even. 

Maybe that’s why you fell in love with him in the first place. 

But you can’t stay in his arms forever. You’re not even sure he’d be holding you if he knew the truth—if he knew you were the one holding the pin to the grenade that could blow his whole life to pieces. 

“You’re scaring the shit out of me, darlin’,” he whispers into your hair. 

You sniffle against his shirt, steadying your voice. “I’m okay. It’s okay.” 

He slowly lets you go, giving you space to stand on your own again. 

“I promise you’ll see me again,” you say, trying to sound certain. “I promise I’ll be back once everything’s... sorted.” 

His brows draw together like he wants to believe you but can’t quite manage it. Still, he nods, swallowing whatever emotion is caught in his throat. Then he pulls you into one last hug, holding you tighter than before, like he’s afraid to let go. 

You inhale deeply—maybe too deeply—committing his scent to memory, as if you hadn’t already. You memorise the way he holds you, the way your bodies fit together, and the quick, steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. 

You know you’ll see Tyler again. One way or another. 

But it won’t be the same. Nothing is the same anymore. 

- 

“You’re both doing really well,” the doctor says, eyes scanning the computer screen. “Your baby is perfectly healthy, and everything about you is exactly where it should be for fourteen weeks.” 

You nod and give her a tight-lipped smile, gripping the ultrasound picture like a lifeline. 

“And the bump isn’t... too big?” you ask, trying not to sound completely clueless. 

The doctor smiles warmly. “It’s perfect,” she assures you. “You’re showing a little more than some women might at this stage, but everyone’s different.” 

You nod again. “Okay, good.” 

“Any other concerns?” she asks after a moment. 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Good.” She pushes up from her chair and heads for the door. “I’ll see you in four weeks.” 

You smile and nod once more. “Thanks, doctor.” 

“No worries. And—” she pauses, brows pulling together slightly. “You know you can bring the father to these appointments, right? Regardless of your relationship, he’s welcome. It might help ease some of the anxiety.” 

You blink quickly at the sudden sting in your eyes—fucking hormones—and offer a watery smile. “Thanks. I’ll... talk to him.” 

She gives you one last kind smile before shutting the door, leaving you alone in the pale-yellow hallway with nothing but spiralling thoughts. 

Okay, so you haven’t told Tyler... yet. But you plan to. As soon as you stop crying at everything and start acting like a functional adult. These hormones have wrecked you—just like the internet said they would. 

One minute, you’re sobbing over nothing. The next, you’re halfway to committing a felony. And then suddenly, you’re numb. Emotionally whiplashed. And the thought of telling Tyler—of seeing him again—drags every human emotion you have straight to the surface. 

You’ve talked to him a few times. The rest of the crew, too. You’ve spun some lies and danced around their questions. You spoke to your mom and made her promise to keep your secret—because you know Tyler’s tried calling her since you left. But you haven’t yet mustered the courage to tell anyone else. 

It’s been exactly eight weeks since you left. You're running on borrowed time. You know they’ll come looking soon, and you can’t let that happen. You need to go to them. To Tyler. You need to tell him the truth—your way—before it all blows up. 

But first... you need a really big bowl of croutons. Just croutons. And if you don’t get them soon, you’re going to kill someone. 

Pregnancy is wild. 

A few hours later, you’re back in your studio apartment, curled up on the lounge you bought last week, your laptop propped on your belly and a second bowl of croutons at your side. Your résumé is open, and you’re tweaking it for a few job applications—hoping to land something at a desk for at least a few months. You could use the extra money. 

On the small TV across the room—still sitting on the floor because you don’t have a table yet—YouTube is playing. More specifically, the live stream of a storm chaser you used to know. Someone who follows storms and interviews other chasers. Her name is Corey—you’ve met her a few times, but she’s never interviewed you. She’s always wanted Tyler, though. Everyone does. The man has... an effect on people. 

Today’s the day, apparently. She finally convinced him to do an interview. And to say you’re jealous of how close she’s standing to him would be a laughable understatement. 

Think pregnancy crying is bad? Try the horniness. 

Ugh. 

You can barely glance at a photo of Tyler without creaming your jeans. Just thinking about him twists your stomach into a knot—equal parts guilt and raw, desperate lust. You’ve thought about him way more than you should while touching yourself, and honestly? You don’t even care. 

You’re not sure if it’s because he’s the father of the baby growing inside you or just because you’ve been in love with him for years. Either way, everything is louder now. Sharper. Half the reason you haven’t seen him again is because you’re not entirely sure you could stop yourself from tearing him apart—devouring him the second he’s in front of you. 

“Fuck,” you sigh out loud, feeling that familiar ache low in your belly. 

You need to calm down. 

You shift your focus back to the Word doc on your laptop, trying to let Corey’s high-pitched voice blur into the background as she asks Tyler about the storm they just chased. It’s hard though—because then he speaks. And the second he does, his voice draws your attention like a magnet, sending shivers racing down your spine. 

You’d think after all these years of friendship, you’d be used to him by now. 

“So, Tyler,” Corey says, her bright blue eyes sparkling above a megawatt smile, “now that we’ve completely and totally hashed out that EF2, I think it’s time to move on to some live questions. Mind answering a few from the fans?” 

Tyler nods, the usual charming smirk tugging at his lips. “Bring it on.” 

“Amazing.” Corey flips her auburn hair over her shoulder and holds up her phone. “First question: which tornado wrangler would be most likely to survive a horror movie?” 

Tyler chuckles—low and rich, the kind of sound that somehow wraps around you even through the TV speakers. “Definitely Boone, but not because he’s outsmarted anyone. Just pure dumb luck.” 

Corey giggles, and the sound literally makes you gag. Because pregnancy nausea? Not just limited to tastes and smells. Nope—it’s upgraded to all five senses. 

“Okay, next up,” she says, eyes dropping to her phone screen. “What’s your go-to road trip snack?” 

Tyler starts rubbing his hands together as he answers, but you don’t register the words. You already know his favourite snacks. You’ve been buying them for him for years. Instead, you find yourself watching his hands—his long fingers, the way he laces them together in front of his body. Those fingers you know can find magic inside you. 

Your pulse thrums in your ears—and between your legs. Hot and heavy, making your breath catch in your throat. 

Corey’s pitchy laugh pulls you back. “Noted. I’ll be sure to bring sour worms to our next interview,” she says with a wink. 

Tyler laughs politely and pretends to adjust his belt—something you know he only does when he’s uncomfortable. 

Sucked in, Corey. He doesn’t like you. 

“Alright, I’ve got a slightly more serious one,” she says, tone shifting as she angles herself toward him. “This one’s come in from quite a few people, so I can’t not ask it.” 

Tyler’s brows furrow and he nods once. 

“Obviously, the Tornado Wranglers have welcomed two new members recently—Kate and Javi,” she says, referring to the two you met via video call a couple weeks ago. “But fans have also noticed the absence of one particular chaser. Your partner in crime…” she pauses for dramatic effect. “Will she be back?” 

Your heart crawls into your throat. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes—so routine by now, you don’t even bother blinking them back. 

Tyler shifts uncomfortably and glances at the ground. Then he mutters something the mic doesn’t quite catch. His shoulders go rigid, his jaw clenched as he struggles to find an answer. 

It makes your chest ache. 

“Well—uh,” he clears his throat, “we don’t usually get into personal stuff. We try to keep things focused on the storms. But, um...” His eyes are everywhere but the camera. “We all have personal lives, and sometimes things come up. Unexpected things. But in short… yes. She’ll be back. We’re not sure when, but she will be.” 

The confidence in his voice rips a sob from your chest. You push your laptop off your stomach and sit up, arms wrapping protectively around the little bump low in your belly. To say you feel guilty about this whole thing is a gross understatement. You feel wretched. Each day you wake up knowing you’ll find another excuse not to call Tyler, and each day you inch closer to hating yourself for it. 

You need to stop being such a coward and just do it. He has every right to know what’s going on—not just because he’s the father, but because he’s your best friend. These last two months have been the longest you’ve ever gone without seeing him since you joined the chasers nearly a decade ago. And the distance—physical and emotional—is chipping away at both of you. 

You swipe the sleeve of your sweatshirt across your eyes and reach for your phone. Opening your chat with Tyler, you scroll through the brief exchange from a couple days ago about an EF3 they’d been chasing. You start typing a message—trying to ask when you can see him without sounding too obvious. 

But then Corey’s voice cuts through the room, snagging your attention again. “So, the fans want to know,” she says, “what’s next? What comes after storm chasing? Do you see yourself going back to school to become a qualified meteorologist—or maybe settling down? Starting a family?” 

Your breath catches in your throat. Your chest tightening until your lungs ache. 

Tyler scoffs. “There’s an after chasing?” he says, the words stabbing into you like pins into a voodoo doll. “Chasing is it for me. I’ve worked too hard to get here, doing what I love. Nothing’s going to stop me—at least not until I’m too old to drive my truck. And even then,” he laughs, “I’ll find someone else to drive me into the eye of the storm.” 

Corey giggles and tips her head, teasing. “So no dreams of settling down? No wife and kids someday?” 

Your heart slams against your ribs. Heat and nausea roll over you in waves. 

“No,” Tyler says. “I just don’t see that for myself. Nothing feels as important to me as this—the storms, the research. Especially now, with Kate—she’s incredible—and Javi on the team, we’re doing real work in the name of science. I never want to stop. A family just doesn’t fit into that. It’s not what I want.” 

The words hit like a gut punch, knocking the breath clean out of you. 

“That’s not to say I won’t have a wife one day,” he adds. “If I find someone who loves this as much as I do, then maybe. But kids? No. I know myself too well—I’d resent anyone who took me away from what I really love. Which is chasing.” 

You bolt from the couch and rush into the bathroom, dropping to your knees in front of the toilet just in time to hurl up an unsettling amount of croutons. Tears blur your vision, and all you can hear is the pounding of your own pulse in your ears—and Tyler’s voice echoing in your head. 

It’s not what I want. 

- 

Your hands shake as you slide the mouse across the screen, clicking the answer button on the Skype call request. When Lily’s grinning face pops up—just Lily—you let out a sigh of relief. 

“Oh my goodness, hi,” she says, leaning toward the camera. “You look... different. Like, good, but different. How do you look different from last week?” 

You let out a soft laugh and roll your eyes, one arm resting on the kitchen counter where the laptop is propped, the other hung protectively across your stomach below the counter. You’re perched on the single barstool you picked up from a second-hand store last weekend, specifically for your weekly video calls with Lily. The couch wasn’t cutting it anymore, and you can’t exactly lie on your belly on the bed these days. 

“Maybe I’ve been abducted by aliens and what you’re seeing now is just a bad clone,” you tease, deflecting. 

She snorts. “Well, that would make sense, since that’s the only thing I can think of that would keep the girl I know away from chasing. Like, seriously. It’s been three months. Please tell me you’re coming back soon.” 

You sigh, eyes darting to the notepad where you’ve scribbled your pre-planned excuses—not trusting yourself to think clearly on the fly. 

“I’m sorry, Lils. I thought I’d be back by now too, but with everything going on with the family—it’s just been so stressful. And... I went to the doctor the other day. They think I could have a stress-induced stomach ulcer. I’m on meds, and I feel okay, but it needs to be monitored.” 

Until you give birth to it… 

Lily’s brow creases. “What? Seriously?” 

You nod slowly, avoiding her big brown eyes on the screen. “Yeah, but it’s okay. It’s not too serious—it’s manageable. I just need to, uh... stay here and keep things steady for a while.” 

“Can we visit, then?” she asks. “Everyone misses you so much.” 

“And I miss you guys too,” you say quickly. “But don’t come all this way for me. Keep chasing—it’s the season. Besides, it’s kind of boring over here. I’m just resting and helping out with family stuff. If you could actually help, I’d say get over here, but there’s really nothing to do except mope around.” 

She nods slowly, still looking a little unconvinced, but mostly reassured. 

“Besides, I need you to keep sending me updates so I can live vicariously,” you add, trying to lift the mood. “How was yesterday’s chase?” 

Her face lights up, and she launches into a detailed rundown of what they got up to. You try to stay focused, to really listen, but she keeps mentioning Kate’s name beside Tyler’s, and your thoughts start spiralling. 

You’ve met Kate and Javi—the new wranglers—a couple of times now via video call. They seem lovely and super smart. You hadn’t thought much of it. Until last night. 

You’d stupidly decided to watch one of Boone’s Instagram live videos—one where he and Tyler recapped the day over beers in a motel parking lot. You thought it might help ease the ache in your chest from missing them, but instead it twisted something sharp and jealous low in your gut. 

Kate had been there too, sitting beside Tyler, who wore a dopey grin and kept glancing at her like she was magnetic. They were clearly comfortable with each other—she even rested her hand on his knee once or twice as she answered some of Boone’s questions about the science side of things. Tyler didn’t adjust his belt. He didn’t shift awkwardly or look away. 

He looked at her like she belonged there. 

The jealousy that coursed through you had been instant and overwhelming. You’ve dealt with your fair share of Tyler’s girlfriends and hookups, but you’ve never seen him look at someone like that. Never once worried that maybe he’d find someone who didn’t just make him forget you—but replace you entirely. 

It’s your biggest insecurity, one you hate even admitting to yourself... Tyler doesn’t need you as much as you need him. 

“But anyway,” Lily says, her voice dragging you back to reality, “we were thinking of taking a break for a week or so. Maybe head somewhere quiet, less full of chasers. I think Tyler needs it—he’s been super stressed lately.” 

“At least he has Kate,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I—I mean, she sounds really great and helpful. Just what Tyler needs.” 

Lily’s eyes narrow. “Yeah... she’s cool, but...” She tips her head and sighs. “You know he misses you like crazy? I’m pretty sure he’s not sleeping, and he’s always talking about coming to find you. I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be able to keep him at bay.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to sound casual while swallowing down another wave of emotion. “I’m sure Tyler’s doing just fine. He always said I was a liability, so technically he should be way less stressed without me around.” 

She gives you a flat, unimpressed look. “You better be joking, because I’ve never seen Tyler this wound up before.” 

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest—small and fragile, but impossible to ignore. Maybe... just maybe... this whole fucked-up situation is still salvageable. 

“Speak of the devil,” Lily says before you can respond. 

You watch as she shuffles off the motel bed she’d been lying on and disappears out of frame. Your pulse quickens at the sound of a deep, muffled voice and approaching footsteps. For a split second, you consider ending the call—blaming it on bad reception or something—but it’s already too late. 

The video shakes as Lily picks up her laptop and spins it toward Tyler. “Look who it is!” she announces. 

He looks pale, the lines in his face more defined than you remember, but his eyes still sparkle the same. “Hey,” he says, a soft grin tugging at his lips. “You look... different.” 

You blink quickly to stop the moisture welling in your eyes—internally cursing the hormones, even though you know they’re not the only ones to blame. 

You haven’t actually spoken to Tyler in almost two weeks. You mostly text, dodge his calls with excuses, and only agree to video chats with Lily or Dani. Tyler knows you too well—and you’re starting to look different. He’ll know something is off. 

“She’s sick,” Lily says before you can answer. 

“Sick?” Tyler repeats, his smile fading. “Sick how?” 

You shake your head, swallowing hard against the emotion rising in your throat. “I’m fine, really. Might be a stomach ulcer, but it’s mild and I’m already on meds. I just need a bit of rest.” 

“We can come visit,” Tyler offers quickly, his green eyes full of concern that makes your stomach turn. “We were planning to take some time off soon, and we could-” 

“No,” you cut in, your voice cracking. “Seriously, don’t. I’m okay. And there’s still stuff going on with the family. I just told Lily—if there were anything you could do, I’d say come help. But there’s not.” 

He opens his mouth, ready to argue, then hesitates. His eyes flick across the screen, studying your face, your posture, the way you’re nervously chewing your lip. He’s probably already clocked that the background behind you isn’t your mom’s house. 

“Don’t worry, Tyler,” Lily says with a smile, trying to ease the tension. “She’ll be back soon. She can’t stay away much longer—the chase is calling.” She looks at you with a playful grin. “Or we’ll come kidnap you.” 

You let out a shaky laugh. “I know you will.” 

“How’s your mom?” Tyler asks suddenly, leaning closer to the camera. 

Yeah. He’s definitely trying to figure out where you are. He’s been in every room of your mom’s place—he knows this background doesn’t match. 

“She’s alright,” you say, shifting closer to the laptop to fill more of the frame. “Still a little fragile, so it’s good I’m here. But she’s doing well.” 

He opens his mouth again, eyes narrowing slightly—keen and searching. 

“Anyway,” you cut in quickly, “I should go. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” 

Lily nods, oblivious to Tyler’s suspicion. “Love you,” she says. 

“Love you too, Lils,” you reply, before your gaze flicks toward Tyler’s frowning face. “You too, Ty. Stay safe out there.” 

Then you move the mouse and hit the red button, sighing out a breath of relief as the call drops. 

- 

The next four weeks are brutal—worse than the twelve before them combined. You’re creeping up on the six-month mark, which means the third trimester isn’t far off. Your belly has officially popped—there’s no hiding it now unless you borrow your mom’s retro maternity parka—and you’re out of breath more often than not. All you want to do is sleep, eat, and cry over the fact that your closest grocery store just stopped stocking your favourite juice flavour. 

But that’s not the hardest part. 

The hardest part is Tyler—he’s relentless, and you’re pretty sure he’s rallying the rest of the crew too. The messages haven’t let up, and now he’s started calling at random times during the day. He asks about your mom, your family, your ‘stomach ulcer’. And everyone else is pestering you to come back to chasing, even just for a week, because they miss you like hell. 

You feel like a total piece of shit. 

You’re running out of excuses, and you’ve deflected for as long as you can. You’ve tried over and over to come up with a version of the truth that doesn’t make you sound like the villain. But no matter how you spin it, you’re still the asshole who kept a massive secret from the people who are practically your family. They’re going to find out soon—you’re already on borrowed time—and you know you have to tell them before Tyler shows up pounding on your mom’s front door. 

The only thing you’re still absolutely certain about is this: you’re not telling Tyler he’s the father. 

On the surface, it makes you look like a terrible person, but every time you imagine telling him... you hear his words again. And you know you just can’t. 

It’s not what he wants. It would ruin everything. He’d resent you. 

You can’t do that to him. You don’t expect anything from him, and you’re more than ready to do this on your own. In fact, at this point, you’d prefer it. You made the decision to keep the baby—this is on you. All Tyler did was break a condom and fuck you more thoroughly than anyone else ever has. He didn’t sign up for consequences. And for him... there doesn’t have to be any. 

So you’ll tell them it was a one-night stand—technically true. That the father travels for work, and you gave him an out—also true. 

Now you just have to hope the baby doesn’t come out looking like a carbon copy of Tyler Owens. 

Not that you’re even sure the crew will be around to see much of the baby. You’re doing this solo for a reason—you don’t want to weigh anyone down. No matter how they react when you tell them, you’re not letting them give up chasing. That’s their life, and this choice? This was yours. 

So, yeah, you’re going to tell them. But after that... you have no clue. You might never see them again, now that you’re settling down. Or maybe they’ll pop in once or twice a year. You don’t know. 

The only thing you’re sure of right now is that you’re having this baby—and surprisingly, that’s more than enough. 

“She’s perfect,” the doctor says, handing you the sonogram. “What made you want to find out the sex?” 

You stare down at the little black and white image. Twenty-two weeks exactly. You’re more than halfway there. 

“I don’t know,�� you reply. “Thought maybe I should get to know my new roommate a little better.” 

The doctor laughs softly but doesn’t press further. She types something into the computer, then jots a note on a scrap piece of paper—her recommendation for the heartburn you mentioned earlier. After a few more routine questions, she offers a kind smile and a dismissive nod. You thank her and step out. 

Her office is just around the block from your apartment, so you chose to walk today. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and—for the first time in a while—you’re feeling a little less weighed down. 

You’ve also decided that today’s the day you’ll message Tyler to ask where they are and see if you can meet up soon. You’ve practiced your story in the mirror more times than you can count, and you’ve run it past both your mom and your therapist—the latter was less thrilled about the lying, but you’re ignoring that part. All that’s left now is to show up and break the news gently. Although, your belly will probably do that for you the moment they see you. 

Strangely, you feel at peace today—despite the whirlwind of the past few weeks. You woke up clear-headed, even a little hopeful. Like if you can grow an entire human, you can handle anything. 

You try not to overanalyse the sudden shift—your moods have been a rollercoaster lately—and you’re especially trying not to compare it to the weather before a storm. But that’s exactly what it feels like. 

Everything is calm. Still. The sun is out, and there’s no wind. But you know better than to trust this kind of stillness. 

It’s the calm before the storm. 

You shake your head and take a deep breath, refocusing on your route from the doctor’s office to the grocery store. It’s still early—barely nine a.m.—and you’ve got a craving for the sugary cereal you ran out of days ago. 

The sun is warm enough that you have to shrug off your sweater the moment you step inside the store. It’s blissfully quiet—no crowded aisles, no screaming kids, and no one crashing their cart like it’s a demolition derby. 

You sling your sweater over one shoulder and head toward the breakfast aisle, one hand resting on your belly as the baby wriggles—still too small for proper kicks, but very much there. A soft smile tugs at your lips as you scan the shelves, eyes flitting across the bright, colourful cereal boxes. 

You really should start thinking of names. You haven’t even made a list. 

You grab the box you came for and continue toward the end of the aisle, already thinking about swinging past the bakery section. But just as you round the corner, a voice stops you in your tracks. 

“Holy shit.” 

You know that voice. You know it too well. 

You almost don’t want to look—but your head turns before you can stop it. And sure enough, there’s Tyler, looking downright sinful in a tight white T-shirt and faded Wrangler jeans. He’s wearing a cap, backwards, and it’s making your hormones riot. You could devour him right here in the middle of the store. But not only would that be wildly inappropriate... you’re pretty sure he’s gone into shock. 

He looks pale—too pale. Frozen. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is moving, but no sound is coming out. He looks like a fish out of water. And judging by the expression on his face, he probably feels like one too. 

“Oh my God,” you say, instinctively shifting the cereal box in front of your belly. “Tyler.” 

You want to launch yourself at him, to throw your arms around his neck. You want to hug him, kiss him, get lost in him the way you’ve been craving for months. But the way he’s staring... you’re not even sure he recognises you. 

“W-What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice shaky and weirdly high-pitched. “Are the others here too?” 

Panic overtakes you now, shoving the longing and hormones down into your gut and replacing them with a fresh wave of anxiety. 

“I—uh,” he clears his throat, blinking hard. “We were just... just passing through.” 

You can feel your heartbeat thumping in your throat. 

Tyler shifts on his feet and clears his throat again. “We got in late last night. I was going to—uh, call you. See where you were, but...” His eyes drop to the cereal box in your hands, like he can see right through it. 

“Wow,” you say, because it’s the only word your brain can summon. “That’s... great. I’d love to see them. Are they-” 

“They’re back at the motel,” he cuts in. 

Slowly, his expression twists—shock giving way to confusion, then something sharper. Anger, maybe. 

There’s a long pause, thick and heavy, before you clear your throat. “Well, maybe we could all catch up? I’m not doing anything this after-” 

“No,” he says, cutting you off again. He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “I mean, yes. They want to see you. But I think I’d like to catch up now.” His tone is harder now, his expression unreadable. “Do you want to grab a coffee—” he hesitates, “or... tea?” 

You rock back on your heels like a kid caught doing something they shouldn’t. “Tea still has caffeine in it,” you mumble. 

He doesn’t even flinch—just pins you with a look. There’s no room to argue. 

“But I could definitely go for a smoothie!” you say too brightly. “There’s a café around the corner, and my apartment’s just the next block over. If you don’t mind... can we go back there? I’ve got ultrasound jelly in my underwear and I really need to pee.” 

His brows draw together. There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—hurt. “You have an apartment?” 

You didn’t expect that to hit hardest, but you see why. As far as Tyler was concerned, you were coming back. You’d only ever been on a break. But hearing you have an apartment here... it tells him something else entirely. 

That you’re not coming back. 

You nod, tears starting to sting at the corners of your eyes. “Yeah... I do.” 

The walk out of the store and around the corner is one of the most painful things you’ve ever endured. You’re already planning to compare it to childbirth when the time comes—but honestly, you’re pretty sure this will still win. 

Tyler’s movements are stiff and deliberate. He keeps a cautious distance, like you’re contagious, and it takes everything in you not to cry right there on the sidewalk. 

Neither of you speaks. You just lead the way, and he follows. At the café, you order a smoothie—nothing else. You feel so nauseous, you're worried you might throw up your baby. Tyler orders a coffee, then steps back to type something on his phone. For a moment, panic grips you—is he telling the others? But no. Tyler’s not like that. He’s probably just letting them know that he got caught up. 

Once your drinks are ready, you head down the street toward your apartment. You don’t bother making conversation, you don’t even point out the ridiculous-looking dog in the window across the street. You just let yourself into the lobby and ride up to the fourth floor. 

Down the hall, you unlock your door and step inside, holding it open for him. 

The look on his face as he enters your space is what finally breaks you. The tears spill over before you can stop them. He looks wrong here—too big for the tiny apartment you’ve made your own. And he looks like you’ve just ripped his heart out and stomped on it. 

You make a beeline for the kitchen, dropping your untouched smoothie on the counter and diving for the tissue box. A sniffle escapes as you swipe at your eyes and nose, followed by a soft, rattling sob. 

“Hey,” Tyler says gently, suddenly at your side, a hand landing on your back. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.” 

Of course he’s not. He’s too good. Too decent to treat you the way you probably should be treated—without kindness. 

You clear your throat and look up at him, close enough now that you can smell the familiar scent of his cologne. “You should be,” you mumble, wiping at your cheeks. “It’d be easier if you were mad at me.” 

He lets out a humourless chuckle. “I mean, I’m not exactly happy. But why would I be mad?” 

You feel small. Pathetic. Like if the floor cracked open right now, you’d gladly let it swallow you whole. But it doesn’t. 

You force down another sob, blinking hard as you reach for your smoothie and carry it into the living room. You flop down into your favourite corner of the couch and nod for him to follow. 

Then you clear your throat, summoning every ounce of confidence you have left. 

“Okay,” you say. “Here’s the story.” 

You don’t say the truth or what really happened. Because that’s not what you’re about to give him. 

You’ve got a story. And that’s what you’re sticking to. 

“A few weeks after I got back, I went out with some old friends,” you begin, technically not lying. “It was supposed to be a way to blow off some steam after everything with my family... and I missed you guys so much, I thought it would take my mind off things. But I got a little too drunk, and I ended up going home with some guy my friend knew.” There's the lie. “It was stupid and reckless, but... that’s what happened.” 

He winces at your words, his expression unreadable. It looks like hurt, but why would he be hurt by that? Maybe it’s just disappointment. 

You clear your throat and continue, slipping into the rhythm of the story you’ve practiced a thousand times in front of the mirror. “About three weeks later, I found out. I contacted the guy, but he travels for work, so... I gave him an out. I made the decision to keep it, told him I didn’t expect anything from him. So... here we are.” 

The silence hangs thick and heavy between you, suffocating you as you try to breathe through the storm of emotions clawing at your chest. 

“I was going to tell you,” you add, your voice steadier than you feel. “I just couldn’t find the right time. It all felt so messy and rushed, and time kept slipping by. You guys were so busy, and with Kate and Javi... I didn’t want to ruin the high you were on.” 

He doesn’t react at first. Just stares at you—his eyes flicking between your face and your belly. 

Then it hits him. A thousand emotions all at once. Confusion. Hurt. A flicker of anger. Sadness. And finally, he lands back on hurt. 

“You’re going to do it alone?” he asks, tension threading through his words. 

You nod once, steady. “I’ll be fine.” 

“I don’t doubt that. You’ll be amazing. But you shouldn’t have to do it alone.” 

Your heart squeezes. Would he still be saying that if he knew who the guy really was? 

“I won’t be alone,” you say, resting a hand on your stomach. 

His eyes fall to your hand and linger there. You think his bottom lip might wobble, just for a second. But then he looks back up, brow creased. 

“You know we’re all here for you,” he says, voice strained. “We’re not going to let you do this on your own. I know you’re strong, but-” 

“It’s not your problem, Ty,” you cut in quickly, desperate to stop him before the tears start again. “It’s not anyone’s burden but mine—not that it’s a burden. But I was scared to tell you for a reason. I didn’t want you to freak out. I made this choice knowing it would change my life, and mine alone. I know I have support if I need it, but wait for me to ask. Not that I could ask any of you to stop your lives—stop doing what you love. I’d never do that. I’d never ask for more than you’re willing to give. So please believe me when I say... I’m happy about the choice I made. I’m excited to do this by myself. You need to live your life, Ty. Chase those storms. Chase your dreams. I’m good. I’ll be fine.” 

His expression is unreadable—somewhere between pain and disbelief. He just stares at you, silent, like he doesn’t recognize what he’s looking at. Not scared. Just... bewildered. 

The silence stretches, the only sound your uneven, too-loud breathing. 

Then, finally, he whispers, “But it’s not the same without you.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to keep it light. “Don’t be silly, Tyler. You’ve got Kate and Javi now. You probably didn’t even notice I was gone.” You pause. “And Kate seems great. I’m happy for you.” 

No, you’re not. But you’re getting better at lying. 

His gaze snaps from your belly back to your face, eyebrows drawn tight. “Happy for me?” 

You nod, forcing a smile. “Anyway, I really need a shower. That ultrasound goo gets everywhere. Want to catch up later? With the crew?” 

You need him gone. Now. Before you fall apart. 

“I—uh...” He glances around the room, like he’s trying to find an excuse to stay. “Yeah. They’ll want to see you.” 

You nod and head to the kitchen for your bag. “Could you do me a favour?” The guilt is immediate and sharp. How dare you ask anything of him right now? 

He nods. 

“Could you... tell them? Warn them?” You can’t meet his eyes, so you focus on the tear in the knee of his jeans as he approaches. 

“You want me to tell them?” 

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s just... been a lot. And the way you reacted—I don’t think I can take five more of those. If you could just warn them before we meet up... it would help.” 

Straight to hell. That’s where you’re headed. You’ve spent months trying not to burden him—and now this? 

He swallows hard and nods, eyes drifting to something on the counter. “Yeah... okay. I can do that.” 

You exhale, not realizing you were holding your breath. “Thanks, Ty.” 

He picks up the sonogram. “Is this the one from today?” 

“Oh.” As if she knows her dad is seeing her for the first time, your little girl wriggles. “Y-Yeah. That’s today.” 

His mouth twitches into a watery smile. “Can I take a photo? Then I can show the crew.” 

You nod, speechless, watching the way he looks at the picture. If he doesn’t leave soon, you’re going to cry and throw up all over him. 

He snaps the photo and tucks his phone away, gently placing the sonogram back on the counter. 

“You said you weren’t busy this afternoon?” he asks. 

You nod, throat tight. 

“Good. I’m sure they’ll want to see you soon. Maybe dinner? I’ll text you after I talk to them. I bet you know all the good places around here.” 

He’s speaking too fast, his eyes everywhere but your face. He wants out just as badly as you want him out. 

You walk him to the door, trying to smile. It’s pitiful. It feels like everything around you has stopped moving. His eyes are wide, glassy, full of something unfamiliar. But then again, do you even know him anymore? Four months is a long time. 

Before you can say goodbye, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you. Holds you like he means it. Like it’s the only thing keeping him together. 

Tears stream down your face, your shoulders shaking. The baby kicks—harder than ever—and you want to blame the pressure of Tyler’s hug. But then you wonder... does she know it’s him? 

The thoughts keep coming, hot and heavy, as your tears soak into the shoulder of his white shirt. 

After what feels like both forever and not long enough, he pulls away. His eyes rimmed with red. 

“I’ll text you,” he says hoarsely, then turns and walks down the hall. 

You shut the door—and collapse to the floor. You stay there for almost an hour. Crying. Thinking. And for the first time, wishing you’d just told him the truth from the start. Back at the gas station. Would it really have been that bad? 

You’re not so sure anymore. Because this? This doesn’t feel like the right thing. 

- Tyler - 

Tyler doesn’t remember how he got back to his truck in the grocery store parking lot. All he knows is that he’s in it now—but he doesn’t have the courage to drive. He doesn’t trust himself. His hands won’t stop shaking, his eyes are burning with tears, and his throat aches. When he closes his eyes, all he can see is you: your soft smile, your wide, tearful eyes, and that intrinsic glow—granted by your pregnancy, despite how clearly distressed you’d been. 

He can’t believe you’re pregnant. 

He tried so hard to be understanding, to not blow through you with every emotion that crashed down the moment he saw you. But it was so hard. He wanted to be angry that you didn’t tell him—but he knew he had no right. He didn’t have the right to be upset at all. You were clearly stressed about him finding out—about the crew finding out. 

But why? 

That’s what he can’t figure out. 

Sure, it might not have been planned. It’s going to turn your life upside down. But why wouldn’t you want your friends to know? He knows you’ve rationalised it—told yourself you didn’t want to burden them. But he also knows that you know better than that. Your friends wouldn’t feel burdened. They’d just want to be there for you. 

He just wants to be there for you. 

And as complicated as this whole thing is, it’s confusion that lingers the loudest. He’s confused about how he should feel, and confused about what he does feel. He thought he knew you—but right now, he’s not so sure. You’re still familiar... but different. 

The sharp chime of Tyler’s phone cuts through the silence of the truck cabin. He glances at where he tossed it on the passenger seat, just able to make out the text from Boone: ‘You good?’ 

No. 

He exhales slowly and turns the key, the truck rumbling to life around him. Then he grabs the phone and fires off a quick reply: ‘Be back in 10. Get everyone together for breakfast.’ 

Then he pulls out of the grocery store parking lot and starts rehearsing how he’s going to break the news to the crew. 

An hour later, in a quiet café on the other side of town with two small tables pulled together, Dani leans toward Tyler and blurts, “She’s what?!” 

Dexter chokes on his coffee, spluttering into his napkin, while Lily’s jaw drops mid-chew, revealing a messy mouthful of pancake. 

“She’s pregnant?” Boone asks, his voice calmer than Dani’s, though his eyes are still wide as saucers. 

Kate and Javi exchange a quick, uncertain glance, both clearly unsure how to react to the news that’s left half the crew reeling over their breakfast. 

“I can’t believe she didn’t say anything,” Dani says, her voice tight with offense. 

Lily finally swallows. “So that’s why she’s been avoiding us?” 

Dexter tips his head, eyes narrowing on Tyler. “How far along is she?” 

Tyler shrugs, his stomach twisting with nausea—though he’s not entirely sure why. It’s not like this is his big news. “She said she met the guy a few weeks after getting home. So... she’s probably around four months.” 

“Four months,” Dani echoes. “And she didn’t tell any of us?” 

Kate’s quiet laugh draws every eye to her. She quickly slaps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she mumbles, wide-eyed. “I just—” She glances at Tyler, then looks around the table. “I mean, can you blame her? Look at how you’re all reacting.” 

Tyler frowns. “What do you mean?” 

Kate sighs and leans back in her chair. “No offense, but you’re all acting like this is about you. If this wasn’t planned—and it doesn’t sound like it was—then she’s probably just scared. Of course she was nervous to tell you guys. She probably knew how you’d react.” 

The group goes quiet then, effectively chastised. And Kate isn’t wrong—Tyler knows that. As someone less emotionally entangled in your situation than the rest of the crew, she can probably see it more clearly. Understand why you did what you did. 

But that doesn’t make Tyler feel any less conflicted. He still feels off. His palms are damp and his stomach won't stop twisting itself into nauseating knots. His heart is beating too fast, sitting high in his throat. And he can’t stop seeing your face—those tearful eyes, flushed cheeks, parted lips the moment you saw him again. 

For a fleeting moment, he’d been taken back to that night. The night where everything else blurred except for you. Your flushed face, kiss-bruised mouth, lips parted for him, breathless beneath him. The way you’d whispered his name like a secret, the sounds he drew from you with his hands and mouth, the feel of your skin against his. 

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think about that night… a lot. At first, he tried not to. He couldn’t believe the lines he’d crossed, waking up with you in his arms at three a.m., your bare body pressed to his. He wasn’t even that drunk—just drunk on you. And God, he wanted nothing more than to pull you closer and fall back asleep. But panic had crept in. He had to get out. Had to breathe. 

The next day was awkward—mostly because he couldn’t stop seeing you the way he’d seen you the night before. He wanted to talk, to say something. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk burning down years of friendship for one selfish desire. So after about a week, he cracked a joke. You shot back with something sarcastic, and things felt… almost normal again. 

Until you left. 

And when you did, you took a piece of him with you. A big piece. One he doesn’t know how to get back—or if he even wants it back. 

“Hey.” Kate nudges her knee against Tyler’s. “You good?” 

The rest of the group has slipped into quiet conversation, murmuring among themselves about you and the baby. 

Tyler nods once, eyes fixed on nothing in particular as he fishes his phone from his back pocket. He opens it, pulls up the sonogram picture, and slides it across the table. 

“She had an ultrasound today,” he says, the words tasting like lead on his tongue. 

Lily’s eyes light up as she snatches the phone, gazing at the black-and-white photo. Dani leans over one shoulder, Dexter over the other, and it’s not hard to catch the soft smiles spreading across their faces. 

“I’m not saying you’re not allowed to be upset,” Kate says, her voice lowered just for him. “I just think... maybe consider how she’s feeling before you take too much of that out on her.” 

Tyler sighs and scrubs both hands over his face. “I tried to be calm. But it was so fucking hard. She kept crying.” 

Kate exhales a half-laugh. “Yeah, she’s pregnant. Whatever you think you’re feeling, multiply it by a thousand. That’s probably where she’s at.” 

The memory of your tear-streaked face hits him square in the chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. He’d felt so useless, even as he held you close. All he wants is to make things better. To go back, find you sooner, and give you everything you’ve needed but never asked for. 

“I just want to help,” Tyler mutters, his voice rough. “She said she’s happy to do it on her own, but... I want to be there.” 

“Then be there,” Kate says, brows furrowed like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “You don’t have to overstep or force your way back in. Just be her friend. Isn’t that what you’ve always been? Just because she thinks things have to change doesn’t mean they do. Show her that.” 

Tyler’s eyes flick to Dani, who now has his phone and is zooming in on the sonogram with an awed expression. 

“But things have changed,” he says, turning back to Kate. 

On her other side, Javi has his phone in front of his nose, but Tyler can tell from his posture that he’s still listening. 

“For her, yeah,” Kate replies. “Her whole world’s flipped. But for you? Not really. So be something that hasn’t changed. Something stable. Something she can still count on.” 

Tyler’s brows draw together, eyes starting to burn again from the now-familiar sting of tears. He knows Kate’s smart—but wise too? Suddenly, he feels like a kid who threw a tantrum he didn’t fully understand. 

“I mean,” Javi chimes in, the straw of his milkshake still at the corner of his mouth, “it’s not like you’re the father.” 

The words hit Tyler harder than they should. They sink into his skin and burn as they draw blood, the pain spreading through his chest. His skin prickles, heat rushes to his face, and his head goes a little light—like the floor’s been yanked out from under him. 

He’s not just angry that you didn’t tell him. Not just upset that you left, that you ran away from the crew with a half-assed excuse. He’s confused, yes—but underneath it all, he’s heartbroken. 

Because it’s not just about you being pregnant. It’s not about the distance, or how much everything suddenly feels so different. It’s the fact that you’re pregnant with someone else’s baby. 

Not his. 

And for the first time, the weight of it truly hits him— 

He wants it to be his. 

“Ouch!” Javi hisses as Kate smacks him on the back of the head. “What was that for?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Not reading the room.” 

“Shit,” Javi mutters, leaning forward past Kate to see Tyler—a very shocked-looking Tyler. “Sorry, man.” 

Tyler tries to shake his head, but it’s slow, almost robotic. “It’s fine,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper. 

Kate rests a hand on his knee and leans toward him. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

He opens his mouth, but hesitates. He was going to say yes—but that would be a lie. He’s not okay. He hasn’t been okay since you left. 

Kate’s brows draw together, her head tilting slightly. “You’re not, like... just realizing you’re totally in love with her, are you?” 

Tyler’s green gaze snaps to her face, a jolt of electricity running down his spine at hearing those words said out loud. 

“Oh, Tyler...” she sighs, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Wake up.” 

He’s always known he loves you—of course he does. But in love with you? Maybe it should’ve been obvious. He hasn’t felt fully human without you by his side. There’s been a gaping hole in his chest since the day you left—because you took his heart with you. 

It always has been yours. He just never really thought about it that hard. He’s just always known, deep down, from the very beginning, that he belongs to you. 

And he’s always thought of you as his. Never questioned it, even through your crappy boyfriends and his meaningless hookups. Some part of him was sure you’d always come back. That at the end of the day—after the storm—you’d be his again. 

But now? Now some other guy has a claim on you. And he knows it’s selfish. He knows it’s primal. But God, he fucking hates it. 

After breakfast, the crew heads back to the motel. They try to work—and try even harder to pull Tyler out of whatever existential wormhole he’s fallen into—but it’s not easy. He spends most of the day staring into space, half-listening (at best) to anyone who speaks. Eventually, they give up and leave him to it. 

Lily ends up messaging you about dinner, since Tyler’s too dazed to even type a text. You agree to meet at a restaurant downtown, halfway between your place and the crew’s motel. 

“Okay, pal,” Kate sighs as she drops into the lawn chair beside Tyler’s. “You’re starting to worry us.” 

Lily drops into the chair on his other side, braced like she might have to chase him if he bolts. 

“Are you going to be alright tonight?” Kate asks gently. 

Tyler nods—slow, uncertain. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Because you’ve been a damn zombie all day,” Lily snaps. “You think acting like this is going to make her feel loved and supported?” 

There’s a beat of silence before she speaks again, her tone sharp. “The answer is no. So get your shit together.” 

Tyler turns to Kate, frowning. “Why is she being mean to me?” 

Kate rolls her eyes for what feels like the thousandth time today. “Because you’re being a child. So what, you’re in love with your best friend who’s now pregnant with some random guy’s baby? Suck it up. Start acting normal—or you’ll just make her feel worse.” 

Tyler lets out a long, dramatic sigh and tips his head back. “I can’t.” 

“Yes, you can,” Lily says. “Come on—practice talking about baby stuff with us.” 

Kate perks up. “Good idea. Ask us about being pregnant.” 

Tyler slowly lowers his head and gives Kate a flat stare. “This is dumb. I’m not going to make things awkward. I’ll be fine.” 

“Then why have you walked away from every conversation about babies today?” Lily fires back. 

“Just try,” Kate pleads. “Let’s just talk about her, okay? And no deflecting.” 

Tyler groans but doesn’t argue, silently accepting the assignment. 

Kate folds her hands in her lap and leans in like an interviewer. “So, you said she’s got an apartment here—did you see the nursery?” 

“No,” Tyler replies, nausea twisting in his gut. Just thinking about that visit makes him uneasy. “Wasn’t exactly a show-and-tell kind of vibe.” 

Kate sighs. “I get that. But just work with us.” 

“I’ve got one,” Lily chimes in. “Did she say she’s having any weird cravings?” 

Tyler shakes his head. “No.” Then, at her expectant look, he adds, “But she was buying some sugary cereal when I ran into her. I think she told the cashier it was the baby’s favourite breakfast.” 

Lily nods, satisfied. 

Kate clears her throat. “Did she say how far along she is?” 

“Not exactly,” Tyler says. “But from what she did say, I’m guessing around eighteen weeks.” He did the math—counting from the day you left the crew, assuming you met ‘the guy’ maybe three or four weeks later. 

“Nuh-uh,” Lily says, brows pinched as she shakes her head. “She’s twenty-two weeks.” 

Tyler’s heart skips. “What? How do you know?” 

“It’s on the sonogram, stupid.” 

His pulse kicks up, head spinning, hands suddenly numb as he fumbles for his phone. He yanks it from his back pocket and pulls up the image, squinting at the screen. 

Lily sighs and takes it from him, zooming in on the small print in the corner. “See? Twenty-two weeks.” 

Kate says something, but Tyler doesn’t hear her. All he hears is the blood pounding in his ears. Loud. Fast. Deafening. 

Twenty-two weeks. That’s five and a half months. You’ve only been gone four months and three weeks. 

That leaves three weeks. 

Three weeks you were still with the crew. Still with him. 

Somewhere in those three weeks… you got pregnant. 

The world tilts. He blinks, once—twice—but everything stays blurry. The thought barrels through him like a freight train. It doesn’t make sense—shouldn’t make sense—but it does. The timeline. The things you said. The look on your face when you saw him. His stomach drops as the pieces slam into place, sharp and undeniable. 

Holy shit. 

“Tyler,” Kate says, her hand closing over his shoulder. 

Lily frowns again. “You’re supposed to be acting normal, dude. You can’t keep freezing like that.” 

“I have to go,” he mutters, shooting to his feet. 

Kate blinks. “Where?” 

“I’ll meet you guys at the restaurant.” He’s gone before they can respond, feet already pounding the pavement. 

He throws himself into the truck and jams the key in the ignition, peeling out of the motel lot fast enough to make the tires squeal. 

His grip tightens on the steering wheel as the truck barrels down the street, heart pounding like a war drum. The shock is still there, curling cold and sharp in his chest, but the panic has started to harden. Settle. Sharpen. He’s not going to lose it. Not now. If this really adds up—if the impossible is true—then he needs answers. Not anger. He sucks in a breath through his nose, jaw locked tight. 

He’s not going there to yell. He’s going there to hear it. To look you in the eye and make you say it— 

The truth. 

- You - 

You stand in front of your closet with your hands on your hips, trying to figure out what still fits and also looks decent enough for a nice restaurant. You picked a nice place on purpose—you haven’t been out in months. Literally. Most of your friends have been too busy chasing tornadoes while you’ve been stuck in this town, growing a baby. And while you’re not angry about the choices you’ve made, you’re more than a little excited to be getting out for the first time in what feels like forever. 

You’re feeling a lot better than you did a few hours ago. After a solid hour of crying on the floor, you dragged yourself into the shower and stayed there until your fingers pruned. Then you wrapped yourself in two towels, curled up on your bed, and passed out. When you woke up, your phone was full of messages—hearts, check-ins, a few sweet “can’t wait to see you” texts—and you decided that maybe you’d been overreacting. 

Sure, seeing Tyler had been the emotional peak of the last five and a half months, but that’s over now. And yeah, things might still be awkward. A little tense. But the secret’s out, and your story had him convinced—hook, line, and sinker. He was just emotional because he missed you. Because you’re best friends, and this is the longest you’ve ever gone without each other. 

You’d thought about telling him the truth earlier, while curled up on the floor. But once the initial wreckage settled, you remembered why you hadn’t. Just to be sure, you went back and rewatched Corey’s YouTube interview. It still stung—maybe even more than the first time—but it did what it was supposed to: reminded you to stay strong. Because when it comes to Tyler Owens, strength is not your strong suit. 

A knock echoes through the apartment and jolts you into motion. You yank a pair of thick black leggings from the drawer and wrestle into them while shuffling toward your bedroom door, grabbing an oversized knit sweater on the way. 

“Coming!” you call, your voice muffled as you pull the sweater over your head. 

Random visitors aren’t exactly uncommon. Your neighbour Marge likes to accuse you of stealing her newspapers, and you’ve definitely forgotten about more than a few online orders until the delivery driver comes knocking 

You reach the door and tug the sweater down over your bump before pulling it open. 

“Tyler,” you breathe, startled, taking an automatic step back. “You’re—uh—you’re like an hour early.” 

Lily had mentioned he’d be picking you up—something about saving you the cab fare. You hadn’t objected, for obvious reasons, but you’d hoped for at least enough time to do your hair and makeup. 

Still, he looks infuriatingly good. He’s swapped his white tee for a red plaid flannel, the top few buttons undone down to his sternum. His hair’s a tousled mess, like he’s been running his hands through it all day, and he’s holding his cowboy hat in one hand. 

“Yeah,” he says, a little breathless. “Figured we could catch up some more.” 

Did he drive here? Or run? 

“Um, okay. Sure,” you say, stepping back further. 

He nods as he walks in, kicking off his boots by the door before heading toward the lounge. But he doesn’t sit—he just stands there, stiff and distant, eyes scanning the room like he’s searching for something specific. 

“I was just getting ready,” you say, slipping into the kitchen. “Mind if I do the quick version before we... catch up?” 

He shakes his head and sets his hat on the coffee table, still glancing around like he’s casing the place. 

“Want a drink?” you ask, watching him carefully. 

“I’m good,” he says. 

“Okay,” you mutter, and retreat toward your room. So much for taking your time and enjoying getting ready. 

Maybe he’s just trying to be nice after this morning. Or maybe the others sent him here to smooth things over before they all see you for the first time in over four months—baby bump and all. 

“How far along did you say you were?” Tyler calls, poking his head into your room. 

You jump, dropping the sock you were trying to pull on. “Oh... um, about four-ish months.” 

He narrows his eyes but doesn’t press, just leans in the doorway, quietly taking in the space. 

This can’t be good. 

“When are you due?” he asks. 

“Five-ish months,” you shoot back with a smirk. 

His lip twitches, almost smiling—and it still gets you. That little flicker of him is enough to stir your heart. 

Then he asks, “What did you say the dad’s name was again?” 

You freeze mid-step toward the ensuite. “I didn’t.” 

“Oh...” His nod is slow, satisfied, like he was waiting for that. 

“It’s Todd,” you blurt, turning quickly and disappearing into the bathroom. 

Behind you, he scoffs. “Todd.” 

Yeah, this isn’t good. Tyler’s onto something. What, you don’t know. But you can feel it—he’s circling like a shark, toying with you before he bites. 

“So, when exactly did you find out you were pregnant?” he asks, stepping into view in the mirror behind you. 

The hairs on your neck rise. “About three weeks after I slept with him.” 

His eyes lock on yours in the mirror, steady and sharp as you try to run a comb through your damp hair. 

“What did he say when you told him?” 

You shrug, trying to appear unaffected. “Not much. He was shocked. Asked if I was keeping it, and I said yes. Told him it was fine if he wanted out. He took it.” 

Tyler shifts, raising one arm to lean against the doorframe. He’s filling the small bathroom doorway with his body—and you’re suddenly very aware of how broad his shoulders are, how strong his arms are, remembering the way he’d thrown you around that night... 

The memory slams into you, heat creeping between your thighs. You shift, pressing your legs together. 

He notices. That tiny smirk returning as he leans in a little more, boxing you in. 

“Bit strange, don’t you think?” he says, voice low. “Knowing you’re having a kid and not wanting anything to do with it. Sounds like a dirtbag move.” 

Anger slices through your chest. “Yeah, well. Some people just don’t see themselves settling down.” 

The words are out before you realise—they're his words, from the interview. 

His eyes narrow. “Who said anything about settling down? Kids don’t ruin lives.” 

You scoff, avoiding his gaze. “No, they just stop you from pursuing your dreams.” 

Another quote. Damn that interview. Damn you for watching it again. But the way he’s interrogating you is pissing you off. What right does he have? He’s the one who told the world he’d resent anyone who gave him a kid. 

And here he is, acting like he cares. 

A heavy breath hangs in the air as you trade your hairbrush for a makeup brush, leaning closer to the mirror. Tyler’s eyes stay locked on you—intense, unwavering, a little too focused. 

Then his voice slices clean through the silence. 

“Why didn’t you use birth control?” 

White-hot fury flares up your spine, lighting your cheeks on fire as you spin to face him. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t recoil. He just stands there with that same infuriating glint in his eye—smug, steady, unreadable. His posture is so relaxed it makes your skin crawl, like he didn’t just drop a live grenade into the middle of your lie. 

“You know I’m not on birth control,” you snap, your voice low and trembling with rage. “And the condom. Fucking. Broke.” 

The second it’s out of your mouth, you want to drag it back in. You could’ve said anything else—something careless, something wild, something stupid. But instead, you gave him truth wrapped in a lie—and now the whole thing is starting to crack. 

“That so?” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Crazy how that happened... twice in a row.” 

Your jaw clenches. “Clearly I need to buy a new box of condoms.” 

He lets out a dry, humourless laugh and leans in closer, eyes glittering. “That was my condom that broke.” 

Your breath comes faster now, chest tight, nerves sparking under your skin like live wires. You can’t even remember the lie you rehearsed. Your heart’s thundering, the baby is moving restlessly in your belly—like she feels your panic. Like she knows. 

“Maybe you and Todd use the same damn brand,” you mutter, spinning back toward the vanity and gripping the edge like it might hold you steady. 

“You just said you need to buy a new box,” he presses, relentless. “Does Todd leave his condoms here?” 

You grit your teeth, drop your chin, and breathe in through your nose. “Jesus, Tyler. I’m sorry I don’t remember every single detail.” 

You hear him shift. Feel the heat of him behind you. Too close. 

“You wanna know what I think?” he asks, voice low and dangerous. 

You turn, slowly, heart in your throat. He’s so close now your belly nearly brushes his belt and you have to press against the vanity for space. 

You meet his eyes. “What do you think, Tyler?” 

He tilts his head, just slightly. “I think you remember the night you got pregnant like it just happened. I think it’s carved into your brain. And I think you’re tripping over your story right now because you can’t forget what it felt like. Because it was so damn good, you don’t want to forget it.” 

Panic coils in your chest like a gathering storm—rising fast, twisting tight, pushing a tangled mess of guilt and frustration up your throat. Your breath catches on it, your lungs stuck somewhere between inhale and breakdown. And then it spills over. Tears blur your vision before you can even try to blink them back, heavy and hot as they streak down your cheeks—weighted with remorse and something close to desperation. 

Tyler is frozen in place, wide-eyed and still, his lips parted like he’s trying to speak but the words won’t come. You can see the regret flicker there—he hadn’t meant to be cruel, not like that. But it doesn’t matter. Whatever version of the truth he’s starting to piece together... he’s probably right. 

And still, you can’t say it. Not yet. 

Instead, you swipe at your cheeks with the sleeve of your sweater and slip past him, your shoulder brushing his arm as you squeeze out of the bathroom. You cross the room on shaky legs and drop onto the bed, curling in on yourself as a raw sob breaks free and rattles from your chest. You bury your face in your hands, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. 

Tyler doesn’t move at first. The silence stretches and settles around you, thick and stifling. But then comes the soft creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he steps closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s approaching a wounded animal. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and rough, like he’s choking on his own emotion. “That was too harsh.” 

You don’t look up. Not yet. You can’t. 

“I didn’t mean to come at you like that,” he continues, voice gentler now. “I got caught up—and I guess I’ve been walking around with all this shit in my chest. Then I saw you again, and it just... it all hit me. I’ve been pretending I’m fine, like it didn’t gut me when you left. But it did. You took more of me with you than I ever realised.” 

Your fingers shift, just enough to peek through them—and there he is, kneeling beside the bed, one hand resting near your thigh but not quite touching. His eyes search yours, glassy with emotion he’s clearly trying to hold back. 

“I love you,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I did before all of this—before you left, before... the baby. I’ve always loved you. That night wasn’t a mistake. And honestly? I wasn’t even that drunk. I just—needed you. I still do. I need you more than anything.” 

You swallow hard. 

“But not more than you need the chase,” you mutter, tears spilling again. “Right? Because that’s it for you. That’s the dream, and you’ve worked too damn hard to give it up.” 

He blinks. Confused. Then his brows furrow as recognition dawns. You can see it hit him—he remembers. 

You let out a shaky breath and slide your hand over his. “I don’t want you to resent me, Ty. I don’t want you to give up what you love. You’ve got an out.” 

His eyes widen, locking onto yours like he’s just now realising what you’re trying to say. 

“You can still walk away,” you whisper. 

He stares at you, frozen—like your words knocked the air clean out of his lungs. His mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out. His brows knit tighter, his hand shifting beneath yours. 

Then, after a beat, he whispers, “Are you serious?” 

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just look at him, eyes brimming, heart thundering in your chest like it’s trying to burst out and reach for him itself. 

His throat works around a swallow. Then he says it—low and broken and burning. 

“Didn’t you hear me?” His voice cracks. “I fucking love you. More than anything. More than storms and chasing and everything I’ve ever been stupid enough to think mattered more. That interview... it was bullshit. I wasn’t thinking—I wasn’t thinking about you. Because with you, I want all of it.” 

Then he moves. 

There’s no breath between the words and the moment he surges forward—like he’s been holding himself back for years and finally snapped. His mouth crashes into yours, hot and searing, all teeth and desperation and need. One hand tangles in your hair, the other pulls you toward him with a grip that says he’s never letting go again. 

It steals your breath. Steals your thoughts. Your hands fist in his shirt as you kiss him back just as fiercely, matching the fire with one that’s been simmering in your chest since the day you left. 

There’s nothing soft about it. It’s raw and reckless and messy, and it tastes like every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every broken piece finally slamming back into place. 

It feels like the truth. 

Between frantic kisses, you whisper against his lips, “I love you.” 

You feel his mouth curve into a smile before he murmurs, “Fuck, I’ve missed you.” 

The kisses slow, soften—his tongue sweeping against yours with aching intention, like he’s trying to memorise every inch of you, every breath. The hand tangled in your hair slides down to cradle your neck, while the other one drifts to your waist, settling gently against the curve of your swollen belly. 

Then the baby kicks—hard. Harder than she ever has. You both jolt. 

“Shit,” you whisper, hands flying to your stomach. “Sorry.” 

Tyler stares, completely still. He looks unfairly beautiful like this—flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, wide, glassy eyes locked on your belly. He looks like he’s just witnessed something holy. Something impossible. 

“Why are you sorry?” he asks, eyes flicking up to yours. 

You shrug, brushing your damp cheeks with the sleeve of your sweater. “She doesn’t usually kick that hard. I guess she’s getting stronger.” 

His eyes shimmer. “She?” 

You nod, the ghost of a smile on your lips. “Yeah. We’re having a baby girl.” 

His bottom lip trembles, a small, stunned smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We?” 

A shaky laugh bubbles up as fresh tears spill down your cheeks. “Yes, Tyler. She’s yours.” 

His tears fall freely now, trailing down his flushed cheeks, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. He just looks at you like you’ve hung the moon—just for him. 

“I’m yours too,” you whisper, voice trembling. “We’re all yours.” 

Then he’s kissing you again—wet and messy and full of everything you’ve both been carrying for months. You’re crying, he’s crying, but neither of you care. You just hold on—breathing hard, laughing softly—lips meeting again and again as you both sink into the familiar shape of each other… into home. 

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[perfectprettypisces]

High Bids and Green Eyes

Summary: At a black tie disaster relief gala, you (a local meteorologist) finds yourself up for a charity “date” auction, and watches the bidding skyrocket when your ex-fiance Tyler Owens outbids a smooth talking donor to “buy” a conversation he should’ve had months ago. On a moonlit balcony, jealousy strips down to honesty. He still wants you, and this time he’s ready to do things differently. One taco truck detoury and a messy but tender reunion later, you choose a slower forecast for the two of you.

Warnings: Jealousy/Possessiveness Themes, Mentions of Alcohol, Past Breakup Angst, Mild profanity/Strong language, and Explicit Sexual Content (protected PinV intercourse)

Word Count: 6,058

Prompt + Pairing: “Jealousy seems to be a great motivator for you.” + Tyler Owens

The hotel’s ballroom has been completely transformed for tonight’s community galas. Glass and gold, donors in tuxedos, chandeliers throwing prisms of light across the marble floors. The relief fund logo glows across a giant screen. Names of surrounding counts scroll beneath it. You can pick out half a dozen places from the list that you’ve stood in with a mic and mud up to your ankles.

You hand your ticket to a woman with a clipboard and a warm smile, before tucking your clutch under your arm.

It’s the Disaster Relief Fund Gala. A black tie event held on by the city each year to help local communities affected by tornadoes and other natural disasters. Silent auction tables are lined with various items people had donated. Their prizes range from gifts certificates to local restaurants all the way to a brand new smoker somebody had donated.

But the main event is the date auction. The committee usually pics 3-5 notable singles and auctions off an evening with them. Highest bidder gets a date with the person of their choosing.

You start to make your rounds through the crowd. You smile and make small talk with the crowd. Your finger occasionally ghosts to the bare place where a ring used to sit on your left hand.

Your mind flashes back momentarily to the sight of Tyler on one knee in a backyard strung with Christmas lights in June. His smile so big. You standing there with a hand clapped over your mouth and then saying the easiest yes you’ve ever said.

Then another flash to just a few months ago. Suitcases by the door. Your voice steady as you told him that you couldn’t do a relationship with a ghost. Him reaching for you, but no saying anything. No promises that he’d do better. No asking for one more chance like you expected. But maybe it was better that he didn’t say anything. Your mind was made up, and it was too late for him to change. He was gone more than he was home and it just wasn’t working anymore.

You blink the thoughts away. You can’t think about him right now. You turn your attention toward the stage where the emcee is warming his throat, getting ready for the auction. A little ‘check one two” is said into a mic by a stage hand that pops through the room.

“Drink?” says a server with a tray of champagne. You take one and let the bubbles bite your lip.

You glance toward the silent auction tables again and that’s when you see him. Simple black tuxedo. Bowtie slightly loose. Hair held in place with just enough gel to look intentional. His signature cream Stetson is nowhere to be seen tonight. He’s posted by a sponsor table, answering questions from a man whose cufflinks probably cost more than your rent. Grant Riggs. Son of Marshall Riggs. The kind of man you’ll probably end up going on a date with because he’ll have a wallet deep enough to bid for it. Tyler nods along, patient, hands tucked in his pockets so he doesn’t talk with them the way he does when he’s excited.

His eyes catch on you. The pause is microscopic. Then he looks back to the sponsor. You look away first. Mutual avoidance, the cowardly gentleman’s agreement.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee booms, “welcome, welcome, welcome! Tonight, we raise money for disaster response in our own backyard because when the sky turns, neighbors turn toward each other.”

First they have a few families speak. Families who were helped by funds from last year’s gala fundraiser. They remind everyone in the crowd of what the night is about.

And then it’s time for the auction and you feel your stomach start to tighten in knots.

“First up,” the emcee croons, milking the crowd just a little, “the woman who keeps us safe when the sirens sing! Chief Meteorologist at WKHY is offering a night out. Dinner with her at the Sky Room restaurant located in the historic Magnolia Hotel. I hear she’ll explain dew point in layman’s terms if the cap breaks.”

There some laughter. A few cat calls. You make your way onto the stage. You take your place by the emcee and wave like a homecoming queen to the crowd.

“Let’s start the bidding at one hundred dollars.” He says. “Do I hear one hundred?”

A hand pops up. “One hundred.”

“Two fifty?” he calls, and a different hand lifts. “Two fifty!”

“Three?” he tries.

“Three hundred,” says a woman.

“Five!” Grant Riggs calls out. He lifts his paddle casually like he’s hailing a cab. “Five hundred.”

“Five fifty!” The woman calls out again.

The room perks. The emcee’s grin widens by instinct as he turns back to Grant. “Six?”

“Seven fifty,” Grant says without waiting. He’s already turned his body toward you like the night is a foregone conclusion.

“Do I hear a thousand?” the emcee asks the air.

Somewhere in the back, someone flicks their paddle. 

“One thousand,” the spotter calls.

You squint into the lights to try and get a look at the bidder, but you can’t make out the face with the lights shining down on the stage.

The emcee then turns to grant. “Eleven hundred?”

Grant nods and the emcee turns to the woman who shakes her head. Then he turns his attention towards the bidder in the back.

“Do I hear one thousand two fifty?”

The unseen bidder holds his paddle up agreeing.

Grant laughs, seemingly delighted at this game of back and forth. “Fifteen hundred.”

The air changes. Your pulse ticks up in ways that have nothing to do with stage fright. The spotter points to the back again. 

The spotter shouts house “Seventeen fifty.”

“Two thousand,” Grant says as his smile tightens. He glances at you and then at the back. You can feel the crowd swiveling, trying to catch a silhouette between the pillars. The emcee’s eyebrows shoot up. He milks the pause like a pro.

“Do I hear twenty five?” he purrs.

The voice rolls out like a weather front. “Four thousand.”

The room does that soft, rippling gasp people do when something unexpectedly expensive or sexy happens. Heads turn. People on the edges stand to see who the bidder willing to pay $4,000 for a date with you is.

You don’t have to. You know that voice. You knew it in the dark with the windows rattling. You knew it at a kitchen table with a map open and coffee gone cold.

Tyler stands in the far aisle by the exit, paddle still halfway raised like he barely used any muscle to lift it. Bowtie undone. Grin nowhere. His eyes are on you and nothing else.

Grant exhales, amused and pragmatic, and folds. The emcee hammers his gavel like he’s always wanted to be that guy. “Sold. For four thousand dollars to Mr. Tyler Owens.”

Applause crests again. You make your face behave and shove down the thoughts and feelings racing through your brain.

“Thank you for your generosity,” the emcee says as you step off the stage.

The balcony doors are open to the night. You take the out without looking back. The city air slides cool against your bare shoulders, storms grumbling somewhere far enough off to be romantic instead of dangerous. Your phone buzzes with a notification you don’t check. Inside, the emcee rolls on.

You brace your palms on the stone rail and force yourself to focus on your breathing and not the fact that you’ll have to go on a date with your ex-fiance. A date he was willing to pay four thousand dollars to get apparently.

You hear footsteps follow you onto the background. You don’t turn to see who it is. You don’t need to. You’d know the scuff of his Lucheese anywhere.

“You could’ve let someone else donate,” you say, eyes on the far off flicker of the sky.

“I did donate,” Tyler says. He shuts the door softly behind him, giving the two of you some privacy. “I donated four grand in case you missed that part.”

You roll your eyes at the sky. “You donated to yourself.”

“I donated to the fund.” He stops a polite distance away. “And I bought time to talk to you.”

“Bought,” you repeat, sour on your tongue. Your fingers curl around the rail. “Right. Because jealousy seems to be a great motivator for you, and your…generosity.”

Silence, then a rough sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “Jealousy’s got me by the throat tonight.”

“Congratulations,” you say, because petty is easier than honest. “You win. You don’t have to watch me smile at Grant over dessert.”

He steps up beside you, not touching you. But close enough that you can feel his body heat through the thing fabric of his shirt against your bare arms.

“That wasn’t what this was,” he says.

You huff. “No?”

“No.” He looks out with you, and when he speaks again his voice is lower, like he’s angling it for you and not for the room inside. “He spent fifteen minutes telling me what he was going to do on your date when he bought you. The way he said it…like you were a prize he’d one up me with and then unbox later.” His jaw ticks. “You’re not a prize to be won, and I wasn’t going to stand there while a man like that eye fucked you over a steak dinner.”

You blink. The word hits, ugly and exactly right. “Tyler–”

“I know you can handle creeps,” he says quickly, hands up like he’s preempting your argument. “You shouldn’t have to. Not on a night that’s supposed to celebrate you.”

You swallow, look down at your bare hand on the railing and then away. “I wasn’t…smiling at him,” you say, quieter than you mean to.

“I know,” he says. “You were smiling at the idea of a new Doppler unit if these people get out their checkbooks. You were smiling for the cameras because you’re a pro. I know the difference.”

Wind lifts a strand of hair against your neck. He doesn’t fix it. The restraint raises a memory of all the times he did. You catch yourself missing the small, domestic thoughtlessness of it and get irritated at your own heart.

“This isn’t about Grant,” you say, because it can’t be; if it is, you’ll never get to the real thing. “You can’t bid your way into dating me again Tyler. There’s a reason we broke.”

“A reason you called off the engagement,” he corrects. “And trust me I’m well aware of it. Because I was gone more than I was home.”

“And then ‘rarely ever,’” you finish, because if you’re going to do this, you’re going to use accurate terminology. “I wasn’t asking you to stop chasing. I was asking not to be engaged to a ghost.”

“I know,” he says. The words are clean. No defense. “I told myself it was a season. One more push. One more set of storms and then I’d slow down. I kept pushing the line. The line moved. And then I looked up and you were putting your ring in my palm like it weighed a thousand pounds.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t look at him. “You didn’t argue or try to get me to stay.”

He exhales. “I didn’t trust myself not to promise you something I couldn’t give. And I didn’t want to break another promise to you.”

“Are you going to promise me something tonight then?” you ask, still watching the sky, which is easier than watching his mouth when he’s honest. “Is that why you paid an absurd amount of money to take me to dinner?”

“No,” he says, and you feel him square himself. “I’m going to tell you what I’d do different this time if you give me another chance. And you can decide if it matters.”

You want to keep your shields up, but your curiosity turns its head like a dog that knows its name. “Okay.”

“My team’s not a one-man band anymore,” he says. “I split leadership. Dexter’s got full ops control on half the runs. Lily took over media planning. We’ve got two drivers I trust. I’m not required for the team to move anymore; the team can move without me.”

You flick your eyes at him. He’s looking at the horizon like a man reading a forecast. Careful and sure. 

“Okay that’s some logistics. But still doesn’t fix everything.”

“It’s not. But it’s a start, don’t you think?” He drags a hand over the back of his neck, stops himself like he remembers he’s in a tux and not a ball cap. “I’ve got a place two miles from your station. When the storms are slow. I’m there a couple days a week right now at minimum. I can keep that up. Give you a guaranteed two or three nights a week that are just yours. My phone goes off and I’m all yours. Storm or no storm.”

“You’re making it sound simple,” you say, because it isn’t. Getting back with Tyler will never be simple. Being with Tyler will never be simple.

But you hear him out because you want it to be and that scares you. It scare you how easily you want to believe him and give him a second chance.

“It’s not, he says. “But I’m starting to realize that I can’t control the sky. But I can control whether I chase it or not.”

The city breathes, that endless white noise. Inside, laughter pings off crystal. Out here, thunder mutters a county or two over. You keep your eyes on the dark line where the clouds lie heavy and think about mornings alone with a coffee cup gone cold. You think about loving someone whose body shows up but whose mind is already on a radar return three states away. You think about the way his hands steadied when he slid a ring onto your finger.

“I can handle storms and chasing,” you say finally. “I do it every day. What I can’t handle is you telling me you’re coming home and then not walking in the door.”

He nods like he expected the exact contours of that sentence. “Then that’s the line. If I’m gonna miss a night together, I tell you before you dress up for me. If I can’t make a night because of a chase window, I replace it with two. If I start to slide, you say stop. We stop. All I’m asking for is a chance here.”

It’s so practical you want to laugh, and the laugh catches on something fragile and becomes a sound that makes his mouth go soft.

“I miss you,” he says. He doesn’t load it with metaphors, doesn’t make it a vow. He says it like a fact he can’t sand down. “I miss waking up with your hair trying to kill me. I miss arguing about which storm is gonna break. I just miss…you.”

You close your eyes against the sting that sentence knows how to find. “Missing me didn’t make you stay.”

“No,” he says, quietly. “But it made me miserable enough to stop pretending I didn’t lose the best thing I ever had. I thought chasing and the team was the best thing I had going for me. It was a drug. But nothing compared to the feeling of seeing you walk out that door, and pull out the driveway. I can barely be in that damn house now because you’re not there. It’s why I got the place near the station. I couldn’t go home when I knew you weren’t gonna be there.”

You snort wetly. “Did you practice that apology on a cereal box?”

He huffs, looks half offended and half relieved that you still know his worst habits. “On the drive over, actually. The tux got the brunt of it.”

You let the smile have your mouth for one second. Then you set it down. “I don’t want to be bought.”

“You weren’t,” he says. “You can’t be. I bought a chance to ask if I can try again. If you want me to shut up and take my ‘date’ and shove it, I will. I’ll drive you home right now, and leave you at your door.”

“You’d do that,” you say, testing, because the man you left would have kissed you at the door and called it chivalry.

“I would,” he says. “And then I’d go eat a stupidly expensive steak by myself and try not to text you about the cloud base on the way.”

You laugh, helpless. It’s a small sound and it changes the pressure. He takes one careful step closer. “Can I…?” he asks, not quite reaching. “Touch your hand?”

It’s such a gentle ask it breaks you a little. You turn your palm up on the rail, and he lays his over it. His hand is warm, familiar as thunder in summer. He doesn’t lace your fingers. He just covers them like shelter.

“I can’t promise you I won’t feel that sick green when someone else makes you laugh,” he says, eyes on your joined hands. “I can promise I won’t punish you for it. I can promise I’ll say it out loud before it curdles me.”

“Jealousy isn’t the flex you think it is,” you say, though your voice has lost its teeth.

“I don’t think it’s a flex,” he says. “I think it’s a flare. Tells me where I’m failing. Tells me what I’m afraid to lose.”

You look at him then, finally, head-on. His bowtie hangs open; his eyes are bright with more than the ballroom. “What if I say no?”

“Then I take it,” he says. “I won’t chase you into loving me. As much as it will kill me not to, I won’t do that to you.”

“And if I say yes?” Your pulse ticks, traitorous. Your skin has already decided what your mouth hasn’t.

He smiles then, small and wrecked and hopeful. “Then we start with dinner I didn’t buy at an auction. And two nights next week that are yours. And we make a plan for storm days so you know where I’ll be when you fall asleep.”

Lightning walks its fingers through the far clouds. Close enough to light the edge of his face, far enough that you can pretend time is generous. You lean in before you can think yourself back. 

“Kiss me,” you say.

He does. Without hesitation. His mouth is warm and the sigh you make tastes like lime and relief. He doesn’t press you back against the railing; he leaves you the space to step away and the invitation to close it. You close it. His hand leaves yours to settle at your waist, steady and present; the other cups your jaw like it’s something he took an oath on.

When you break, it’s because breath insists. You keep your foreheads together. Inside, someone claps at a joke you didn’t hear.

You open your eyes. He’s right there. You slide your hand down his white button up shirt, feeling the heat underneath. 

“Take me to dinner,” you say. “Not the Sky Room though. Somewhere that doesn’t have an $80 entree.”

He lets out a laugh and looks into your eyes. “There’s a taco truck I passed on the way here two blocks over that looked pretty good.”

“Perfect,” you say, and when he reaches past you to open the balcony door, you let him.

Tyler takes a step back and reaches past you to open the door that leads back into the ballroom. You let him hold the door, and thank him as you pass him.

Tyler’s hand finds the small of your back, and he looks down at you. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” you nod.

He guides you through the crowd of donors with that charismatic ease he’s known for. A quick smile here. A nod there.

At the elevator in the hallway he pushes the call button. The doors slide open in a soft hush. You step inside together, the mirror catching his tux and the dark emerald satin of your gown. Tyler presses the button for the lobby.

Outside, the night is warm and a little damp, the kind of air that makes your hair think about misbehaving. Tyler’s tux jacket goes over your shoulders without comment. He unlocks the truck, then braces a hand on the door and offers the other to help you step up. You take it because the step is high, that’s it. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself. His palm is calloused and feels familiar against yours.

“Careful,” he murmurs as you settle. “This seat has a history of seducing meteorologists.”

“Tragic,” you say. “I prefer to be wooed by accurate models.”

“Then you’re in luck,” he says, circling to the driver’s side. “I’ve been working on getting some new ones running.”

He fires the engine. The cab smells like cedar, rain, a hint of gasoline that clings to men who live on the road.

Two blocks later, the taco truck glows. String lights haloing a cloud of cilantro and grilled meat. There’s a short line of people out front. Tyler parks then jogs around to open your door. He offers you a hand as you climb down.

At the window, the woman in the truck beams. “Owens! You bringing trouble or saving it tonight?”

“Neither,” he grins. “Redeeming myself, if I can.”

She eyes you, takes in the jacket over the gown, and softens. “Good answer. What’ll it be?”

“Two al pastor, two carne asada,” Tyler says, glancing to you for confirmation. “Extra onion, extra cilantro. And the green salsa.”

Tyler slides his wallet out of his back pocket. He hands over the cash for the meal and tells her to keep the change. Then you move to the right of the window while you wait for your food.

He leans against the metal siding of the food truck, and looks down at you.

“Thank you for letting me do this,” he says.

“You haven’t done anything yet,” you point out.

He nods as he accepts the correction. “Thank you for the chance to.”

When the food’s ready, the foil packets are warm enough to sting through paper. He takes both and the two of you head back towards the truck.

“Your place?” He asks. “Only if you want.”

“I want.”

The words surprise you with how easily they come. You slide a hand under the edge of his jacket on your shoulders, hook a finger in the lining.

Back in the truck he hands you the food as he starts the truck.

“Address?” he asks, as he opens his phone and pulls up his GPS.

You rattle it off, and he nods. You notice he drives a little more careful than you remember. Careful on the turns. Respecting the speed limit.

He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other palm up on the console like an invitation that you can choose to take or ignore. You set your fingers in his as if no time has passed. His fingers curl slightly to gently hold yours.

“Two nights a week,” he says quietly, eyes on the road. “You pick.”

“Tuesday,” you say, absurdly decisive. “And Friday.”

“Tuesday and Friday it is.” He says it like a vow.

You pull up outside your building. The hallway smells faintly of laundry and someone's too aggressive lavender diffuser. He insists on carrying the food, which is ridiculous because your clutch weighs nothing, but you let him, because tonight you are practicing the art of letting the person who wants you show you that he does.

At your door, you fish for your keys from your clutch. You slide the key into the lock, then pause with your hand on the door.

“This is dinner,” you say, to draw the line and keep your intentions for the night clear. “Not…anything I might regret tomorrow.”

He nods. “Dinner. If you want me to go after, I’ll go.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll stay a little longer,” his mouth curves up. “Then I’ll still go when you decide you want me to. And I’ll be back here on Tuesday to pick you up for a date.”

With that you turn the knob, and lead him inside.

Your living room is the opposite of the ballroom: soft lamp, stack of weather journals on the coffee table, a throw with a hole the size of a thumb through the weave. He sets the tacos down, steps back to look around. You shrug off the jacket and drape it over a chair.

“Plates?” you ask.

“Napkins are fine,” he says, and then, because he’s learning, “unless you want plates.”

“Napkins are fine,” you echo, and hand him one. 

You take a seat on the couch, and he mirrors you. You eat with your heads bent over foil. The green salsa hits your mouth and your eyes widen. He grins, and reaches over to wipe a way a dot of sauce at the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

“Good?” He asks.

“The best,” you say, and he laughs.

The two of you eat in comfortable silence. You wiped the last smear of salsa from your thumb and et the napkin on the empty foil wrapper. Tyler leans back against the couch cushions, looking at you like he can finally relax.

“I should…change,” you say, flicking your eyes down at the gown. “Be back in a minute.”

He gives you a nod, and then begins to gather the foil wrappers from your dinner.

Once in your room, you kick off your heels with the grateful groan of a woman reclaiming her ankles. You reach back and tug the zipper at your spine. It moves an inch and then it get caught. You mutter to yourself and then try again, the tips of your fingernails sliding uselessly against the zipper.

You step to the doorway, fingers braced on the frame. “Tyler?”

He’s there faster than you expect. “Yeah?”

You angle your shoulder, lift your hair. “Zipper’s stuck...can you uh…can you help?”

Something flickers across his face. ”You sure?”

“I asked you, didn’t I?” You say with a small smirk.

He steps behind you. He carefully gathers your hair in one palm, and carefully moves it to the front of your shoulder. You feel the slow slide of his other hand, knuckles grazing the bare skin at the nape of your neck. The zipper begins to lower, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“There,” he says, his voice a little rougher than it had been before. To his credit, he steps back, and turns toward the hall. “I’ll…I’ll give you a minute.”

Your hand catches his wrist before he takes a second step.

“Stay,” you say, and the word is simple and enormous.

He goes still. You feel his pulse under your fingers, quick, honest. He turns back, eyes searching your face for doubt and finding none.

“I said dinner,” you add, “I didn’t say no to dessert.”

There’s a little bit of relief that breaks out over his features. “You’re sure about this, darlin’?”

“Come here, cowboy,” you say, and tug gently on his wrist.

You step backward into the room together, his hands hovering but not quite touching you. The dress loosens at your sides, and you hold the bodice in place with one hand while you reach for the collar of his shirt with the other.

He leans down and kisses you. It’s slow. Intentional.

“Shoes off,” you murmur against his mouth, because you are not about to have his muddy boot prints all over your bedding.

He laughs into the kiss then drops to the edge of the bed and toes off his boots. You let the dress slide off. The satin puddles at your feet and you step out of it. Tyler’s fingers begin unbuttoning his shirt until it hangs open, the white framing the tanned skin of him.

He’s on the edge of the bed knees apart. You climb into that space and swing a leg over his thigh, then the other, settling into his lap. His hands go to your hips almost on reflex.

“Okay?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you breathe, and your mouth finds his.

This kiss isn’t careful anymore. He exhales into it like he’s been holding that breath for months, palms sliding from your hips to the small of your back, anchoring you closer. You roll your hips without thinking, the friction a bright, needy jolt. He lets out something that almost sounds like a groan as he presses his mouth along your jaw, down to your collarbones.

He kisses there like he’s memorizing it. Open mouthed, soft, then not so much. Teeth barely scraping before he soothes it with his tongue. 

Your head tips back on instinct, hands in his hair, shoulder blades bowing as he kisses the top swell of your chest. You rock again and feel him, hard under the fine fabric, the drag of his slacks and the heat of him through his boxers lining up perfectly with the ache you’ve been studiously ignoring since the balcony.

“God, I missed you,” he mutters against your skin, the words vibrating through your sternum. His thumbs stroke along your ribs, careful with the edge of your bra, waiting.

“Tyler,” you say, and it lands like a yes.

He answers by kissing the hollow at the base of your throat and reaching behind you. 

“Can I?” he asks, fingers hovering at the clasp.

“You can.”

He drops the bra to the side without looking away from your face. His hands come back, cupping you tenderly first, then a little One hand stays on your back, steadying you, while the other come up to cup your chest. Your breath hitches when his thumb skims over your right nipple. Your back arches into his touch. Your hips keep moving in small circles, and he meets you halfway. Thrusting up, and groaning when you grind just right.

“Too many clothes,” you murmur, tugging at his belt. 

The buckle answers with a bright little clink. He lifts his hips so you can work it free, your fingers shaking, laughter catching in your mouth when the leather finally pulls loose.

“Team effort,” he says, breathless, and then makes short work of the button and zipper. You help shove the tux pants down. The boxer briefs go with them, his cock springing free against the heat of your belly. 

He swears softly when your fingers wrap around him once, testing weight and pressure like reacquainting yourself with a tool you never stopped loving.

“Condom?” you ask.

“I don’t have one baby, wasn’t exactly planning on this,” he says.

“I might have some in my nightstand.”

He pulls open the drawer of your nightstand and moves his hand around blindly before pulling one out. He tears the packet before rolling the condom on his length.

“Your turn,” he says, eyes flicking down to your panties, and then back up to your face.

You climb off his lap and stand between his legs, hooking your fingers in the waistband. He helps, sliding the fabric down your thighs. You kick them aside and settle again, bare now, the heat of you slick against the latex and the muscle beneath it. He stills, hands wide on your hips, eyes dark.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, honest.

“You,” you say. “Now.”

You climb back onto his lap, your legs straddling him. His hands find your hips immediately. You reach between you, line him up, and sink onto him in a slow, deliberate push.

It’s a little rushed, a lot needy, the kind of joining that is half muscle memory and half this new promise. He fills you and you take him and the months apart collapse to a single, stunned beat of finally. Your hands brace on his shoulders; his forehead drops to your collarbone; you both ride out the first wave with laughter that sounds dangerously like broken prayer.

“Still fits,” he says, wrecked.

“Still yours,” almost slips, but you catch it with your teeth and turn it into a kiss that swallows the sentiment and transmits it anyway.

You start to move. Slow at first, then quicker, chasing the angle that lights you up. His hands guide without taking, thumbs pressing into the soft give of your hips, sliding you down, up, down again. The slide is messy and perfect. You’re already slick, the sounds of it shameless in the quiet room. He meets you with little bursts of his own, hips lifting, jaw tight as he groans your name like an apology and a vow all at once.

“Right there?” He asks when your breath turns sharp.

“Right there,” you bite out, rolling your hips to show him again. 

He gets it instantly, adjusts his angle, and it hits.

You brace your hands on either side of his neck and ride him. He can’t stop touching you. One hand on your back, one sliding to your breast, mouth open against your collarbone, teeth catching. You’re vaguely aware of the shirt still on his shoulders, the collar gone crooked. He tries to shrug it off and you laugh mid moan.

“Leave it,” you say, voice wrecked. “It’s doing something for me.”

His laugh breaks, turns into a groan when you clamp down around him. “Yes, ma’am.”

You change the angle, moving your knees a little wider. And the friction lands exactly where you need it. Your head tips back, an almost embarrassingly loud moan coming out of you. 

He feels it and goes still, palm cupping the back of your neck, eyes on your face.

“Don’t stop,” you say. “Please.”

He doesn’t. He gives you everything you asked for: steady, deep, then faster when you chase it. The pace turns a little chaotic, the rhythm messy, your bodies smacking, breaths syncing then fracturing. It’s not graceful. His hand catches your thigh, you slip, both of you laugh breathlessly, and it’s somehow more intimate than any sex you’ve had with Tyler before.

“Look at me,” he says, and you do.

“Tyler–” you warn, and he nods, thumb pressing into your hip, the other hand sliding between you to give you the nudge you need. Two strokes of his thumb. Then a third, and your orgasm hits hard enough to knock the air out of you. You clamp around him, cry out, and ride it out.

Tyler’s not far behind you. He swears through clenched teeth, hips stuttering, and just a few thrusts later and his release fills the condom. He holds onto you through the aftershocks. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other splayed over your back, holding you to him.

Your breaths start to even out. You ease off of him. He catches the condom, knots it, and tosses it towards the trash by your nightstand. Then he reaches for you, pulling you back in towards him so he can wrap his arms around you.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Your palm rests over his chest, feeling his heartbeat come down under it. “You?”

He nods, eyes a little glassy in the low light. “Yeah. I—” He swallows. “I missed you.”

You drag your fingers through his hair and smooth it back, the old, ridiculous affection settling in like it never left. “I missed you being here,” you say. “Not just this.”

“I’m here now,” he says, simply. “And Tuesday. And Friday.”

You walk around to the opposite side of the bed and turn down the sheets before crawling inside. You pull the sheet up over you as Tyler slides in beside you. You tuck your feet under his calf, stealing his warmth. He drops a kiss to your shoulder and reaches past you to set his watch on the nightstand.

“Stay,” you tell him, even though he already is.

He smiles into your skin. “Gladly.”

Outside, thunder drifts farther off. Inside, you breathe together until the room stops feeling like a place where something broke and starts feeling like a place where something new is beginning.

[perfectprettypisces]

#I don't know how many more "He gets it" I have left in me