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all-by-myself98 · 2 months ago

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almost wasn’t

joaquin torres 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, mutual pining, friends to lovers, teasing and tension, dirty dancing, grinding, thigh riding, piv sex, creampie, slight angst, happy ending ofc, slow burn word count: 14k Summary: You and Joaquin have been best friends since the Air Force—shoulders pressed side by side through deployments, shitty rations, late-night confessions, and every almost that never became something more. You’ve seen him fall in and out of love. He’s seen you pretend you don’t need more than friendship. You date other people. You go on double dates. But every time, you end up right back next to each other—too close, too familiar, too full of everything you won’t say. Until one night, everything breaks open. And it turns out, the only thing worse than wanting him all this time… is realizing he’s always wanted you too. notes – not proofread tags: @eeveedream @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet

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The first time you meet Joaquin Torres, he’s grinning through a busted lip.

There’s blood on his chin and dirt smudged along one cheekbone, and he’s still cracking a joke with the instructor like he’s not one misstep from failing out of the course. The sun is high and brutal, hanging over the tarmac like punishment. Your sweat-stuck shirt clings to your spine. You’re already tired. Already irritated.

He looks at you like you’re a dare.

“Guess we’re partners now,” he says, offering a hand that’s scraped raw across the knuckles. “Hope you can keep up, mami.”

You almost don’t shake it. Almost tell him to go to hell. But something in his tone—something cocky, sure, but not mean—softens the edge just enough. You grip his hand.

“Don’t hold me back, flyboy.”

He laughs, bright and stupidly charming. You hate how easy it makes you smile.

That first day, he nearly gets both of you benched. He moves too fast, talks too loud, tries to jump the mock wall without waiting for cover. You yank him down by the back of his shirt, hissing, “Are you trying to get us both killed?”

But he only grins. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“Dead men don’t flirt,” you snap, dragging him behind the barricade.

He winks. “Only with you, baby.”

By the end of the week, you hate him slightly less. He brings you water without asking, learns your favorite MRE and trades for it at lunch, and stops making mami sound like a taunt and starts making it sound like a secret.

By the end of the month, he’s your best friend.

You don’t know when it happens. Somewhere between long shifts and longer nights, the shared silence of exhausted bodies sprawled in the same tent, the way he always finds your eyes after a rough drill like he’s checking to make sure you’re still breathing.

He starts sleeping near you—just close enough that your shoulders brush in the dark. He always finds you, even in the chaos of rotations and reassignments. Always.

There’s a night he finds you outside the barracks, sitting on the curb with your knees pulled to your chest, hands shaking from a call home that didn’t go well. You don’t say anything. Don’t even hear him approach.

But then there’s a sweatshirt draped over your shoulders. His.

He sits beside you. Doesn’t ask questions. Just leans in until his shoulder presses yours and stays there.

That’s when it starts. Maybe.

Years later, you still haven’t figured out when the line between friend and something else stopped feeling so clear.

Now, you’re both out. Still close. Too close, probably.

You work in the same world—government-adjacent, Sam’s new crew, helping out when things get messy. The kind of life that keeps you moving, but never far from each other. You share intel, comms, sometimes cars. You’ve slept on his couch. He’s slept in your bed. You’ve learned not to count.

You live across the hall. He makes you coffee when he gets back before you. You make him pasta when he’s too tired to fake being fine. He leaves his hoodies in your apartment. You stop giving them back.

He flirts constantly. Teases you in Spanish. Calls you mi cielo when he wants something and mami when he doesn’t. You tell yourself it’s harmless. It’s just how he is.

You’ve been telling yourself that for years now.

But then there’s tonight.

He’s sitting on your couch with one leg stretched out, socked foot knocking lightly against yours, scrolling through his phone with a soft little smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t say her name, but you know who it is. You don’t need to look.

Lea’s the only one who ever makes him smile like that. That lazy, distant kind of smile. The I know I shouldn’t want this kind. The but I do anyway kind.

Your stomach twists.

“Dinner plans?” you ask, keeping your voice neutral. Easy. Friendly.

He hums. “Just catching up.”

“Cool.” The word lands heavy in your mouth. You force your eyes back to your laptop.

He leans back, stretching, fingers curling behind his head. “Lea texted first,” he offers, as if that makes it better.

You nod without looking at him. “You gonna go?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Figure I owe her that much.”

You don’t ask why. You already know the answer. Because he still feels something. Or thinks he does. Because the past is easy to romanticize when you’re tired and lonely and still bleeding from things you never say out loud.

You shut your laptop and stand. “You want to take leftovers?”

He blinks up at you. “You cooked?”

You shrug. “Enough to feed a maybe-girlfriend.”

He snorts. “Don’t be like that.”

“I’m not being anything,” you say, crossing to the kitchen. “I just didn’t realize we were back in that phase.”

He watches you from the couch, head tilted, brows drawn. But he doesn’t push.

You hand him a plate even though he said he had plans with her. He takes it anyway. Eats like it’s the first real meal he’s had all week. You sit beside him and pretend your heart isn’t trying to claw out of your chest.

Halfway through the movie, he leans into your side. Familiar. Thoughtless. Your body goes still.

He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and pretends not to.

You sit there for an hour, his thigh warm against yours, his plate balanced on your knee, his breath slow and steady beside your ear.

And all you can think is: Don’t go to her. Please, don’t go to her.

But you don’t say it.

You never do.

The moment your date says the words “I’m an alpha, you know,” you know you’re texting Joaquin the second you hit the bathroom.

It had already been bad. The restaurant was too dark, the booth sticky, the wine list a joke. He talked over you through the first course, interrupted your story about Sam with something about stocks, and made three separate jokes about therapy—none of which landed.

But the alpha comment? That’s the final nail.

You step away to the restroom, screen already glowing in your hand.

you: abort mission you: send evac you: i’ll throw myself into traffic otherwise

Joaquin doesn’t respond right away, but he never takes long.

When your phone buzzes two minutes later, it’s a single line.

torres: 10 mins. fake emergency ready.

You exhale. Tuck the phone into your clutch. Go back to the table and fake a smile while your date tries to show you something on his phone—an NFT? You don’t know. You don’t care. You nod and laugh and drink just enough wine to blur the edges of your irritation until you see headlights sweep past the window.

Your escape hatch.

“Shit,” you gasp, grabbing your purse. “That was my friend’s car. Something came up—mission-related. Sorry!”

You don’t wait for a response. Just kiss the air beside his cheek and walk fast enough to feel the wind behind you.

Joaquin’s already got the passenger door open when you reach the curb. You slide in without thinking, dress pulling taut across your thighs. You’re flushed. A little buzzed. And when you turn to look at him, he’s already grinning like he’s proud of you.

“Mission successful,” he says, putting the car in drive.

You sigh and sink back into the seat. “You are a gift.”

“I know.”

“You’re also full of yourself.”

He shrugs. “Comes with the territory.”

You glance sideways. He’s in a hoodie and joggers, baseball cap turned backward, hand steady on the wheel. His wrist is tanned, scarred, strong. You think about kissing it. You think about a lot of things when you drink.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“Place we like,” he says. “Comfort food and healing vibes.”

You smile. Of course. Dumplings and bao from the hole-in-the-wall joint you’ve shared after every breakup, every disaster mission, every bad day. It smells like fried heaven and safety. He orders for both of you like always.

“Extra chili oil?” you ask, leaning over the counter, your shoulder brushing his arm.

“Already added,” he murmurs, without looking at you.

You don’t realize you’re still leaning on him until you feel his breath shift. You straighten, suddenly aware of the warmth in your cheeks. Blame the wine.

Back in the car, you balance the takeout bags on your lap and open the windows. The air smells like spring and distant pavement. He hums along to a song on the radio—off-key but sweet.

“Tell me everything,” he says.

You groan. “The man referred to himself as an alpha.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious. Like, looked me in the eye and said, ‘I’m an alpha, you know.’ I laughed and he didn’t.”

Joaquin snorts, head tipped back against the headrest at a red light. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.”

“He explained crypto to me. Twice.”

“Jesus.”

“And he kept touching my shoulder like he was going to brand me.”

“You should’ve stabbed him with your fork.”

You laugh, reaching across to slap his chest lightly. “Don’t joke. I considered it.”

“You get real feisty when you drink,” he says, glancing at you with a teasing glint in his eyes. “And touchy.”

You freeze for half a beat. Your hand is still resting on his chest, over the soft cotton of his hoodie, where his heart beats steadily under your fingers.

“I’m affectionate,” you say, trying to play it off. “You like it.”

His voice dips. “Yeah. I do.”

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The air goes thick, just for a moment. Then he taps your hand, a little too gently.

“Come on. Let’s eat before it goes cold.”

You end up back at your place. Sitting cross-legged on the floor with dumplings between you, dipping sauces lined up like a battlefield. You’re still flushed from the wine and the laughing. He steals the last pork bao and you fake rage. He fakes surrender and feeds you a bite with his fingers.

“You’re lucky I’m hungry,” you mutter around it.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he fires back.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward—it’s warm. Familiar. You finish your food. End up sitting back against the couch, side by side. His knee knocks yours. You don’t pull away.

“Don’t date losers,” he says suddenly.

You tilt your head toward him. “You offering to set me up with someone better?”

He meets your eyes. His voice is quiet now. “Maybe.”

You open your mouth to say something—something flirty, or funny, or clever—but nothing comes out. Your brain’s gone soft around the edges.

So instead, you sigh and tip your head onto his shoulder. “Next time I text you mid-date, bring a taser.”

He chuckles, settling in. You feel him press his cheek against the top of your head.

“Next time, don’t go on a date,” he murmurs. “Just hang out with me.”

You don’t answer. Your chest is too tight.

You just let your hand find his. Let his fingers curl around yours. And let the silence hold everything neither of you is brave enough to say.

The door opens with the ease of someone who doesn’t need permission.

You glance over your shoulder, blinking sleep out of your eyes as the deadbolt turns and Joaquin steps inside your apartment like he’s done it a hundred times before—which, to be fair, he has.

He doesn’t call out right away. Just drops his keys into the bowl by the door, then sets a brown paper bag on the kitchen counter with a quiet thump. There’s a heaviness to the way he moves—shoulders tense beneath the hoodie, jaw tight. Like he’s holding something in his mouth he doesn’t want to taste.

He finally speaks, voice softer than usual. “I brought food.”

You shift upright on the couch, legs bare and half-tucked beneath your worn oversized t-shirt, hair still a little messy from a nap you didn’t mean to take. The room smells like lavender and soy sauce and something unspoken.

He walks into the living room, eyes skimming over you quickly. He notices the sleep in your eyes, the flushed imprint of the couch cushion on your cheek. His mouth twitches.

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you lie, rubbing your face. “I was just… resting my eyes.”

He doesn’t press. Just crouches down beside the coffee table, setting out containers from your favorite spot. Garlic noodles. Veggie spring rolls. That crispy tofu he used to mock you for but now steals from when he thinks you’re not looking.

You pull yourself up and sit beside him on the floor without thinking, your shoulder brushing his. Close, like always. Too close for comfort, but not close enough to matter.

“Everything okay?” you ask after a few minutes, your chopsticks hovering over a spring roll.

He pauses, container halfway to his mouth.

You watch his jaw work, the muscles clenching once, twice.

Then he says, “She called again.”

You don’t need to ask who she is. You lower your chopsticks, rest your hand against the cushion beside you to anchor yourself. “What did Lea want?”

He exhales through his nose, something between a sigh and a bitter laugh. “To talk. To see me. To maybe—” he waves a hand, “—start over.”

You’re careful. Quiet. “And… are you thinking about it?”

His silence is answer enough.

You try not to show it—how that silence lands like a weight in your gut. How the idea of him going back to her feels like watching a storm come in slow across the water. Inevitable. Distant. But you feel the pressure building anyway.

“She says she misses me,” he murmurs, mostly to the noodles. “That she didn’t get closure.”

You swallow hard. “Do you need closure?”

He shrugs. Doesn’t answer. Just shifts his weight, leans back against the couch behind him, and stares at the muted TV screen playing something neither of you are really watching.

You nod slowly and pick at your food again. “Right.”

You don’t say, You’ve been sleeping on my couch three nights a week. You text me first every morning. You bring me soup when I’m sick and groceries when I’m too tired to shop. You hold my hand when I’m scared, and you never let go unless I make you.

You don’t say, How can you want her when you already have me?

Instead, you clear your throat and ask, “You want a beer?”

He looks at you. For the first time since he walked in, really looks at you. His eyes drift down—over your bare legs, the collar of your shirt stretched loose at the neck, the sleepy flush still in your cheeks. Something flickers behind his expression, there and gone before you can name it.

“No,” he says, voice low. “I’m good.”

You nod again and reach for the remote, turning the volume up a few clicks—not enough to fill the space, just enough to dull the silence.

By the time you finish eating, the light outside has faded to navy. That thick, late-evening blue that makes everything feel closer. Quieter. You’ve both migrated to the couch, feet up, bodies relaxed but angled toward each other.

Joaquin’s slouched low, legs stretched out, hoodie rumpled around his waist. You’ve got one of the throw blankets half-draped over your legs and the other over his lap, tossed there casually when you got cold. Your knees touch beneath the fabric. You haven’t moved.

The TV glows in front of you, flickering shadows across his face. He’s watching, sort of. Mostly, he’s just still. Like he doesn’t want to risk the wrong movement shattering whatever this is.

You glance at him, letting your gaze linger.

He looks tired. But it’s more than that. He looks worn. Like he’s been carrying something for a long time and doesn’t know how to set it down.

“Hey,” you whisper. “You okay?” His answer is too quiet to hear the first time. You shift closer, knees knocking his. “What?”

“I’m just… tired of feeling like I owe people parts of myself.”

Your breath catches. “You don’t owe her anything, Joaquin.”

His jaw ticks. He looks at you then, eyes dark and soft all at once. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not really.

So you move. Carefully. Slowly. You shift toward him and tuck yourself into his side like it’s instinct—like your body already knows the path. He doesn’t flinch. Just curls an arm around your shoulders and lets you lean in, your cheek against his chest.

You stay like that. His thumb drawing slow, idle circles on your arm. His chest rising and falling beneath your ear. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat. A lullaby you didn’t know you needed.

“You’re safe with me,” you whisper.

The words slip out before you can stop them. Quiet. Steady. Heavy with everything you’ve never said out loud.

And for once, he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk or deflect.

His hand—where it’s been tracing slow, thoughtless circles over your arm—goes still. You feel the change in him instantly, like something inside him has turned to face you.

His breath hitches, the faintest catch in his chest. You feel it under your cheek. Then the subtle ripple of a swallow, like he’s forcing something down—emotion, maybe. Or want. Or words that don’t quite make it to the surface.

“I know,” he says, so soft you barely catch it.

You tilt your face up before you’ve even made the choice to do it. You just need to see him.

His profile is half-lit by the television’s glow—his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, the faint crease in his brow still present, even now. He’s looking ahead, but not at the screen. Not at anything.

Just… still.

Your face is so close to his you can feel the ghost of his breath across your lips. Warm. Steady. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

Your noses nearly brush. One twitch closer and they would. Your legs are tangled under the blanket. His fingers still rest against your waist, just under the hem of your shirt, unmoving but firm. Like he doesn’t know he’s holding on, or like he’s afraid to let go.

The air buzzes—hot and tight between you, electric with all the things neither of you have ever said. All the chances you’ve never taken. All the time you’ve spent not doing this.

You wonder if he can feel your heart racing. You wonder if he knows it’s been his name inside it for years.

Your lips part just slightly. Not in invitation. Not exactly. Just… readiness. Waiting. Bracing.

You don’t move.

And neither does he.

But something shifts. Deep and quiet and undeniable. Like the entire room has tilted four degrees and nothing will sit quite right again.

He exhales, low and shaky, and the breath dances across your mouth like a promise almost made.

And still—nothing.

No kiss.

No lean-in.

Just the ache of something so close it feels like it touches every nerve in your body.

You let your head rest against his chest again, slowly. Carefully. Like lowering a bridge that almost caught fire.

Neither of you speaks but you both feel it. The moment that didn’t happen. And the weight of what it means.

You wake sometime later, slow and disoriented, caught in the kind of sleep that doesn’t feel like rest.

The room is quiet, except for the low hum of the fridge and the muted murmur of the TV—still playing something you’d long since stopped watching. Outside, distant city sounds bleed in through the windows: a car passing, a siren somewhere blocks away, the low bark of a dog.

Your cheek is pressed against warm cotton. Joaquin’s chest.

Your arm is draped across his stomach. His is curled around your waist, heavy and solid, hand tucked just beneath the hem of your shirt where your skin is soft and bare. His fingers aren’t moving, not quite—but they twitch every now and then, a subtle flex against your lower back, like some part of him is still holding on in his sleep.

You don’t move.

You barely breathe.

It should be uncomfortable—too intimate, too exposed—but it’s not. It’s warm. Familiar. Dangerous in a way that feels like home.

You can feel his heartbeat, steady and slow beneath your ear. It lulls you. Grounds you.

You wonder if he can feel yours. How fast it’s racing. How hard it’s trying not to hope.

You stay like that for a long time, eyes half-closed, watching the shadows dance across the walls. His breath brushes the crown of your head each time he exhales. One of his legs is tangled with yours beneath the blanket. Your thighs are pressed together. Your whole body fits against his like it was made for this.

And you think—This could be everything. This could be it.

If only.

Eventually, your chest tightens too much. The stillness becomes too loud. You feel the weight of your own desire folding in on itself like a collapsing star.

Carefully, reluctantly, you shift.

You slide your arm from across his stomach, moving slowly enough not to wake him. You lift your head from his chest. His fingers twitch again, just slightly, like some part of him senses the loss of you even in sleep.

He stirs, brow pulling faintly. Mumbles something in Spanish—soft, low, slurred with sleep. You can’t quite make it out. Maybe your name. Maybe a dream. Maybe something you were never meant to hear.

Then he rolls onto his back, sighing. The arm around your waist slips away, falls limp beside him. The blanket shifts.

And suddenly the warmth is gone.

You sit up fully, pulling your own limbs close, arms hugging your knees to your chest. Your shirt slips off one shoulder, cool air brushing your skin.

The room feels different now. Too quiet. Too cold. The air between you somehow filled with the ghost of what almost happened.

You stand, slowly, and cross to the window. Arms wrapped tight around yourself. You stare out into the dark city street, but your eyes catch on the reflection in the glass—your silhouette beside his on the couch. You, upright. Him, sleeping.

You, wide awake with everything you can’t say.

He looks so peaceful like that. Eyelashes fanned against his cheeks. Mouth parted slightly. One hand resting palm-up where you used to be.

He looks like yours.

He isn’t.

And that’s what breaks you a little.

Because he feels like home. And you’re still sleeping in the guest room of your own heart.

You press a hand to the cool glass of the window and close your eyes.

And you wonder—how long can something stay unspoken before it becomes unbearable?

How long before the silence between you splits wide enough to swallow you whole?

It’s already warm when you walk into the bar, and it only gets hotter.

Bodies sway shoulder to shoulder under the amber haze of low lights. There’s a thin layer of sweat clinging to your collarbone before you’ve even finished your first drink. The bass from the speakers thrums through your chest like a second heartbeat, low and insistent, steady enough to pull you toward it.

He finds you in the crowd without looking.

You spot him first—leaning casually against the high-top near the back, dark shirt clinging to his chest, a chain catching the light at his throat. His curls are still damp, falling into his eyes in soft, messy strands. His smile finds you the second your gaze meets his.

God, you wish he wouldn’t look at you like that. Like he knows something you haven’t let yourself admit yet.

“About time,” Joaquin calls as you slip through the crowd toward him, the familiar rasp of his voice slicing through the music, warm and low.

“You’re early,” you say, sliding into the space beside him.

“Had a feeling you’d be late.” His eyes flick down, briefly, to your bare legs, then back up—slowly. “You wore that dress.”

You glance down at it. Black, short, skin-hugging. You picked it because you liked how it made you feel. And maybe—just maybe—because you knew he’d see it.

You lift a brow. “You got a problem with it?”

“No,” he says, too quickly. His tongue clicks behind his teeth. “Not even a little.”

You look away before he can see what that does to you.

The night blurs at the edges. A round of drinks. Someone from your group orders shots. Laughter curls like smoke in the air. You loosen slowly, like film unraveling from the spool—one beat, one sip, one sidelong glance at him at a time.

He’s magnetic. Always is. People orbit him. But he keeps coming back to you.

His elbow bumps yours as he leans in to whisper something you don’t catch because the music is too loud. You turn your head, and your faces end up too close, his mouth inches from yours.

You don’t breathe.

He just smirks. “Dance with me, mami.”

You shake your head. “No one’s dancing.”

He nods toward the crowd, where couples sway and grind in a barely contained pulse of heat and sweat and need. “They are.”

You hesitate for one breath too long.

Then you nod.

And follow him in.

The music is sticky-slow now, heavy with bass and syrupy synth, the kind of rhythm that coils low in your stomach and spreads like warmth through your limbs.

Joaquin turns to face you as you step into the center of the dance floor. The world narrows. There are people all around you—laughing, moving, bodies pressed close—but the second his hands find your waist, you forget how to think about anything but him.

His touch is grounding—hot and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, fingers pressing in like he’s measuring the shape of you through muscle and memory. He pulls you closer, a smooth drag of your hips against his. His breath is slow and controlled, but his hands aren’t.

You settle your palms on his chest, just over where his heart beats slow and strong beneath your touch. His shirt is soft from wear, clinging in places where the heat has melted it to his skin, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breath under your fingertips.

Your hips begin to move—slow at first. Testing. His body matches yours without hesitation, like he already knew where to find your rhythm.

The space between you disappears.

Your chests brush. His thigh slips between yours, and you let it, let yourself move with him, let your body find that perfect friction where your thighs part and settle over the thick press of his leg.

You roll into him, just once, and the sensation—sharp, electric—shoots through you so fast it steals your breath.

His fingers tighten on your hips.

He leans in, voice low and hot against your ear. “You’re not usually this quiet.”

“I’m not usually this—” you start, then swallow hard. His thigh flexes between your legs. “This drunk.”

He makes a low sound, almost a laugh. Almost a groan. “You’re not drunk.”

“I’m buzzed,” you counter, but your voice is thinner now, breathier.

“No,” he murmurs, lips grazing the edge of your jaw. “You’re feeling me. That’s not the same thing.”

You inhale sharply when he shifts—subtle but deliberate—and the pressure between your thighs spikes. Your pulse thunders in your ears. You grab at his shirt, curling your fingers into the soft fabric at his shoulders, nails digging in just slightly when your hips grind together again.

His hand slips lower on your back. Not quite possessive. But close.

He guides you now, slow and deliberate. Rocking. Teasing. Your stomach clenches with every drag of your body over his. You’re barely dancing anymore. This isn’t for the crowd. This isn’t for the music.

This is you and him—wrapped in heat and breath and restraint that’s seconds from slipping.

“Joaquin…” you breathe.

He pulls back a fraction. Enough to see your face. Enough to make your chest heave from the loss of contact.

His eyes sweep over you—your parted lips, your flushed cheeks, your dazed, hungry stare—and his expression softens into something dangerous. Like he’s remembering every time he wanted you and didn’t touch. Every time you smiled and he looked away. Every time he could have.

He brushes his thumb along your jaw. The pad of it grazes your cheekbone.

“Tell me to stop,” he says.

His voice is low. Rough. Edged with something close to please.

You should. You know that.

But his thigh is still pressed between yours, and your dress is still riding up, and your whole body feels like it’s straining toward him, like it needs him.

You don’t tell him to stop.

Instead, your hand slips up the back of his neck, into his curls, soft and damp with sweat. You curl your fingers there. You tug him down.

And then you kiss him.

Your breath catches against his lips. His jaw flexes. His fingers tighten. You kiss him like you mean to end him. Like this has been building between you for years.

It’s not careful. Not sweet. It’s messy, desperate, soaked in tequila and sweat and all the almosts you’ve survived up until now.

He groans the second your mouth slants over his, low and guttural, like the sound rips out of him without warning. His lips part, tongue swiping against yours in a kiss that’s already too much, too deep, too real. His hands are everywhere—one curling around your jaw, the other flattening low on your back, pulling your hips into his with a grind that has your thighs trembling.

You gasp into him, and he chases the sound, mouth sealing over yours again, swallowing every breath like it’s the last one he’ll get.

The music and the bodies around you disappear. All you can feel is him.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly he’s walking you backward, lips never leaving yours, hands tight on your waist as he guides you off the dance floor. You stumble into the shadows of the bar, around the corner behind a pillar near the back wall. It’s dim. Private. Hidden from view.

He presses you into the wall like he can’t not touch you. His thigh pushes between yours again and you rock down without thinking, chasing friction.

Your dress hikes up your legs, hem catching high on your thighs. The rough fabric of his jeans hits exactly where you need it, and when your hips grind against him, you whimper.

He drags his mouth down your jaw, open-mouthed kisses along the line of your throat. “You’re gonna ruin me mami,” he breathes, voice rough and wrecked. “You don’t even know.”

“I do,” you gasp, hands tugging at the hem of his shirt, sliding underneath. His skin is hot, slick with sweat, muscles shifting beneath your fingers as you run your palms up his torso. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

He groans again—head tipping back like he’s trying to catch his breath, like he’s already lost it. His hand slides down, gripping your ass, lifting you until your back arches and your hips grind down on his thigh again, harder this time.

The seam of his jeans presses against your center and it’s too much—perfect in a way that makes your breath catch and your eyes flutter shut.

He must feel it. Must feel the way you shudder. How wet you already are.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re soaked.”

You nod, desperate. Hips still rocking. Mouth parted, panting into his breath.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper. “Please, don’t—”

And he doesn’t. Not right away.

His mouth crashes back onto yours, kiss deeper, rougher, hand sliding up under your dress to grip the back of your thigh, the edge of your panties, fingers digging into the soft heat of your skin.

You’re moaning now, helpless against the press of his body and the way his tongue curls against yours and the thick, perfect pressure of his thigh between your legs. You roll into him shamelessly, chasing that edge, one of your hands buried in his curls, the other dragging down his chest, clutching at anything you can find.

You want him.

Here. Now. Against this wall. In the dark.

You shift, grind down harder, and your head tips back against the brick with a quiet, broken sound.

“Joaquin—”

And that’s when he breaks.

He jerks back like it hurts, chest heaving, eyes wild.

“Fuck,” he says again, this time like a warning. “This isn’t nothing, mami.”

“What—?” You blink at him, dazed, lips swollen, your thighs still trembling from the loss of him.

He steps back. One foot. Then another. Hands still hovering like he doesn’t want to stop touching you but has to.

“If we keep going…” he pants, voice low and frayed at the edges, “I’m not gonna stop.”

Your body stills. Every nerve ending still sparking. You blink at him, dazed. Still drunk on the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his thigh, the way your body nearly unraveled in his hands.

He lets out a short, shaky breath, dragging a hand through his curls. “Jesus. We’re—fuck, we’re not doing this. Not here.”

You laugh. It sounds breathless. Too high.

“Yeah,” you echo, heart slamming against your ribs. “Yeah, that would’ve been… wow. That would’ve been a terrible idea.”

“Like. Hall-of-fame level bad.”

“Bad decisions in dark corners of bars? Never ends well.”

He nods quickly, swallowing, trying to straighten his shirt, trying not to look at your thighs where your dress is still bunched up, at your lips still wet from his mouth.

“We should, uh…” he gestures vaguely toward the exit, or maybe toward time rewinding.

“Rejoin the group,” you say at the same time. Too fast.

“Right,” he mumbles.

Neither of you moves.

Then you laugh again, too loudly this time, shoving your hands through your hair. “We really need to stop pre-gaming tequila.”

He huffs a laugh, smile twitching, eyes not quite meeting yours. “Next time we’re sticking to beer. And boundaries.”

You nod. “Right. Boundaries.”

You pretend that the word doesn’t land like a bullet in your chest. You tug your dress down. He adjusts his sleeves. And then you walk back into the noise and light, side by side but never touching.

You’re both still flushed. Still buzzing. Still wrecked by what almost happened.

But you say nothing.

Because if you did, it might become real. And you’re not ready for that.

Not yet.

The next morning is quiet.

You’d expect a text. Something dumb. Some callback to tequila or dancing or—God forbid—the way his thigh felt between yours.

But there’s nothing.

No meme. No “still thinking about that guy grinding behind us” joke. No voice note where he laughs and pretends his voice isn’t hoarse from moaning into your mouth in the dark.

Just silence.

You wake up still aching. Body heavy with the aftershocks of almost. The taste of him still on your lips like a secret. The place between your legs still tender from where you chased friction against him, so close to coming undone you could barely stand.

You press your face into your pillow.

And you don’t call him either.

Two days pass.

You fill them with errands and laundry and the kinds of tasks that feel productive but really just help you avoid thinking.

You keep your phone on you like a lifeline. Check it too often. Try to stop. Fail.

When it finally buzzes with his name, your chest seizes.

Torres: Headed out with Sam for a run. Might be a few days.

No emojis. No voice note. Just… that.

Short. Casual. Dry.

It shouldn’t sting. It does anyway.

You type and delete a dozen replies before settling on:

You: Stay safe.

He doesn’t answer.

The next update doesn’t come from him.

It comes from Sam. Mid-afternoon. A phone call you weren’t expecting.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. Tense. “Wanted to give you a heads up. Torres is okay—he’s okay—but he took a hit. We’re bringing him back in tonight.”

Your whole body goes cold.

“What kind of hit?”

“Caught some shrapnel. Shoulder and ribs. Nothing life-threatening. He was conscious the whole time, just banged up. But I know you’d want to know.”

You nod even though he can’t see you. “Yeah. Thanks, Sam.”

Your voice comes out calmer than it should. He hangs up after a few more assurances. But you’re already pacing. Already pulling on shoes. Already at the door before your brain catches up with the fact that you don’t even know where they’re bringing him yet.

You find him at the safehouse. Small, tucked on the edge of the city. Sam texted the location twenty minutes later, and you made it there in fifteen.

Joaquin is on the couch when you arrive. Shirtless. Wrapped in gauze. His hair is damp with sweat, curls flattened to his forehead, eyes half-lidded like he hasn’t really slept yet.

He doesn’t hear you come in.

He looks… wrecked. And still, somehow, so fucking beautiful.

You kneel beside the couch before he notices you. Place a hand—soft, careful—on the edge of the cushion.

He blinks. Sees you.

You try to smile.

“Hey.”

His lips twitch. “Hey, mami.” The nickname makes your throat close. It feels different now. Too tender.

You swallow it down. “Sam said you were okay.”

He shrugs. Winces. “Define okay.”

Your eyes sweep over him—slow, searching. Bandages across his ribs. Gauze at his shoulder. Bruises darkening along his side. His fingers twitch slightly, like he’s still wired, like his body doesn’t know how to stop fighting.

“You look like shit.”

He grins. “You always know what to say.”

You reach out, tentative. Brush a strand of hair off his forehead. He leans into it without thinking.

“I would’ve come sooner if—” You stop. Breathe. “I didn’t know.”

His smile fades, just slightly. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Well,” you murmur, hand still in his hair, “too late for that.”

You expect him to tease again. Make a joke. Pretend. But he doesn’t.

His eyes drop to your mouth, then back to your eyes. And for the first time since that night, he looks like he might actually say something real.

Then he exhales, and just like that—it’s gone. “Help me sit up?” he asks, voice thin with effort.

You nod. Slide in behind him, letting him lean against your chest as you help shift him upright. He groans as his muscles pull.

“Careful,” you murmur, arms around him. “Don’t be a hero.”

His head tilts back against your shoulder. His breath fans over your collarbone.

“I missed this,” he whispers.

You stiffen.

“This?”

“Being around you.” A pause. “You smell like home.”

Your heart twists.

You could say something now. Me too. I was scared. I thought maybe you regretted it. I didn’t want to make it worse.

But instead, you laugh—soft, almost shy. “Still high on pain meds?”

“Definitely.”

And that’s the story you’ll both stick to.

Later, when the pain meds finally start to pull him under, he grows quiet.

Not just tired—quiet in that way Joaquin only ever gets when he doesn’t want you to know how bad it really is.

His head is heavy where it rests against your shoulder. One arm loosely bandaged, the other draped across his lap. The bruises along his ribs are starting to darken into something angry. His breathing has evened out, but every now and then, he winces when he shifts, like his body won’t let him forget.

You brush your fingers through his curls, soft and slow, and he makes a sound—almost a purr. Eyes closed, lips parted, too relaxed to be pretending anymore.

“You should lie back,” you whisper.

“No,” he murmurs. “Comfortable.”

“You’re going to mess up your back.”

“Don’t care.”

You shake your head but don’t push it. He’s warm against you. Steady. Too much. Not enough.

A few minutes pass in silence, just the soft hum of the fan in the corner and the weight of his body against yours. You think maybe he’s drifted off—his breath is steady, eyelids unmoving.

You shift a little, adjusting your leg under him.

His hand shoots out. Finds yours. Grabs it.

Your heart skips.

He doesn’t open his eyes.

“Stay,” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep. “Just—don’t move.”

You blink, startled. “Joaquin—”

“I’m not sleeping if you let go,” he says, clearer now. Dramatic. Almost pouty. “Swear to God, I’ll fight you with one working arm.”

You stifle a laugh. “You’re literally half-conscious.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t win.”

You roll your eyes and squeeze his hand. “Fine.”

But he doesn’t let go.

Not even after you settle deeper into the couch. Not even after his head tips forward again, breath soft against your collarbone. His hand stays locked with yours—firm, possessive, a silent tether.

Like if he lets go, he might drift somewhere he can’t come back from.

You don’t try to pull away again.

Instead, you trace your thumb slowly across his knuckles. Watch the way his fingers twitch, even in sleep, adjusting to keep you close. He mumbles something too soft to catch—your name maybe, or just a breath of it.

And still, he holds on.

Like he’s afraid you’ll leave if he doesn’t.

Like somewhere deep down, even beneath the denial and the laughter and the half-spoken nothings, he already knows.

So you stay there. Hand in his. Heart unraveling slowly in your chest. And you let him hold on.

Even if neither of you is ready to admit what it means.

Joaquin’s healing.

Physically, anyway.

The bruises along his ribs have gone yellow at the edges. The stiffness in his shoulder only shows when he thinks no one’s looking. He walks the stairs two at a time again. Smiles more. Flirts more. His laugh is back—loud, whole, dangerous.

But the space between you hasn’t healed at all.

You still talk every day. You still know his order before he says it. You still bring him protein bars he likes and roll your eyes when he tells you he doesn’t need them.

But something’s changed. And neither of you will name it.

He comes by late.

Almost midnight.

He knocks like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the first time he’s shown up at your door since the kiss. Like the air between you hasn’t shifted so fully that even breathing the same space feels dangerous now.

You open the door in your sleep shirt—one of those oversized, threadbare things that hangs off one shoulder and smells like detergent and summer. You weren’t trying to look good. You weren’t trying to tempt him.

But the way his eyes pause on you says you did anyway.

He clears his throat. “Forgot my external charger.”

You arch a brow. “You own, like, three.”

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth tugging into that familiar half-smile. “Yeah, but this one’s my favorite.”

You step aside to let him in. The apartment is quiet. Dim. The glow from the kitchen spills down the hall like a whisper. You move ahead of him without a word, padding barefoot over tile, shoulders loose with exhaustion you don’t quite feel.

You pour a glass of water at the sink, and when you turn, he’s still there—leaning against the counter like it’s habit, eyes following your every movement.

His gaze drops.

To your thighs, bare beneath the hem of your shirt. To the curve of your shoulder where the fabric slips. To the place where your lips part as you bring the glass to your mouth.

You hand him the charger like it’s a lifeline. Like it might give you something to hold onto.

“You’re good now?” you ask, voice light. Easy.

He nods. “Back to mission-ready, according to Sam.”

“That’s good.”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. It feels brittle. Forced.

He doesn’t leave.

He lingers in the quiet, something heavy settling into the space between your bodies—familiar and foreign all at once. Then he says it, too casual to be casual.

“Lea called again.”

You blink. Slowly. Like you didn’t hear him.

But you did.

You always do.

Your stomach knots before the words finish landing. That slow, cold twist you know too well. You open the fridge to give your hands something to do. To hide the way your expression falters, just for a second.

You stare into the light, at rows of neatly arranged condiments, and say, “What’d she want?”

Behind you, he shrugs. You hear the soft rustle of fabric. The creak of the counter as he shifts his weight.

“Just to talk,” he says. “Said she missed me.”

You shut the fridge a little harder than necessary. The sound echoes.

You don’t look at him. You just lean your hands on the counter and stare down at the pale stretch of tile, the pattern you’ve memorized. The silence pulls taut between you, like thread stretched to its limit.

You tell yourself: If he wanted you, he’d say something.

You tell yourself: He already had his chance.

But your throat is tight. Your skin is flushed. Your pulse won’t slow.

You take a breath and finally turn toward him. He’s already watching you. Not in the teasing way you’re used to. Not with a smile or a smirk. But still. Quiet. Unreadable.

His eyes catch yours and hold. And in that pause—drawn out, aching, so heavy you feel it in your chest—you wonder if he’s waiting for you to say it.

For you to break first.

Because he’s looking at you like he knows.

Like he’s already read every line of your silence and decided he’d rather live in it than force either of you to say the one thing that might unravel everything.

You blink.

He doesn’t.

And for a moment, the whole world shrinks to the space between you, the weight of your longing, and the truth neither of you dares to name.

You start dating again the following week.

At first, it’s defiance. A kind of protest you carry in your posture, your lipstick, the tilt of your head when you smile just a little too easily. You say yes when a stranger buys you a drink. You swipe right on someone who seems decent. You respond to texts with emojis and exclamation points. You even laugh out loud on the first date—partly because he’s funny, mostly because you don’t want to be thinking about anyone else.

But you are.

Always.

Even when you’re sitting across from Eli, who’s all clean lines and expensive cologne, you find yourself watching the door, thinking how Joaquin always shows up ten minutes late with some half-assed excuse and a grin that makes up for it.

Eli’s sweet. Polite. He opens your car door, asks about your work, orders a second glass of wine only when you do. He smiles when you talk, really listens. His teeth are a little too straight. His opinions a little too smooth. His fingers, when they brush yours, make you feel nothing at all.

You say yes to a second date anyway.

Mostly because Joaquin hasn’t asked about the first.

You don’t know what makes you more bitter—the fact that he didn’t ask, or the fact that he clearly noticed.

You catch him glancing at your phone one afternoon when it buzzes on the armrest between you. Just a flicker of his eyes before he looks away. But you see it.

You always do.

He doesn’t say a word.

You don’t either.

You keep talking about the mission Sam wants him on. You keep sipping your iced coffee. You keep acting like the string between your ribcage and his hasn’t grown taut enough to snap.

The invitation comes two days later, and of course, it’s her.

You’re on your balcony, ankles crossed, a blanket wrapped around your legs. The sun’s started its slow descent, painting the sky with blush-pink clouds. You’ve got a mug in your hands, something lukewarm and too sweet. You’re trying to read, but your eyes keep skating across the same line.

Your phone buzzes.

Unknown Number: Hey :) Joaquin said you’re seeing someone?? Eli?? Thought it could be cute if we all went out together sometime! Me, him, you, your guy. Like a double date but not awkward. Just fun!

What do you think?

You reread it four times. Your stomach drops on the first. You start to laugh on the second. By the third, you’re wondering if this is some kind of cosmic punishment.

And by the fourth, you feel nothing at all.

You don’t respond. You don’t even move. Your thumb hovers over the screen, motionless, until another message pings—this time from the contact that matters more than it should.

Torres: Lea got excited. Said it might be “healing.” I told her I’d ask you. But we don’t have to.

Your chest tightens at how careful he’s being. How neutral. How unassuming.

You know he’s waiting. Waiting for you to call it off. To say no. To admit it’s too messy. Too weird. Too fucking painful.

But you don’t.

Because you’re not sure what you’re more afraid of: saying no and him pulling away, or saying yes and having to watch him touch her across the table.

You don’t answer right away.

You stay outside until the sun sinks below the skyline and the warmth fades from your mug. By the time you go back inside, it’s already decided.

And somehow, the plan is in motion.

You, Eli.

Lea.

And Joaquin.

You meet him for coffee the day before the double date.

Neutral territory. Daylight. Public. All the safeguards in place to keep your heart from doing something stupid.

He gets there first, which is rare. You spot him through the window before you push the door open—head bowed slightly, fingers curled around a paper cup, his other hand idly tapping at the lid like he’s got something restless beneath his skin.

His curls are messy. Sunglasses pushed up into them like he forgot they were there. Chain loose at his throat. Hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms.

Too casual. Too him.

You swallow hard and make your way over.

He stands when you approach. Hands you your drink without looking you in the eye. The contact is brief—warm fingers brushing yours—but your pulse leaps anyway.

You sit across from him and take a long sip, pretending you don’t notice how stiff your spine has gone. How wide the table suddenly feels between you.

“This is weird, right?” you say eventually, with a laugh that sounds thinner than you meant.

He shrugs, still not looking at you. “Only if we make it weird.”

You nod. “Right. Totally.”

A beat of silence stretches between you. You stir your drink even though there’s nothing in it that needs stirring.

“You seem okay,” you say, keeping your voice light.

“I am,” he says. Then he tilts his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours for the first time. “Are you?”

You freeze.

Your fingers tighten around the cup. Your heartbeat stutters.

You look at him—really look at him.

At the soft curve of his mouth, the faint bruise still healing at his jaw. The little freckle just beneath his left eye that only shows when the sun hits right. The way his hoodie collar hangs open just enough to expose the glint of chain against collarbone, skin you remember tasting. Wanting.

You remember how his thigh felt between yours. How his breath caught when you moaned into his mouth. How he pressed you against the wall like you were the only thing holding him up.

You remember what he said—I’m not gonna stop—and how you almost let him prove it.

And you remember the silence that followed. The careful steps backward. The joke. The laugh. The way neither of you brought it up again.

The way it’s still there, buzzing beneath your skin like it never stopped.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

He nods.

Doesn’t press.

Doesn’t call you on it.

But his eyes linger on you a moment longer. Long enough to make your stomach flip. Long enough to make you wonder if he’s trying to ask a different question entirely—and neither of you knows how to answer it.

That night, you try on three dresses.

Then four.

Each one gets discarded more violently than the last.

Too short. Too low. Too soft. Too obvious.

You finally settle on a black one. Simple. Clean lines. High neckline. Just enough curve to pretend you’re not hiding in it.

You tell yourself you’re going neutral. You’re being respectful. But really, it’s that you don’t want him to look at you the way he did in the bar. Don’t want to feel the way you did when his thigh pressed up between yours and he moaned into your mouth like he was starving.

Because you don’t know what you’d do if it happened again. If he looked at you like that in front of her. If he touched you like that when someone else is watching.

You pull your hair up and change your earrings three times before giving up completely. Your skin is too warm. Your stomach’s in knots.

And when you check your phone, there’s a text from Eli confirming the time for tomorrow.

Under it, there’s a heart emoji.

And all you can think is:

It’s not from the right person.

You set your phone face down and stare at the mirror, wondering how the hell you’re going to survive sitting next to him tomorrow.

Watching him flirt with her.

While pretending you didn’t already taste what he sounds like when he can’t catch his breath.

You arrive first.

Eli’s hand rests at the small of your back as you step into the restaurant—upscale, dimly lit, all amber tones and soft jazz that makes you feel like you’re trapped inside a movie you didn’t audition for. You let him lead you to the hostess stand, let him say your name, let him touch you like it means something.

You feel none of it.

You spot them before they spot you.

Lea’s laughing—head tilted, red lipstick perfect, long nails curled around a wine glass like she’s posing for a lifestyle ad. Joaquin is beside her and he’s already looking at you.

Has been, apparently.

You meet his gaze across the room. One second. Two. Long enough to register the tension in his jaw. The way his eyes flick to where Eli’s hand still lingers on your back.

He doesn’t smile.

Neither do you.

Then she notices you and waves—bright, enthusiastic, like none of this is strange. Like your stomach isn’t already twisting into something ugly.

You follow Eli to the table, plastering a smile on your face that feels like it might crack if anyone looks too closely.

Joaquin stands, pulls your chair out like a gentleman.

“Hey,” he says softly, only to you.

You glance up at him, trying not to breathe in the warmth of him, the way he smells like spice and cologne and something you still dream about.

“Hey,” you echo.

You’re seated across from him, just like she planned—perfect symmetry, like this was supposed to be cute. Eli beside you, smiling easily. Lea beside Joaquin, laughing too loud, tossing her hair like she knows she looks good.

Joaquin hasn’t said much.

He offers short replies when spoken to, but mostly he drinks from his water glass and watches the candles flicker. His jaw’s tense. His smile comes late, if at all. His shoulders haven’t relaxed once since you sat down.

You try not to watch him too closely.

Try not to notice the blue of his shirt—the one that makes his skin look more radiant. The way he shaved, but not too clean. The tiny scar at the edge of his chin that only shows when he tips his head just right.

You try not to think about how his mouth felt against yours.

You fail.

Eli is telling some story about a surf trip to Baja, and you’re nodding politely, sipping wine you don’t care about, when you see it.

Joaquin’s leg is bouncing under the table. Fast. Restless. The way it always does when he’s anxious or overthinking.

You’ve known that tic since you were nineteen.

Without meaning to, without even fully realizing what you’re doing, you shift in your chair and stretch your leg out beneath the table—pressing your calf against his.

The movement is slow. Deliberate. Your knee brushes his first. Then more of you touches him.

The bounce stops instantly.

You feel his body go still. The sharp inhale he doesn’t let out.

You don’t look at him right away but you don’t move your leg either. You stay connected, just like that—calf to calf, knee to knee, warmth pressing into warmth beneath the white linen tablecloth, hidden from the people who don’t know any better.

Eli keeps talking. Lea laughs at something and bumps Joaquin’s arm with hers. He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t lean in either.

You glance up, finally.

And find him looking straight at you.

Not just looking—seeing.

His mouth parts slightly. His brows pull together, just the faintest crease between them. And his eyes—God, his eyes—are full of something unreadable. Something wrecked. Something like regret. Something like realization.

For a second, the restaurant fades.

You’re not on a date. You’re not seated next to other people you don’t want.

It’s just the two of you.

The pressure of your leg against his. The memory of his breath in your mouth. The pulse you can feel between your legs. And then someone says his name—Lea’s voice, light and oblivious—and he looks away.

The moment passes.

But you don’t move your leg.

And neither does he.

The night eases into something smoother than expected.

Soft jazz hums overhead. Candlelight flickers low across the table. The air smells faintly of citrus and red wine and something richer beneath it—something warm. Familiar.

Lea’s voice drifts across the conversation, layered with Eli’s easy baritone, both of them carrying on, talking about some new art exhibit, or maybe a weekend hike—they’re words you nod along with, but barely track.

Because across the table, Joaquin says something under his breath and you snort before you even catch the full shape of it. Your glass stills midair. Your mouth pulls into a grin without your permission.

The laugh bubbles out of you anyway.

“I did not almost get arrested,” you say, pointing at him across the candle.

He arches a brow, smug and lazy. “You scaled the embassy gate in a blackout hoodie and forgot you had three knives on you.”

“One was decorative,” you shoot back.

“It was pink.”

“And glittery.”

“And illegal.”

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. The table chuckles around you, but you’re not looking at them. You’re looking at him. And he’s looking right back. His eyes glint—low, amused, golden in the soft light.

It feels like breathing for the first time in weeks.

You don’t even realize your knees are still pressed together beneath the table until he shifts—reaching for his drink, leaning in just slightly—and the press of his thigh against yours deepens.

The contact sparks.

Sharp. Immediate.

You don’t move. Instead, you let your shin slide against his, the slow drag of flesh on denim, heat on heat.

A pause.

Then—you feel it.

The inhale.

Barely a breath. His throat working around it. The soft twitch of his fingers on the glass as if he almost forgot how to hold it.

You look down. Then up. Catch him mid-sip, his eyes cutting sideways toward yours.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

There’s a ghost of a smirk on his lips now. Something private.

And you should look away but all you can think about is the way his hands felt curled around your thighs. The taste of his mouth, hot and impatient. His breath at your ear, the rasp of his voice when he groaned into your throat like he needed you just to stay upright.

His leg shifts slightly. Yours follows. Neither of you flinch.

The others are still talking. Laughing. Clinking glasses.

And between you and Joaquin—beneath the tablecloth, in the quiet hum of your locked knees and sliding calves—there’s a conversation happening no one else can hear.

And you remember, all over again, just how easy it is to fall into rhythm with him. You think about the soft rasp of his voice when he said, “This isn’t nothing, mami.”

And the way he said nothing at all afterward.

And how impossible it’s becoming to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

When the night ends, there are no dramatic goodbyes. No outbursts. No tension you can’t smooth over.

The others talk about meeting up again.

You laugh, say something noncommittal. Joaquin opens the door for you as you leave.

He says, “Get home safe,” low and quiet.

You murmur, “You too.”

And when you pass him, your arm brushes his. He turns his head.

But he doesn’t say anything.

And you don’t look back.

You’re sitting side by side on your couch two weeks later, two takeout containers balanced across your thighs, legs kicked up on the coffee table, some mindless documentary playing in the background. Joaquin’s thigh brushes yours now and then, like always. You pass the sauce back and forth. You argue about whether or not the narrator’s accent is fake. It feels normal.

You almost convince yourself it is.

Until he says it.

“Lea asked to talk tonight.”

You freeze with your fork halfway to your mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. FaceTime. She said it’s important.”

You don’t ask what it’s about. You already know.

Or at least—you think you do.

You imagine it before he can explain: her, bright-eyed, soft-voiced, asking him to finally make it official again. That this time, she means it. That this time, they’ll try for real.

You imagine his fingers on her waist instead of yours. His smile, easy and golden, reserved for someone else. You imagine how easy it would be to lose him—really lose him—and still have to sit across from him like it doesn’t tear something vital out of you.

You force a nod. “Cool.”

Cool. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you’re not already bracing for something to end.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just glances at you, his eyes heavy, unreadable. His hand twitches like he might reach for yours.

But he doesn’t.

You don’t look at him.

You just keep eating, eyes on the screen, heart sinking slow and quiet into your ribs.

He doesn’t tell you when the call is. Doesn’t say if he’s nervous.

But he doesn’t finish his food either.

And you sit there together, close and silent, pretending this moment isn’t about to change everything.

You’re barefoot when he knocks.

The wineglass in your hand is nearly empty. Your legs are curled beneath you on the couch, some show droning on in the background that you’re not really watching. Your phone is face-down on the coffee table, ignored. You’d already decided tonight was going to be one of those quiet, aching nights—where you keep the lights low and pretend the pit in your stomach isn’t growing.

Then comes the knock. Slow. Familiar.

You don’t even check. You already know.

When you open the door, he’s standing there—hoodie half-zipped, curls mussed like he’s been dragging his fingers through them, expression unreadable.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you. Like he’s searching for something. Like he doesn’t know what it is.

You step aside, and he slips past you without a word. His hand brushes yours as he goes by.

Your skin burns.

He drops onto your couch like his body finally gave out—sprawled wide, hands on his knees, head tipped back like he might sink straight into the cushions and disappear.

You stand there for a beat, watching the rise and fall of his chest. His leg bounces—nervous, always. He doesn’t look at you.

You head to the kitchen and pour him the last of the wine, lukewarm now. He takes the glass when you offer it but doesn’t drink.

Instead, he stares at the rim, thumb brushing the condensation.

“She met someone.” His voice is rough. Unfiltered.

“Lea?” You blink, not sure you heard right.

He nods once. You’re stunned. Of all the things you were bracing for—that wasn’t it.

She’s been wrapped around him since the beginning. Even when they were off, she always seemed one emotional voicemail away from crawling back into his lap. And he let her.

You expected a rekindling.

Not this.

You swallow around the twist in your throat. “What… what did she say?”

“Said she met someone a few weeks ago,” he says. His voice is too even. “That she didn’t want to leave things unclear. Said it was time to move on.”

You lower yourself into the armchair across from him, your wineglass forgotten in your hand.

“How do you feel about that?”

He looks at you then. And doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he watches you. Too long. Long enough that your skin starts to warm beneath his stare.

Your mouth parts like you might say something else, but you don’t. You just watch him watch you.

His gaze drops—for a moment—to your knees, bare and folded under your oversized tee. Then up, trailing over the soft slope of your shoulder where your shirt’s slipping just slightly off. The neckline’s too wide. It always hangs off you like that.

You hadn’t meant to look like this. You hadn’t expected company.

“I’m happy for her,” he says finally, with a shrug that’s too slow to be casual.

You nod, even as your stomach twists. “Are you sure that’s not, like… weird?” you murmur, trying to sound neutral. “I mean—she was always so… into you. And I thought you were maybe—”

He moves. A sudden shift. Not violent. But deliberate.

You stop talking. Because he rises from the couch with that soft, deadly grace he always carries on missions—like he’s not sure what he’s doing until he’s already doing it. And then he’s in front of you, lowering slowly, crouching at the edge of your chair.

His face is level with yours now. His hands rest on his knees. Then one lifts.

You don’t flinch.

He reaches forward, slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers graze the shell of it, warm and callused, and trail down to your jaw.

You can’t breathe. Not really. Not when he’s this close. Not when his touch is gentle like this, like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

His thumb lingers at your jawline.

You try to keep your face still, but you’re sure your eyes give you away. They always do.

He leans in—just slightly. His breath ghosts across your lips. You catch the faintest scent of him: soap, spice, something underneath that you’ve never been able to name. Something that always pulls you in.

The space between your mouths crackles. Charged. Fragile.

You don’t lean in. But you don’t lean back either.

Then—softly, with the hint of a smirk—you hear him say it.

“I’m here flirting with you,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “so what do you think, mami?”

And your heart stutters. Because it sounds like a tease. Like the way he always says stupid shit when things get heavy. But his eyes are dead serious. His hand doesn’t move from your face. Your pulse thunders.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because this feels too close to truth. Too dangerous. Too much.

So instead, you smile like you always do when he’s too much. You reach up and gently, slowly, take his hand from your jaw.

“Joaquin,” you say, soft. Neutral.

He lets you. Lets you lower his hand to his lap, though his fingers linger—half-curled around yours for a beat longer than they should.

Then he shifts back, rising to his feet again, sighing like he’s not sure whether to laugh or swear.

You both let the moment go. At least, on the surface. But your chest is still tight. Your lips still burn.

And his eyes stay on you like he’s trying to decide something.

He doesn’t move back to the couch. Just stands there for a second, looking down at you—his hands curled at his sides, that same unreadable expression tugging at the corners of his mouth. You feel the weight of something building, coiling in the air between you.

Then, finally, he asks, “You still with Eli?”

The question is soft. Careful. His voice lower than before.

“What?” You blink up at him.

“Eli,” he repeats, eyes on yours. “You still seeing him?”

You almost laugh. Because of all the things you thought he might say next—that wasn’t on the list.

You lean back against the cushion, exhaling. “No. He ghosted me last week.”

Joaquin’s brows lift. “Seriously?”

You nod, swirling the wine left in your glass. “Haven’t heard from him since our last date. Didn’t really mind, though.”

That gets a faint smile out of him. “Cold.”

You shrug. “Selective.”

A beat of quiet.

He shifts his weight, then lowers himself back onto the couch—closer this time. Not touching. But the air between you has tightened again. His thigh is inches from yours.

You can feel the heat of him.

“Can I tell you something?” he says.

You glance sideways. “You’re gonna anyway.”

He smiles at that. A real one.

“I’ve been thinking about you.”

You freeze. Not visibly—at least, you hope not—but your breath stills in your throat.

“Not just lately,” he adds, voice slower now. “I mean… since the Air Force.”

You turn, staring at him. He’s not looking at you this time. His gaze is on the floor, brows furrowed, lips parted slightly like he’s working his way through the words.

“Back when we were nineteen,” he says. “Sharing shitty MREs in the back of that busted truck in Kuwait. You remember that?”

Of course you do. The dust in your hair. The blistering heat. The cold sweat from nerves neither of you wanted to admit. His thigh pressed against yours in the dark, his shoulder the only thing steady enough to lean on when the sandstorms hit.

You remember his laugh cutting through your exhaustion.

You remember wondering, once, if you’d ever feel safer than when his hand brushed yours in the dark—accidental, but maybe not.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I remember.”

“I used to think about kissing you back then,” he says, quiet. Blunt. Like he’s just letting it fall out now. “Didn’t let myself. Thought it would fuck everything up. Or that you’d laugh.”

“I wouldn’t have,” you say, almost before he finishes.

He looks at you now. You hold his gaze.

Neither of you blink.

His mouth parts, and for a second, you think maybe he’ll reach for you again.

But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

“I was an idiot,” he murmurs. “Letting you get that close and not saying anything.”

You nod. Your throat’s tight. “Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”

The silence stretches. Not empty. Not uncomfortable.

Electric.

Joaquin’s eyes flick from your mouth to your eyes and back again.

And still—neither of you look away.

“I kept thinking I had more time,” he says, voice low.

Your chest aches.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. “Not really.”

His hand twitches between you, resting on the cushion. Close enough that if you moved an inch—

You do.

You slide your fingers toward his, brushing lightly, the softest stroke.

He exhales sharply, almost like a choke, and in one breathless motion, he’s on you.

His mouth crashes into yours—not careful this time, not tentative. It’s a kiss full of wasted years and the ache of almosts. Teeth clashing. Hands greedy. Your wineglass falls to the carpet with a dull thud, forgotten, warm drops soaking the fibers.

Joaquin pulls you into his lap in one motion—your knees straddling his thighs, your fingers already fisting in the fabric at his shoulders. He groans against your mouth, low and guttural, as your hips roll against his without thinking.

It’s not sweet.

It’s not slow.

It’s starving.

His hands find your thighs, then higher—gripping under the hem of your shirt, dragging it up until your ribs are bare to the cool air.

You break the kiss long enough to pull the shirt over your head. His eyes drag over you like he can’t believe this is real.

Then you’re kissing again, harder now. His fingers splay across your back, his hips lifting to meet yours. The friction is maddening—heat grinding into heat, breath panting between kisses that don’t stop.

You tug his hoodie up.

He helps you rip it off.

His skin is hot. Familiar. You’d seen him shirtless more times than you could count, but this was different. This was want.

He kisses your jaw, down your neck, bites just hard enough at your shoulder that you gasp, clutching him tighter.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “I should’ve done this years ago.”

“You’re doing it now,” you breathe, your mouth dragging along his jaw, his neck, the edge of his ear.

His hands find your ass, pulling you tight against the bulge in his sweats, and you grind down, both of you gasping.

There’s nothing careful left.

He stands with you in his arms—lifts you without warning. You gasp, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“Couch?” he pants.

You shake your head. “Bedroom.”

He nearly stumbles trying to make it there, your body wrapped around him, your mouth on his jaw, his throat, his shoulder—any part of him you can reach. You both laugh breathlessly as he kicks open your door, backs you into it blindly, presses you against the wood with his full weight.

His hands grip your thighs like he’s claiming them. His forehead rests against yours, panting.

“You sure?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You don’t even speak. You just kiss him. And then you say, “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He lays you down like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Your sheets are cool, but his body is fire—warm, broad, solid as he crawls over you, lips never leaving yours. The kiss slows, deepens. Tongue curling slow against yours in a rhythm that makes your stomach twist tight. His hand cups your jaw. His thumb strokes your cheek like he can’t believe you’re real.

“Mami,” he breathes against your mouth. “I swear to God…”

You arch into him, gasping when your bare chest drags against his. His skin is hot, damp with sweat, his chain dragging across your sternum, and when your thighs part for him, his hips settle between them like they’ve always belonged there.

He grinds once. Slow. Deep. Measured.

You both break apart with a groan that sounds like pain.

“Fuck—Joaquin.”

He does it again.

And again.

Deep, sinful rolls of his hips, dragging the length of his cock through the soaked fabric of his sweats and your panties. You’re so wet the friction sends shivers up your spine. The pressure is maddening. Not enough. Just enough.

His head drops to your shoulder. “Been thinking about this since that night at the bar,” he groans. “You riding my thigh, whining in my mouth. Fuck, mami…”

You bite his shoulder. “You should’ve said something.”

“You should’ve said something.” His hand slides between you, tugging your panties aside. His fingers find you instantly—wet, swollen, aching—and he drags them through your folds with reverence.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “This all for me?”

You nod, eyes fluttering, hips arching into his touch. “It’s always been for you.”

He groans like it physically hurts him, then leans back, tugging his sweats down just enough to free himself. You can’t stop staring—hard, flushed, dripping precome. Your mouth waters.

But you don’t have time to speak.

He’s lining up, sliding the thick head through your slick folds, teasing you both with how slowly he moves.

And then—finally—he pushes in.

You both moan like you’re falling apart. Because he’s thick. Stretching you inch by inch. Filling you in a way that makes your body seize and melt all at once.

“Shit,” he hisses. “You’re so tight. So fucking perfect.”

Your nails dig into his back. You’re trying to breathe, to adjust, but he feels too good. Like he’s settling into a space that’s always been waiting for him.

He bottoms out.

Pauses.

His breath trembles against your cheek as he presses a kiss there. Then one to your temple. One to the hollow of your neck.

You can feel his heart pounding—inside you, against you, around you.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, voice wrecked. “Move. Please.”

And when he does—it’s slow. Deep. Measured.

Not rushed.

Not frantic.

Just devastating.

Each roll of his hips presses you deeper into the mattress. The drag of him against your walls is enough to steal your breath, to make your toes curl and your fingers claw at the sheets.

His hand slips under your thigh, lifting it high around his waist so he can sink even deeper.

He kisses you between thrusts—your mouth, your neck, the edge of your collarbone—like he needs every inch of you mapped onto his mouth, claimed cell by cell.

Your breath stutters.

His chain swings gently between your breasts with every grind. Cool metal against flushed skin. A contrast that makes you shiver.

“Mami,” he groans, voice ragged. “Se siente tan jodidamente bien. Voy a perder la cabeza.” It feels so fucking good. I’m going to lose my mind.

You don’t know the words—but the tone of them wrecks you.

Rough. Desperate. Reverent.

He groans again, the sound dragging from his throat like it’s being pulled out of him.

“You feel too good,” he pants. “I’m not gonna last.”

“You will,” you breathe. “You have to. You made me wait this long.”

His laugh is sharp and ruined. His next thrust is harder.

You gasp.

Your heel digs into the small of his back. “You trying to punish me?” he breathes, voice hot at your ear.

“A little.”

He kisses you again—open, filthy, needy. Tongue curling with yours, hand gripping your ass, grinding his hips slow and relentless, dragging you over every inch of him.

You’re soaked. So far gone. And when his pelvis rocks just right, the friction over your clit makes you moan, helpless.

“You close?” he asks, eyes dark, mouth swollen.

You nod, frantic.

“Touch yourself.”

You reach between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts.

“That’s it,” he breathes, watching you. Feeling you. “Let me see you fall apart, baby. Let me feel you come on this cock.”

Then—softer, like it slips out without him meaning to, he says, “Siempre ha sido tú. Desde el primer día. Nunca dejé de quererte.” It’s always been you. Since day one. I never stopped loving you.

You don’t know what he said, but it sounds ruined. Like confession. Like prayer.

Your body tenses.

The orgasm snaps through you—tight and deep and blinding. Your fingers dig into his shoulder, your mouth drops open around a cry, and he groans when he feels it, when your walls clamp around him, pulsing.

“Fuck—fuck, mami, I’m—”

His hips stutter. He thrusts once. Twice. Then buries himself to the hilt and stays.

You feel him pulse inside you. Feel him come—deep, hot, filling you with a broken moan.

He collapses onto you, gasping against your neck. His whole body twitching, hips jerking reflexively.

Still holding you.

Still inside you.

Then—barely audible, like the words were never meant to be heard, “Te amo tanto que duele.” I love you so much it hurts.

You don’t know what it means. Not exactly. But it sounds like love. It feels like surrender.

And you hold him tighter, like maybe that’ll help you understand. Because even if you don’t know the words—his body, his mouth, his hands—they’ve been saying it for years.

He doesn’t move. Just rests there, still inside you, head buried against your neck. His voice is soft when it finally returns. “You were always mine,” he whispers.

You close your eyes.

Swallow hard.

And then—because you can’t make the same mistake again—you answer.

“I’ve loved you since the Air Force,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Since you gave me your last bite of cold chili mac and made me laugh so I wouldn’t cry.”

His breath hitches. You tilt your face toward his, fingers still in his hair, forcing him to look at you.

“I’m not making the mistake of not saying it this time.”

His eyes—wide, glassy, stunned—search your face. And then he kisses you. Softer this time.

Like a promise.

Like a yes.

He pulls back just enough to look at you—really look at you. His hand brushes your cheek, thumb catching on the tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“Te amo,” he says quietly. No hesitation. No performance. Then, in English, just as soft but more certain, “I love you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he’s known it forever and only now found the courage to let it breathe.

“I think I’ve loved you since the first time you stole my dessert and didn’t even apologize.”

You laugh—wet, stunned, shaking. “You said you didn’t want it.”

“I lied. I wanted the dessert.” He leans in, kissing your forehead. “But I wanted you more.”

You breathe into his shoulder, overwhelmed. Anchored. Neither of you runs this time. Because there’s nothing left to outrun.

Just this.

Just home.

Sunlight bleeds through the curtain slats.

You feel it first on your cheek, warm and soft, pulling you out of a dream you don’t remember. The sheets are tangled beneath you. Your legs ache. Your mouth is dry.

But you’re not alone.

You shift slightly, and a warm hand flexes at your waist.

His hand. His arm. His chest against your back, breath slow and steady. One of his legs is tangled with yours, and his other hand is buried under the pillow you’re both sharing. His face is tucked into the crook of your neck, and when you sigh, content and sore, he makes a sound deep in his throat and tightens his hold like he’s not ready to wake up.

You stay like that for a while. Not thinking. Not bracing.

Just being.

It’s strange, how normal it feels. Like this has happened before. Like it’s always meant to happen.

Eventually, you roll to face him. His brow twitches at the shift, his lashes fluttering, and when his eyes open, they’re soft with sleep.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low.

You smile. “Hey.”

He blinks slow, eyes roaming your face like he’s checking to see if this is real. If you’re still here.

You brush a curl from his forehead. His lips curve into a sleepy smile.

“You okay?” he asks, thumb finding the edge of your hip beneath the sheet. His touch is casual, but not forgettable.

You nod. “Are you?”

He leans in and kisses your jaw. Then your cheek. Then your lips. “Yeah,” he says against your mouth. “I’m good.”

You breathe a little easier at that.

For a while, you just lie there. Talking about nothing. The weather. The way your neighbor’s dog won’t shut up. The fact that your back’s probably going to be sore all day because of how hard he railed you into the mattress.

He laughs, smug and bright.

You smack his chest.

He catches your hand. Laces your fingers through his. Doesn’t let go.

It’s so easy.

So him.

And so familiar it should feel like surreal.

But it doesn’t.

Because here’s the truth: almost nothing has changed.

You’re still talking the same. Teasing the same. Moving through the kitchen the same as you both get up to make coffee, shoulder-checking and stealing sips. He still curses too colorfully when he burns his fingers on the toaster. You still hum the same stupid song when you rinse your mugs.

Everything’s the same.

Except now, he walks up behind you at the sink and wraps his arms around your waist.

Except now, when you pass him a towel, he leans down and kisses the corner of your mouth just because he can.

Except now, when he sits beside you on the couch, his hand finds your thigh like it’s always belonged there—and yours covers it like it knows.

And when he presses his forehead to yours later, eyes warm and full and unguarded, he doesn’t have to say anything.

You already know.

And this time—neither of you run.

#joaquin torres #joaquín torres x reader #I AM EATING MY FIST

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all-by-myself98 · 2 months ago

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ohhhhhhhhh If fanfiction could get a Pulitzer Prize....

when the sun hits (it matters where you are)

pairing: bucky barnes x emergency room nurse!reader summary: it’s your name, written in the soft fog of his breath. and his name, traced endlessly across your skin. you've always been meant to cross paths this way. (soulmate au!) word count: 11.4k words content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem reader, praising, piv, overstimulation, shower sex, creampie, face riding, dirty talk, ungodly levels of yearning, mentions of violence and clinical situations, death, explores heavy themes

You’ve gotten very good at waking up without hope over the years.

Your alarm goes off at 4:48 a.m. because you refuse to wake up on the hour like everyone else. It’s a small rebellion—pointless, probably, but in a life built from shifts and protocol, those twelve minutes feel like something you own.

The soulmark itches before you even lift the blankets. You don’t touch it. Haven’t in years. It rests on your left side, just under the ribs, where your arm folds when you cradle a patient or scrub blood from your skin. The name’s still there. James Buchanan Barnes. Etched like a brand.

You learned to stop reading it a long time ago.

You were thirteen the first time you felt it — not the weight of it, not really, but the press of inevitability. The skin just under your ribs itched for three days straight, and no matter how you scratched, how you pressed cold washcloths to it or distracted yourself with school or swimming or the terrifying newness of puberty, it pulsed with the promise of something you couldn’t name.

"Maybe you're allergic to something," your mom said, more distracted than concerned, passing you a bottle of calamine lotion while balancing a phone call.

Then, the name came in the middle of the night.

You’d woken up disoriented, not from a nightmare exactly, but from the sense that something had shifted. That your body was no longer just your own.

You pulled up your pajama shirt with trembling hands, stomach flipped inside out with something like fear. Or awe. And there it was, written in a careful, antique script like it had always been there — James Buchanan Barnes.

You said it out loud. Just once. Just to see if it sounded real.

The next morning, you pretended to look up World War II details for an eighth-grade project. Typed his name into Google with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking.

This—this definitely wasn't what you were expecting. You were expecting someone… someone at least closer in age, someone who was maybe going through the same strenuous expectations of middle school, someone… someone who was alive.

It was underwhelming at first. Just a name. A war vet. Deceased. You didn't think you'd find him so easily. You spiraled past Wikipedia into forums your school firewall probably would’ve blocked if they knew what they were doing. You dug deeper. Wikipedia spiraled into conspiracy forums. Articles turned into footnotes, turned into theories, turned into pictures. Redacted documents. Old photographs.

That was when your chest started to ache.

He wasn’t a boy.

He wasn’t even a man in the way people are alive.

He was history, frozen in sepia. James Buchanan Barnes, colloquially know as Bucky, a soldier, missing in action. You found an old black-and-white photo with him half smiling in uniform, arm slung casually around the Captain America's shoulders, and your throat closed like you’d been punched from the inside. Because he looked real. Not just an idea, not just a ghost.

And you loved him. You didn’t mean to. But there it was.

That summer, you begged your parents to take you to D.C. "For the exhibits," you said. "The history. Please."

You cried in the car. Your mom reached back and handed you a bottle of water. “Carsick?” she asked.

"Yeah," you lied, watching trees blur past as the pit in your stomach grew deeper.

At the Smithsonian, your eyes scanned every exhibit like you were searching for a face in a crowd. You found him in a war display—just a photo, again. Yellowed and framed. A plaque. Sergeant Barnes. You stood there too long. An older woman beside you glanced over, then away, probably confused as to why this pre-teen was staring at the display with such fervent intensity.

You didn’t touch your mark.

Not there. Not in public. But you felt it, a phantom pulse echoing under your ribs. Like it knew. Like it missed him too.

That was the first time you understood what it meant to lose something before you ever had it. To mourn a future that could never come.

That summer, you grieved a stranger.

The rest of those months passed in a fog. Friends talked about boy bands and sleepaway camps and the boy from seventh grade who cried during dodgeball. You started reading old war journals and relics and Stark experiments just to feel closer to a time you’d missed. By the start of the school year, you'd already gone through your U.S. History syllabus and back.

At night, you lay awake imagining what it would’ve been like to meet him before the fall. What you’d say. If he’d be kind. If he’d recognize you.

If he’d regret it.

By sixteen, you had your mind made up. Not because you wanted to save people—though you did—but because it felt like the only thing that made sense. Something tethered. Something present. You’d learned how to triage your own feelings, how to hold grief without crumbling under it. ER nursing made too much sense. You wanted the immediacy. The clarity of purpose. The adrenaline to chase out the what-ifs.

You told your guidance counselor it was about the job stability.

You didn’t say that you needed a life that moved fast enough to keep you from looking back.

You got good at it. Fast. Precise. Reliable. The type of person they called first when a kid came in coding, when someone’s chest had to be cracked open at bedside. You learned how to operate under pressure. How to compartmentalize. You learned to move toward chaos, not away from it.

And eventually, you stopped looking at the name. Not because it faded—it never did—but because it became too familiar. Like a scar. Like an old story you didn’t tell anymore, because no one would believe it.

Because you hardly believed it yourself.

You peel yourself out of bed, step into the shower. The water doesn’t stay hot for long, but you don’t need it to. You just need enough heat to convince your muscles to move, your brain to stop stalling. The morning ritual is muscle memory now: shampoo, rinse, conditioner (leave-in), scrub your face, try not to look at yourself too closely. By the time you’re dressed and out the door, you’ve spoken zero words and swallowed two ibuprofen with the stale dregs of yesterday’s coffee.

The drive to the hospital is quiet, but not peaceful.

The city’s in that strange twilight lull between night and morning, where the drunks have staggered home and the nine-to-fivers haven’t yet left their beds. It feels like a ghost town with too many ghosts. Some days, you swear the silence carries weight. Residual grief, maybe.

You park in the far corner of the lot because the closer spaces are already claimed by the truly unwell—nurses who never go home, residents who sleep in call rooms, attendings who live to round. You used to be like them. You’ve grown out of the martyrdom. Or maybe you’ve just run out of energy to perform it.

The hospital doesn’t smell like death, not exactly. It smells like ammonia and latex and that synthetic lemon cleaner that’s supposed to mask the rest. You wave to the front desk nurse, badge in, and clock your shift the way you have every day for the last six years.

Your soulmark is never mentioned. Not because people don’t see it, though you keep it hidden well, but because no one talks about soulmarks anymore. It’s passé. Soulmate matching used to be romantic. Now it’s considered a statistical liability. There are support groups for people like you, sure, but they mostly spiral into grief therapy and long-winded self-help monologues. You tried one once. A woman wept about her soulmate dying in Sokovia. Another talked about her mark changing. Yours never did.

Soulmate politics are complicated now. Too many anomalies. Too many cases like yours.

There’s a thread on Reddit dedicated to soulmarks tied to dangerous people. Super soldiers. Villains. Politically gray mercenaries. Your name—his name—comes up sometimes. You don’t engage. You lurk. Scroll through the comments. Watch strangers try to figure out what they’d do if it were them.

The consensus always boils down to one thing: If your soulmate is a killer, you have a moral obligation to reject the bond.

You don’t know if you agree. You don’t know if you disagree either.

Most days, you just ignore it.

Your shift starts like any other. A stabbing. A toddler with a fever. An elderly man who doesn’t remember how he got here. The trauma bay gets two back-to-back ambulance drop-offs, both from the same freeway accident. The paramedics hand off a broken woman in pieces. You get her on oxygen. You get her to CT. You get her prepped for surgery. You don’t think about her name, or her face, or what might’ve been the last thing she said.

You think about the steps. You think about the chart.

This is what makes you good at your job.

You care. You just don’t let it show anymore.

Lunchtime—if you can dignify that title with a limp vending machine sandwich and fifteen minutes of couch—is spent in the staff lounge, watching reruns of The Great British Bake Off with the volume off. The man on screen is assembling an architectural sponge cake. You feel emotionally invested. Mostly because you think it might collapse.

One of your colleagues—Zoya, you think, though you’ve never quite decided if you like her or not—slides onto the couch beside you with the weary grace of someone who’s been on her feet for nine hours. She’s got a protein bar in one hand and her phone in the other.

“I read the polls,” she says, chewing like the bar personally insulted her. “People are actually fired up this time around.”

You hum in response. Noncommittal. You don’t take the bait.

“They say Barnes is running for Congress,” she adds casually, eyes flicking sideways toward you. “That surprises me. Who woulda thought?”

You don’t blink. Don’t flinch. Just peel a piece of lettuce off your sandwich like it’s offended you. “Guess being an Avenger's not the high-paying career it used to be.”

Zoya snorts. “Seriously. You think he’s for real?”

You lift one shoulder. “I think I’ve seen stranger things on C-SPAN.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Still wild, though. Imagine finding out your soulmate is, like… that guy.”

You glance at her. Smile. Tight. Unreadable. “Yeah,” you say. “Imagine.”

She doesn’t press. You both go back to watching a woman on screen cry over underbaked choux pastry.

It’s easy now. Easier than it used to be. Pretending he doesn’t matter. Pretending you don’t know his voice by heart. Don’t remember the way your mark burned that day in the laundromat. Don’t still check the news for his name the way other people check the weather. It’s a skill.

And like all your best skills, it was learned the hard way.

When you get home that night, your legs ache, and your stomach hurts from too much caffeine and not enough food. You drop your bag on the couch, toe off your shoes, and stand in the middle of your kitchen for ten full seconds trying to remember what it means to rest.

Your phone buzzes on the counter. A missed call. Your ex. You don’t call back.

Instead, you go to the sink, wash your hands out of habit, and glance down at the faint outline of the mark under your scrub top.

You trace it, just once. Not enough to mean anything.

Just enough to remember that it’s still there.

You were twenty-four when you first saw his face in motion. In reality.

It was a Tuesday. You remember because it was your one day off that month, and you’d spent most of it in a laundromat trying to get the smell of bile and bleach out of your scrubs. You were curled up on the plastic bench by the window, still damp from rain, watching a battered flatscreen overhead.

BREAKING NEWS: GLOBAL MANHUNT UNDERWAY FOR FORMER SOVIET ASSASSIN.

You didn’t flinch when the words came up. At first, they didn’t mean anything. But then the photo appeared, grainy and indistinct—a security cam freeze-frame. Dark jacket, metal arm, face caught mid-motion.

There he was. James Buchanan Barnes.

You felt it like a punch. Air gone. Sound sucked from the room. Your hands tightened around a bottle of Tide.

They said he bombed the Vienna International Centre. Killed a king. Injured dozens. Your brain refused the narrative, but not because you knew better. You didn’t. It was just … incongruent. Cognitive dissonance. You couldn’t square the name on your skin with the cold, feral man on the screen. But that didn’t stop you from watching.

You didn’t leave the laundromat. You sat there long after your clothes finished drying. Hours, maybe. Absorbing every second of the footage. Reading every chyron.

You watched the raw surveillance clips when they hit the web—him running, being chased, fighting like something born in a lab. Like something not quite real.

And then, all at once, the world tilted.

He was real.

Not a myth. Not a name in a book or a mark burned into your side to haunt you. Real. He was breathing the same air, walking the same crumbling sidewalks, looking over his shoulder beneath the same indifferent sky. There was this thrumming under your skin—louder than your heartbeat, sharper than breath—that said he's alive. Not long-dead. Not lost to time. But here. On this earth. Behind your eyes. And somehow, you had to keep living like that wasn’t the most destabilizing fact you’d ever known.

You memorized the cadence of how people said his name.

At some point, you realized you were shaking.

That week, your mother called, like she always did. You didn’t tell her. She asked how work was. You said fine. She asked if you’d seen the news. You said you hadn’t.

You started keeping your left side covered, even in the shower.

In the weeks that followed, he became a name everyone knew. The Winter Soldier. The media dug up every blurry photo from seventy years of history, every CIA leak, every whisper in a dossier. You catalogued them without meaning to. It wasn’t obsession. Not exactly. It was survival.

Then came the reveal: it wasn’t him. Not exactly. Not only him.

Mind control, they said. Brainwashed. Hydra.

You read the words like they were gospel. Like they explained something they didn’t. Like they offered you absolution by proxy. You hated that you wanted to believe it so badly. You hated how much of yourself you saw in the hollow of his eyes when he was caught on camera again—restrained, confused, a man unraveling.

You hated that you understood it.

Then came the Blip.

The morning the sky broke, you were in trauma bay three with a man who’d been impaled on a metal pipe. You blinked, and he was gone. Just … gone. The pipe, slick with his blood, clanged against the floor, still warm. Your brain froze. Your hands kept moving.

Your friend Ashley vanished mid-joke during lunch break. Half your ER staff was gone by the end of the day. You worked thirteen more hours without blinking. You only remembered bits—someone screaming in the stairwell. Someone trying to break into the pharmacy. A girl with burns and no parents left to consent to treatment. You remember the air smelling like copper and panic. The vending machines ran out by day two.

When you finally got home, your building was quiet. Too quiet. The streets were deserted, eerie and raw like the aftermath of a dream you couldn't fully wake up from. Someone had looted the gas station across the street. You stepped over broken glass to get inside.

You turned on the TV. Sat down on the floor. Let the flickering images wash over you in silence. Aerial shots of cars abandoned mid-commute. Apartment buildings full of empty beds. Hospitals choked with the chaos of subtraction.

Then his name came up. Just for a moment. In a reel of the missing.

James Buchanan Barnes. Missing. Presumed dust. It seems like the world would never get tired of those three words recurring in your life like a sick joke, like a sucker punch.

You knew it before they even confirmed it. Knew it in your bones. The soulmark burned for days after. A phantom itch. A psychic scream. You whispered to the room, “No. No, no, no—”

You didn’t go to work the day they called it. That he was gone. That it wasn’t speculation anymore.

You called out sick, which you never did. Stayed under the covers with your curtains drawn and your phone turned facedown. You didn’t cry. Not in the way that would’ve felt cathartic. There was no release. Just weight. A steady pressure under your sternum, like your lungs were packed too tight with silence.

Grief like that doesn’t come all at once. It drips. Slow. Insidious. A lifetime’s worth of maybes collecting in your throat.

You tried to tell yourself he wasn’t yours.

That you didn’t know him.

That the mark didn’t mean anything.

That you didn’t feel the loss like your own skin folding in on itself.

But you stopped wearing crop tops after that. Stopped sleeping on your left side. Stopped reading the news altogether, because every time they mentioned his name—even in passing—it felt like someone reaching inside your chest to twist the knife, just to see if you’d bleed.

Your friends thought you were just burned out. Work was hard. Everyone was struggling.

“Have you tried meditating?” someone asked once.

“Have you tried shutting the fuck up?” you almost said. Instead you smiled. Said you were fine. You let them believe it.

You threw yourself into the ER. Picked up extra shifts. Took on the worst cases. Became the one they called for the ugly ones—the resuscitations that didn’t work, the organ donors, the impossible parents waiting for bad news. It gave your hands something to do. Gave your grief a mask.

You were so good at pretending you didn’t care that even you started to believe it.

But sometimes, on the drive home—when the city was too quiet and the sky too empty—you caught yourself glancing at the passenger seat like someone should be there. Like you’d forgotten to pick him up.

You imagined what he’d be like. Not the soldier. Not the assassin. Not the man they called the Winter Soldier like he was myth, not bone.

Just… a person.

Would he have been quiet in the mornings? Would he have let you take the last piece of toast? Would he have liked dogs? Would he have hated how sterile hospitals feel? Would he have looked at you like your name was written on him, too?

The mark never faded. You used to check. Stupidly. Desperately. You read somewhere once that when a soulmate dies, the mark vanishes. But yours didn’t. Not even a little. It stayed sharp. Clear. Unforgiving.

You don’t know if that made it better or worse.

All you knew was this: it didn’t matter if the world called him a ghost. He was real to you.

And he was gone.

And you had to go to work tomorrow, like none of it ever mattered.

Time passed. You got used to the silence.

Then, five years later, he came back.

Just like that.

No fanfare. No press release. Just a name in a sea of billions. Alive again. Somewhere in the world.

You didn’t sleep for three days after that either.

He resurfaced differently this time. Tactically invisible. Not a headline anymore. Then, out of nowhere—a year or two later—he announced his candidacy for Congress.

You nearly laughed. Not because it was funny. But because it felt so surreal, so absurdly mundane, that your brain short-circuited. It had been three back-to-back 12-hour night shifts. Your scrubs still smelled faintly of antiseptic and vending machine coffee. Your eyes burned. Your feet hurt. And there he was—your mark, your ghost—printed five feet tall next to a mattress ad.

You stared. Read the copy three times. Just to be sure it wasn’t a hallucination.

You told yourself not to look him up. Then you got home and did it anyway.

His campaign site was minimal. No donation pop-ups, no splashy endorsements. Just a simple landing page, a schedule of town halls, and a single embedded video labeled Why I’m Running.

You clicked play.

It started with silence. Then the low rasp of his voice, steadier now, filled your apartment.

“I’m not here to pretend I’ve always done the right thing,” he said. “I’m not here to sell redemption. Just accountability. I’ve seen what happens when systems break, when good people fall through the cracks. And I believe we can build better.”

There were no slogans. No party jargon. Just him, seated on a worn bench near a city garden, hair shorter than you remembered, jaw shadowed with a few days’ growth. Still armored, but softer. Realer. He didn’t mention soulmarks. Or the war. Or the weight of being a name that history couldn’t agree on.

But he didn’t need to.

You watched the video twice. Then again the next night.

And you didn’t vote for him.

You didn’t vote against him either.

You just… waited. Watched. Tracked the polls like you were taking a patient’s vitals. Checked for signs of movement. Hoped it wouldn’t all combust before the finish line.

When he won by 6.4%, you sat in your dark apartment, phone lit in your palm, and felt something in your chest go still. Not relief. Not pride. Just… a strange, anchored kind of knowing.

He was out there. Alive. Choosing something. Choosing this.

And somehow, that meant something to you, too.

You still don’t talk about it. But every so often, you read the transcripts from his interviews. You pretend it’s because he talks about legislation affecting healthcare infrastructure. It isn’t.

You’ve never reached out. Never driven past one of his town halls. Never liked a single post.

But you know which office he holds. You know the hours of his community clinic situated right by the VA. You know what color his suit was the day he was sworn in.

The name on your ribs has not changed. It probably never will.

And maybe he’s never thought of you at all.

It starts with a nosebleed.

You’re just off shift. Third one this week. Your badge is clipped to your hip, your hands smell like latex and soap, and your brain is somewhere between REM and resignation. You’re half-waiting for the crosswalk light to change when you see a man slump against the side of the public library and slide down like his bones have given up.

At first, you think: drunk. Happens more than you’d like to admit, and it's Brooklyn you're talking about. But then you see the way his hand curls against his thigh—controlled, but shaky—and the tight set of his jaw. His suit is immaculate. Not a homeless guy. Not a junkie. And that look on his face? That’s not intoxication.

That’s pain.

You cross the street. Instinct before thought.

“Hey,” you call, crouching near him. “You okay?”

He looks up. There’s a beat—half-second, maybe less—where neither of you speaks. His eyes are blue. Really blue. And he’s not just handsome, he’s specific. Recognizable in a way that drops into your stomach like a lead weight.

You know who he is. You've spent half your life committing him to memory, watching him coming and going like a revolving door.

Selfishly, instinctively, you can't help but glance down at his left hand—covered by a glove. He notices, shifting slightly, uncomfortably.

Finally, he blinks. “I’m—yeah. Fine.”

“That’s a lie,” you say, because you’re too tired to be polite. “You’re about to pass out. I’m guessing low blood sugar. Maybe dehydration.”

He breathes through his nose like it’s an old habit, like he’s used to being clocked and is choosing not to bristle. “I was just at a council meeting. Forgot to eat.”

“Drink anything?”

“Two coffees and a Red Bull.”

You stare at him. “Jesus Christ.”

His mouth twitches. Just barely. “I didn’t say it was a good idea.”

You glance around. It’s midday. Plenty of foot traffic, but no one’s stopped to help him. Of course not. Most people pretend not to see, even if he's a U.S. representative who's helped save the world a handful of times. New Yorkers have learned to mind their own business these past couple of years.

“Alright, Mr. Barnes,” you say, because you don’t want to say James or Bucky, not the name etched on your skin. “Can you stand up?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You know who I am?”

You consider lying. “Yeah.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in him goes still. A readjustment. Like he’s running probabilities behind the curtain of his eyes.

“And you still came over,” he says.

“Don’t take it personally. It's my civic duty; I’d help a mediocre politician too if they were about to eat pavement.”

A snort. Then, with the faintest tilt of his head: “Lucky me.”

You help him to his feet. He leans on the wall. Doesn’t quite use you for balance, though you think he might want to. You guide him into the nearest air-conditioned bodega and deposit him on a bench near the pharmacy counter. Buy two bottles of Gatorade and a protein bar. You don’t ask for reimbursement.

He drinks like it hurts to swallow. Like he’s out of practice with kindness.

“Thanks,” he says. Eventually.

You nod, sitting on the far end of the bench. “You should probably have a handler.”

“I do,” he says dryly. “She left five minutes before I remembered I hadn’t eaten.”

You glance at him sidelong. “So what, she’s in the wind?”

“Texted her,” he replies. “Told her I was fine.”

“You always lie to the people trying to keep you alive?”

Something flickers at that—too fast to name. “Sometimes.”

A silence settles. Not uncomfortable, exactly. But charged.

You glance down at your hands, then back at him. “Do you get nosebleeds a lot?”

“Not usually.”

“Good. If it starts again, you’re going to the hospital.”

His smile this time is faint, but real. He takes a glance at your scrubs, gears turning in his head. “You work there?”

“Yeah.”

“Doctor?”

“Nurse.”

He gives a little hum. “Makes sense.”

You frown. “Why?”

“Because you didn’t flinch.”

The statement lands oddly. “New Yorkers don’t usually flinch at guys hunched against the wall mid-day.”

“Not that,” he says. “Me.”

You meet his gaze. Don’t look away. “Well. Maybe they should.”

He stares at you for a long moment. You get the sense he’s parsing something. Not calculating. Listening. Not just to what you said, but how you said it.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” he says.

You open your mouth. Then close it.

And for the first time in your life, you think: If I tell him, he’ll know.

You’re not sure what scares you more. Him knowing. Or him not.

He notices the hesitation. His eyes drop—unintentionally, you think—toward your ribs. Just a flicker.

You say, quietly, “Don’t do that.”

He nods once. Doesn’t ask again.

Another moment passes. You hand him the rest of the protein bar.

He doesn’t say thank you again. He just eats it.

Eventually, he stands. A little steadier now. You watch him check his phone. You think he might offer to walk you somewhere, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he looks at you like he’s memorizing something. Then:

“You know,” he says, “there was a time I thought she’d be dead.”

Your heart skips.

You try to sound normal. “Who?”

He doesn’t smile. Not this time. Just studies your face.

“My soulmate.”

You freeze.

“Figured she’d died during the Blip,” he continues. “Or worse. Thought I felt it. But I came back and the mark was still there. So. Who knows.”

You inhale slowly. “What would you have done if it was gone?”

“Moved on,” he says.

You nod. Try to play it off. “That easy, huh?”

“No.” His voice drops a register. “But I would’ve had to.”

Silence again. He exhales. Checks the time. Nods once.

“Well,” he says. “Thanks for saving me from an embarrassing death outside a library.”

You stand too. “Wasn’t gonna let a congressman die on my watch, Mr. Barnes."

He gives a lopsided smile, and suddenly, you see a flicker of that man you saw in the Smithsonian all those years ago. “Call me Bucky. I'm just a guy, today.”

Then, softer: “See you around.”

You don’t say anything. Just watch him go.

When you finally look down at your ribs, you expect the name to be glowing or bleeding or something dramatic.

It isn’t.

It’s just there. Quiet. Permanent.

You don’t see Bucky again for months. He's gone from James Buchanan Barnes to Bucky, and it feels like foreign territory.

Not in person.

You follow his trajectory the way you follow the weather—warily, with one eye on the exit. A year into being entrenched in politics, and he gets pulled into a team, a superhero one, nonetheless. The new Avengers become a household name, or something close to it. You don’t pay for the streams, but you hear the headlines. They’re sent in to handle things that the rest of the government won’t touch. Places too messy. People too expendable.

Their first mission didn't have a name. Just a black void on every screen.

For New York, it was basically another Tuesday.

It starts mid-shift.

You’re in the middle of helping intubate someone when the power flickers—just once, like the building’s held its breath. Everyone stops. Monitors beep a half-second late. The trauma bay lights blink. Then come back. Then cut out again.

You keep your hands steady. Overhead, a resident says, “Is it just us?”

Someone else says, “No, it’s the whole block.”

And then your phone buzzes.

Not a call. A national alert.

EMERGENCY ALERT: ANOMALOUS EVENT IN PROGRESS. SEEK SHELTER.

You finish the procedure anyway. You don’t panic. You don’t run. You switch to battery-powered floodlights and keep your mask on. That’s the thing about being on the inside when the world starts to fall apart. You don’t get to pause.

Outside, the sky changes. It turns the color of old bruises. A gash opens above the skyline—wide, black, impossibly still. Something like a mouth. Something worse.

They call it the Void later. You never see it in person. Not really. You just feel the air change, the pressure drop. You feel the way every patient suddenly stops bleeding. The way everyone holds their breath.

And then, hours later, the lights flicker back on.

The void collapses into itself like it was never there.

And just like that, you keep working.

Afterward, the news trickles in. Bucky was there. Of course he was. He and the others were part of whatever last-ditch plan got the void to close. Whatever sacrifices were made, they’re classified. What isn’t: the look on his face when they put him on the podium afterward.

You watch it from the break room, over a vending machine lunch.

The new Avengers are announced. Not the old guard. A stitched-together lineup of whoever’s left, whoever didn’t run, whoever’s willing to keep showing up.

Bucky stands at the edge of the stage.

He looks like a man being honored at his own funeral.

You watch the broadcast until it ends.

You don’t say a word.

Two weeks later, you run into him again. And it’s so dumb, so ordinary, you don’t even realize what’s happening until you’ve already said yes.

You’re coming out of the pharmacy with three days’ worth of migraine pills and a jug of Pedialyte, and he’s just… there. Baseball cap, dark coat, looking like he hasn’t shaved in a week. The glove's off, his metal hand shining under the sterile lights. He spots you before you spot him.

“Hey,” he says, not quite surprised. “Funny seeing you here.”

You squint. “You okay?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

You glance down at the bag in your hand. “Pharmacy run.”

He nods. “I’m heading to get coffee. Want one?”

You open your mouth. Pause. And then, God help you, you say, “Yeah. Sure.”

You don’t talk about the void.

You talk about everything but.

The café is half-empty. He orders a black coffee and a lemon poppy seed muffin like someone trying to prove they’re still human. You ask for a chai. He insists on paying.

You sit across from each other, not touching. Not leaning. But there’s something in the air between you—charged, familiar. Like a room you’ve walked into before in a dream.

“Still at the hospital?” he asks.

“Yeah. We don’t really get to retire. Or take vacations.”

“That’s a shame.”

You shrug. “It’s a calling. Or a curse. Not sure.”

“I know the feeling.”

You sip your chai. He breaks the muffin in half and doesn’t eat it.

There’s a pause. Then—

“You never told me your name,” he says again. Not quite a question.

You watch him. Something in your chest thuds like recognition.

You set your cup down.

“I didn’t think you wanted it.”

He blinks. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You glance at the window, at the people outside walking past like none of this matters. Like the world didn’t almost end. Like the two of you aren’t teetering on some invisible edge.

“I don’t know,” you say finally. “Because you didn’t press.”

He doesn’t speak for a second. Just watches you, something gentle and old in his eyes.

Then he smiles. Soft. A little tired.

“Because I wanted you to give it when you were ready.”

The silence between you shifts. Not heavier. Just realer.

You say your name.

It fills the air between you like a quiet truth.

He breathes it in like it means something.

“Can I see you again?” he asks.

Your throat tightens. But your voice stays steady.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think you can.”

You don’t say anything as you leave the café. Just nod goodbye and let the door close between you. But later, when you replay the afternoon in your mind, it lingers. The quiet between words. The fact that he didn’t ask to see the mark. That he didn’t flinch.

The fact that when you said your name, it felt like exhaling. You don’t expect to see him again so soon. Not really.

But you do.

Twice that week, by accident.

First, it's after an especially gruelling night shift. The sun's barely even peeking through the trees yet, and you're covered in miscellaneous bodily fluids and there's bags under your eyes that weigh you down. Outside the bodega near your building, where you planned on getting bread and bananas and off-brand electrolyte packets. He’s coming out with a six-pack of seltzer and one of those microwave dinners that scream I-don’t-trust-a-stove as you're coming in. You nod at each other, and, looking down at your scrubs and your state, he asks if you just got done.

You nod. "Every Tuesday at 7 AM."

He asks how your shift went. You lie and say easy. He doesn’t call you on it.

The second time, you’re on a park bench halfway through a sandwich you don’t want, getting some much-needed air during your lunch break when a shadow falls across your lap.

It’s him, in jeans and a threadbare henley, hair mussed like he slept wrong. It's oddly domestic. You resist the urge to tuck a stray strand behind his ear. “Didn’t take you for a turkey club kind of girl,” he says, like this is the kind of thing you’ve always talked about. You offer him half without thinking. He takes it.

It’s not every day. Not even often. But you start to spot him in places you never used to. On the corner outside the pharmacy. At the edge of the farmer’s market. Once in the hallway of the clinic where you pick up your medical license renewal. He doesn’t make it obvious. He doesn’t insert himself. But he’s there.

And slowly, without meaning to, you start looking for him.

There’s a night when the ER is chaos and the weather is worse and your body is vibrating with exhaustion. Your car's given out on you. You miss your bus. You consider calling an Uber, then don’t. You’re standing under the overhang by the staff entrance, shivering in your scrubs, scrolling your phone for nothing in particular, when headlights sweep across your shoes and stop.

A car idles. Familiar. Black. Out of place like a shadow with wheels.

You squint into the window, and of course, it’s him. “Stalking me?”

He straightens, just a little. “You said your shift ended at seven.”

“I did,” you say slowly, walking toward him. “Didn’t mean it was an invitation.”

His mouth twitches. “Consider it a standing offer.”

You glance at the car, then back at him. “You gonna tell me how you got a vehicle this inconspicuous, or is that classified?”

He opens the passenger door. “Perks of being an Avenger.”

You eye him. “Is this kidnapping?”

“If it is, it’s the most considerate kidnapping ever. I brought snacks.”

You get in.

It becomes a habit after that.

That’s the first ride.

It becomes a habit. Not a routine, exactly. That would suggest he comes at the same time, says the same thing, follows a pattern. He doesn’t. He’s unpredictable in the way thunderstorms are—sudden, insistent, quietly necessary. He’s just… there. Enough times that your coworkers start raising eyebrows. Enough times that you stop pretending it’s odd.

You don’t talk about the soulmark. Not directly.

But you talk about other things.

The price of gas. The merits of different hospital coffee. He tells you, offhandedly, that he used to hate mornings until he had to start facing them at 5 a.m. with a loaded weapon. You tell him you’ve delivered twins in a supply closet. Neither of you laughs, but the air warms between you.

One evening, he brings you tea instead of coffee. He says it’s because you looked like you hadn’t slept. You want to ask how he knew. You don’t.

You get used to the way his presence takes up space. Quietly. Without pushing. You start saving podcasts to share. You start to notice the way his metal hand rests against the gearshift like he’s forgotten it’s not flesh.

He learns your tells. Which sigh means you’re burned out and which means you’re hungry. He doesn’t always talk, but he listens better than most people speak.

And slowly—terrifyingly—you start to want him to be there.

Bucky never texts.

Not once.

He calls.

Always.

Even for the smallest things. A grocery question. A movie suggestion. A let-me-know-when-you’re-done. Sometimes you don’t pick up, and he doesn’t leave a voicemail. Just calls again an hour later like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

One day, you ask him why.

He’s driving, one hand on the wheel, the other—metal—resting on the gearshift like it belongs there.

“I don’t like waiting for a response,” he says, after a beat. “Feels like talking to a wall.”

You nod. “Makes sense.”

He glances at you, then adds, “Also, I can't type for shit. And autocorrect thinks I’m a lunatic. My PR manager thinks I'm a walking liability waiting to happen." You don't know what makes you snort first; the thought of him keyboard smashing his phone or the fact that he has a goddamn PR manager.

Then, the first time you see the arm up close, he’s asleep on your couch.

You’re supposed to be watching a movie. You don't even know who initiated, who invited who over. But something old and black-and-white is flickering on the screen, one of his picks. But somewhere around the twenty-minute mark, he dozed off. His hoodie’s bunched up at the elbow, metal catching the lamplight.

You don’t stare. Not really. But you don’t look away either.

It’s not the glossy, hyper-chrome finish you remember from the surveillance footage. Not the Soviet brutality of jagged red stars and burnished steel. This one’s different. Sleeker. Sleek but brutal. Matte black and dark silver, subtle gold veins etched faintly between the segmented plates—Wakandan tech, you realize. Lightweight. Adaptive. The sort of engineering that moves with a person, not against them.

It looks like something alive. Something that remembers things.

You wonder if he remembers it’s there. If it registers temperature. Pressure. Pain. If the nerves ghost in that space the same way yours do when your fingers go numb from fatigue. If it ever aches when it rains.

You don’t ask.

Not yet.

He stirs, eventually. Looks at you through half-lidded eyes.

“Did I miss the plot twist?”

“You missed a wedding, a car crash, and three dramatic monologues.”

“Damn,” he mutters, stretching. His hoodie pulls a little higher. You glimpse the sharp, seamless lines of the elbow joint. Compact. Clean. Not like a machine—like an exoskeleton. Like armor. You look away. “We can rewind.”

You shrug, smirking into your mug. “I don’t know. I’m kind of emotionally invested now. I might want you to suffer through the confusion with me.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, still half-asleep, eyes flicking toward the screen.

You don’t rewind.

You just sit there, the credits rolling, and listen to him breathe as he falls back to sleep. You start to wonder what it would be like to fall asleep with his hand on your side. With the mark between you, not unspoken, but accepted. Real. You start to feel it again—that pull. The one you used to ignore. The one you used to press down like a bruise that wouldn’t fade.

This is what soulmates are about, you think. What they’re meant to be.

Not the fireworks. Not the rush. Not the storybook symmetry or the neat little bow at the end. Not the lightning strike of recognition. It’s quieter than that. Slower. Messier. Built of hours and questions and the space someone leaves you to be tired, to be flawed, to be real.

You think maybe it’s this — the way he handed you your coffee earlier exactly the way you take it without ever having asked. The way he watches the road when you don’t want to talk and turns the music up just a little, like a soft wall between you and the world. The way he never reaches for your hand, but always lets his linger close enough that you could.

It’s the consistency. The patience. The terrifying kindness of being seen when you’re not trying to be. When your armor’s off, not because you dropped it, but because he never asked you to put it on in the first place.

There’s something in your chest that loosens when he’s near. Some old tension that stops buzzing like an alarm.

And maybe that’s what the mark is. Not fate, not prophecy, but permission. A tether, yes—but one you can pull at your own pace. One you can choose.

And every day you don’t walk away, you’re choosing him.

Even if neither of you has said it yet. Even if neither of you knows how.

“You ever get tired of people looking at you sideways?” you ask him once, on a late-night walk back from a diner you guys have started to frequent together. You’ve both got milkshakes in hand because Bucky insists they’re a cornerstone of civilization, and you’re learning not to argue when he gets weirdly nostalgic.

He takes a sip. Shrugs. “Used to.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t care.” A pause. “It helps that you don’t.”

You look over. He’s not smiling, but he’s softer. Always is, around you. Less edge. Less shield.

“I used to,” you admit. “When I was younger. I thought it’d fade. The mark.”

He nods, like he’s heard that before. Like he understands more than you meant to say.

“It didn’t,” you add.

He glances at you, then at your side. Not lingering. Just a flicker.

“Good,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it.

You stop walking. “Why?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just finishes his drink. Crumples the cup in one hand.

“Because I’m still here,” he says, like it should be obvious.

And it is.

Somehow, it is.

He cooks, occasionally. Not well. But with effort. One night, he burns a grilled cheese so thoroughly the fire alarm goes off. You have to wave a towel at the smoke detector while he swears under his breath and throws the pan in the sink.

You’re still laughing when he sets two very sad sandwiches on the table and mutters, “Fine. Next time, we order.”

“There’s gonna be a next time?”

He gives you a look. “Unless I’m banned from your kitchen.”

You pick up half a sandwich. “You’re on probation.”

He watches you take a bite. Raises an eyebrow.

You chew. Swallow. “Tastes like regret and cheese.”

That gets a huff of laughter. He doesn’t laugh easily—not fully—but you’re learning the sounds he makes when he’s amused. The little exhales. The under-his-breath muttering. The half-smile he hides behind his hand.

You’re learning all of it.

And you’re starting to think he’s learning you too.

One night, he’s quiet.

Not in the usual way — not in the half-aware, hands-in-pockets, I’ve-seen-too-much kind of way you've learned he wears like a well-worn, favorite coat. This silence is heavier. Not a thing he’s hiding from you, but a thing he’s holding. Something sharp and delicate and dangerous, like broken glass wrapped in cloth. You don’t know what it is yet, but you feel it.

You’re curled up at opposite ends of the couch, legs almost touching, the ghost of his knee brushing yours whenever either of you shifts. The movie’s still playing, long-forgotten. It’s just noise now. A screen flickering in the background while your heart waits.

He inhales like it hurts. And then—

“Can I tell you something?”

His voice is quiet. Too quiet. And he’s not looking at you Blue eyes staring straight ahead at the TV, the little space between his brows wrinkled into something indecipherable.

You blink, slowly. “Yeah,” you say, just as softly. “Of course.”

That gets a breath out of him. Not a laugh. Not quite a sigh. Just something let loose. You watch him stare ahead, fixed on a point in the middle distance like it’s safer than you. Like your face is too much to hold right now.

“I used to hate it,” he says. “The mark.”

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

“I thought—” He rubs the heel of his hand over his sternum, just once, like something aches there. “I thought it was some kind of punishment. Like the universe picked me just to prove it could.”

Your heart twists.

He still won’t meet your eyes. But he’s speaking now, and it feels like something old and knotted finally starting to unravel.

“I didn’t know what it meant, not really. Not at first. Just this pain. A weight. And then the name came, and it didn’t mean anything. Just letters. A future that didn’t make sense.”

His hand tightens, flexes, then drops into his lap again. You watch the way his fingers curl, restless and bare.

“And then it did mean something. And it got worse.”

He swallows. Hard.

“Because I looked you up.” His voice dips, almost like he’s ashamed of it. “When I got the chance. I knew. Who you were. Where you were. For years. I didn’t—I didn’t do anything about it. But I knew.”

Something tightens in your chest. A coil. A knot. He looked for you. All those years, he searched and he reached and he wanted all the same. You want to reach for him, but you wait. You feel like if you breathe wrong, he might vanish.

“I kept thinking—if I left it alone, if I stayed away, maybe the universe would rethink it. Give you someone better. Someone cleaner. Someone safe.”

Finally, his gaze flickers to you. Brief. Bracing. The kind of look you imagine he’s given a thousand times in battle — checking to see if the person beside him is still alive.

“And I thought I could carry that,” he says. “I thought if I ignored it long enough, maybe it’d fade. That maybe you’d forget, or never know. And I could just—live around it.”

His laugh is bitter. Not sharp, exactly, but cracked around the edges.

“But it didn’t fade. You didn’t fade.”

You feel like you’ve stopped breathing entirely.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers knotted together. The mark under your ribs aches in quiet sympathy.

“You know what’s worse than feeling like you don’t deserve someone?” he asks, eyes fixed somewhere near your ankles. “Feeling like you do, for just one second. Like you could, if only you were different. If only everything hadn’t already happened.”

He sits back again. Slower this time. Exhausted.

Your chest is tight, full of static. Your eyes sting.

“I used to see your name and think, how cruel. That someone like you had to carry the weight of someone like me.” Bucky finally looks at you again, and there’s nothing distant about it. It’s searing. Devastating. “But then you showed up. That day at the library. And I—”

His voice falters.

He swallows again, blinking hard. “I’ve spent so long being looked at like I’m a weapon. Like I’m a ghost. But you looked at me like—” He stops, breath caught in his throat. “Like I was real. Like you’d known me. Like I wasn’t a mistake.”

You blink fast, because the alternative is crying.

“And I didn’t know what to do with that. I still don’t know what to do with that,” He exhales, a quiet tremor in his chest. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be the person who deserves this. Or you. Or the mark. But I want to be.”

He turns toward you fully now, and for the first time, he doesn’t look away.

“I want to try,” he says, softly. “If you’ll let me.”

You reach for his hand. Slowly. Carefully. Like it’s something sacred, and your fingers meet his.

You don’t say anything right away. There’s no need. His hand tightens around yours like an answer. Like a prayer. And under your ribs, where the mark lives, you feel it — not a tug, not a weight, but a warmth. Like the sun, breaking through after years of winter.

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

His fingers are rough in some places, calloused in others, warm where it counts. He holds you like he’s learning how. Like maybe the trick is not to grip too tight, but not to let go either. That sweet, aching middle ground. Like maybe you’re something breakable—but not fragile.

You’re not sure how long you sit like that. Just the two of you, suspended in this strange, soft liminal space between the past and whatever comes next.

The TV hums in the background. The couch dips where your knees almost touch. You swear you can hear his pulse—yours too—skipping every third beat, then rushing to make up for it.

He’s still watching you like he’s waiting for you to vanish.

You speak first. Barely a whisper. “I think I started loving you before I even knew what it meant.”

His eyes close, slow. As if the words are a balm. Or a blade. You’re not sure which.

“I used to feel you before I understood how,” you continue, voice steady now, stronger with each word. “Not in the mark. Not in the skin. But in the air. In the quiet. I’d be washing blood off my hands at three in the morning and think—I’m not alone. Not really.”

His throat moves with the effort of swallowing. He doesn’t speak. Not yet. You’re not done.

“I hated you for it too, for a while,” you admit. “For making me hope. For giving me something to lose before I ever had it.”

You shift, close the last few inches between you. He doesn’t flinch. Just watches, gaze dark and wide and impossibly open.

“I didn’t want this to be real. Because if it was, it meant I could break. That I had something to break for.”

He breathes out your name. Just once.

You touch his face. Thumb trailing the edge of his cheekbone, slow and deliberate. He leans into it like he’s forgotten what it means to be held. “I see you,” you whisper. “I see you. Not the headlines. Not the soldier. Not the mark. Just… you.”

And something inside him unravels. Not all at once. Not like a dam breaking. But like a thread pulled gently, deliberately, until what’s been bound up for too long begins to loosen.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s not polished. Not pretty. It’s real. Broken around the edges. Bare and breathless. “I love you, and it’s terrifying.”

You nod. Because you know.

He exhales. Then moves.

He kisses you like he means it. Like it’s the first and last time he’ll ever be allowed. His lips press to yours, slow at first, exploratory. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it. The feel. You breathe him in. Let your hand slip to the back of his neck, anchor him there.

He doesn’t rush.

His hands, warm and steady, skim your waist like he’s relearning what it means to touch without taking. To be given something instead of stealing it. He pulls you closer—not to possess, but to be sure you’re still there.

When he parts from you, it’s just for breath.

You lean your forehead against his. “We’ve already survived so much,” you whisper. “What’s one more impossible thing?”

His laugh is soft, unguarded. It shakes a little at the end.

You tilt your face, kiss him again—deeper this time. His response is immediate. Hands tightening, lips parting. You taste the urgency in him, the tremble beneath restraint. Your mouth moves against his like a promise. Like maybe this—you—was what the mark was always meant to lead to.

Not fate. Choice.

His metal hand brushes your hip, steady and impossibly gentle. He maps the curve of your ribs like he’s memorizing the lines of his own name. You press your palm to his chest, feel the echo of your name there too. Not carved in flesh, but in feeling. In ache. In the quiet places only the two of you have ever touched.

“Come here,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low.

You’re already there.

Bucky kisses your neck. Your shoulder. The space just under your jaw. He doesn’t rush the way his hands roam—careful, reverent, like he’s turning pages of something sacred. You think your heart's going to burst or stop at any given moment, because there's no way he's real.

When he pushes your shirt and your bra up over your head, your hands quickly move up to knot through his hair, anchoring them there until he's groaning and mumbling against your skin. He leans down, open mouthed kisses along the way until he finds what he's looking for, taking a pert nipple into his mouth and playing with the other with his metal hand. "Bucky, I—"

He doubles down, holding you closer against his core so he can feel you bucking against him, grinding uselessly against the rough fabric of his jeans so he can feel you pulse, head flooding your core. "Fuck, don't stop. Please don't stop, Bucky, I'm—" You sigh breathlessly when you look down and he's got your nipple between his teeth, gently tugging as he looks up at you with too innocent blue eyes. Like he's not pulling you apart.

"I won't stop, sweet girl," Bucky shakes his head, laughing softly like he can't believe it. "Don't even think I could, if I tried."

The rest of your clothes end up as a pile on the floor, and then it was just Bucky slowly undressing in front of you between your knees. It's enough to make you lose your breath, but his next words sends another sharp heat to pool between your legs. "I'm gonna make you feel so good. You're so good to me, you—fuck, I'm gonna take my time with you. You gonna keep being good for me?"

"Yes, yes," You whispered, arms coming to wrap around him as he carries you to your bed, nails scratching lightly on the toned muscles of his back. "I'll be so good, I wanna feel good—just be with me."

He comes back to you, bare and ready and when you glance down, you can't help the gasp that escapes you. He's big. Bigger than you've ever had, thick and heavy and weeping at the tip. Gorgeous. Fuck, he's gorgeous. At the quiet sound, he pulls back a little bit, just enough to ask, with concern that's mixed with a little bit of amusement. "You okay, baby?"

Baby. Baby. The word rings in your ears, pushing another quiet, needy sound through your lips that Bucky's all too eager to swallow. But then suddenly, he stops and you have to resist the urge to whine. He presses a kiss against your skin, eyes searching yours. "Baby," Fuck, there's that word again. "I'm—I didn't bring anything with me. I don't wanna—"

You part your thighs without being told and the want in your voice is so clear, so evident. "Bucky, I'm clean. I'm on the pill, and I want you so bad, I need it. I need you inside me, want you to mark me, fill me until I'm overflowing with you."

He curses, looking at the way you're spread out underneath him. His hand reaches out to cup you where you're glistening and swollen and impossibly soft. "I can't say no to that, can I?"

"No," Your legs hook around him as he situates himself between your legs, your heart rate rising as he's so, so goddamn close, you can feel his body heat. "No, you can't."

When he finally sinks himself inside of you, you feel like you're being consumed. It's like your birthday and Christmas and the fucking Fourth of July, all in one, making you moan and swoon in a way that you know will have your neighbors sending a strongly worded complaint in the morning.

He's hard and fast and brutal, rocking against you while he sings praises into your hair, and you're wondering how you've ever been able to live without this. How you can't possibly live without this ever again, but then his hand, warm and on a mission, snakes its way beneath your stomach and pulls and pinches at your clit, and it sends you on another high.

Bucky groans. "Just what you needed, huh, baby?"

You nod, moaning out his name in reply.

One particularly hard thrust, after pulling almost all the way out and then rearranging you in a way that should be impossible, and you're falling apart on him as he fucks you through it. He loves you, he loves you, and he means every single word.

When he cums, it hits you like a train, still reeling from the aftershocks of your last orgasm when he groans and roars, putting his face to your throat and babbles—baby, sweet thing, the love of my life.

Afterwards, you just wanna lay in the mess with him, tangle yourself up with his legs and arms and get stuck there, but you're–the mess between your legs is sticky and quickly drying and the though of Bucky, soaking wet and dripping with water under the spray of your—

"Shower," you murmur. And Bucky nods against you, leaning down so he can wrap his arms around you and carry you down the hall to the bathroom.

It doesn't end there.

You ride his face under the shower. He's so good, on his knees like this was penance. For not being there for years, for not coming home to you sooner. His name rattles around your mouth and his tongue makes delicate, soft little shapes on your clit and nibbles against your thighs when you squeeze him just the right amount to make him a bit dizzy. A cool hand on your back, heat rushing in between your legs. His beard sending pinpricks up your spine as you curl your hips closer to his mouth.

Then—all at once, you on his tongue with a stuttered gasp, head spinning as he laves you with all sorts of praise. His other hand snakes up, circling and rubbing your clit like a man on a mission. "Oh god, oh god."

"Let me have all of it, sweetheart, baby, god. Let me taste you."

You do, of course, fucking of course, you let him. "My baby, taking everything ya want from me. I'll always give it to you. Christ."

When Bucky moves over your body, standing up to his full height, you're all too eager to taste him on your tongue. He's smiling lazily against your lips, like he's won a fight. It's sweet, it's a little sticky, it's—god, it's so fucking attractive, the way his lips and his stubble shine under the bathroom lights with your juices. "Say my name, Bucky, say it—"

He says your name, over and over and over and it's perfect. The water continues to spray above you, soaking both of you, but especially him as it dribbles down to the base of his cock. When he sinks into you, thick and heavy and ready until your shoulder blades knock against the cool tile, you both hold your breath until he's all the way inside, flush against your skin.

There's his hands on your hips, a momentary pause, before his hips start snapping against yours. His dark hair, sopping wet and falling into his face, barely concealing the way he grits through his teeth. "Fuck."

You love him so much. You don't think you've ever felt a love so all-encompassing, a love that sets you on fire. You'd give him absolutely anything, everything he wants. Your words fail you, but it's the only thing you can think of as he continues to pound into you, up against that sweet, sweet spot that sends your vision spinning. In the haze of your mind, you can hear yourself moaning, begging—

Then you're falling apart again, cumming with a silent scream.

"There you go," Bucky groans and suddenly, you can feel it too, the way he fills you up, throbbing and pulsing inside of you. Until he was empty and you were full. "There you go. So good, baby. Been so good."

All at once, it all comes back to you.

The bathroom is fogged with steam, the mirror a blurred memory of your shapes, blurred edges, the safe hush of water hitting tile. He doesn’t speak when you finally wrench yourself apart from him, just to move behind him, doesn’t tense when your hands press against his shoulder blades to guide him just slightly aside—enough to step in beside him, under the spray. He shifts automatically, lets you in. Like it’s instinct now.

The water is hot, almost too hot, but he doesn’t flinch. He crowds you a little, warm chest to your back, arms curving around your middle like you’re something to protect. Or anchor to. Or both.

You feel the kiss of cold tile against your front, his breath low against your shoulder. It should be overwhelming. Should make you squirm. But instead, it feels inevitable. Like exhaling. Like gravity doing what it always does.

You lean back into him, and he lets you turn. No push. No pressure. Just a subtle retreat that gives you space. When your eyes find his in the low light, he’s already watching you, his gaze open in the way it only is now, after. After everything. After the storm and the silence and the choosing.

“Pass me the soap,” you murmur.

He obliges. Hands you something dark and nondescript, expensive-smelling and deliberately plain, like everything else he owns now. The scent hits as you squeeze a dollop into your palm—cedar, maybe. Bergamot. Clean, and quietly masculine. Like him.

He runs a hand through his hair, rinses under the stream, half turning away from you, blinking water from his lashes.

“Uh-uh,” you chide gently. “Get back here.”

His brow lifts, bemused, but he obeys. Always does, when it’s you. You rub your hands together to lather the soap, then step forward—closer than necessary. Not because you want to tease. Because you want to see.

You start at his sides, palms gliding slowly over his ribs, where old scars have long since faded into muscle. He sucks in a breath, low and sharp. Not from heat. From the contact.

Your fingers move across his stomach, up over the dip in his chest, across the swell of his shoulders. He stands perfectly still—except for the breath hitching in his throat, the twitch of his jaw. You press your body to his, full skin-to-skin, and feel his chest rise beneath your breasts, slow and tight.

He watches you like he’s never been touched like this before. Like the softness is the part that breaks him. Not the hunger. Not the fire. But the care.

You rise up on your toes, sliding your hands over the back of his neck, around the nape. One hand slips down between his fingers, rubbing suds over the back of his hand. His metal arm stays still at his side, but his flesh hand… it flexes beneath yours. Tightens around your fingers like something unbearable is unraveling in his chest.

That’s when you look up. That’s when you see it.

He looks wrecked. Not from what happened in bed. Not from anything physical. But from this—this ridiculous, tender act of washing him like he matters. Like you’re not asking anything in return. No demands. No debt.

Just love.

And he knows. You can see it—see the realization in his face as clear as sunlight on glass. He knows now, as fully as you do, what this is. What you’ve been. What you are.

You want to look away. Want to laugh it off, run, bite something smart and quick and false between your teeth just to fill the silence. You don’t.

He takes your wrist gently in his flesh one—fingers cradling the inside like it’s something delicate. Then, with his other, his metal thumb presses to your skin, slow and deliberate.

He traces a letter. Then another.

It’s not rushed. Not uncertain. The motion is familiar. Repeated. You've traced over his name countless of times, and the rough pad of his pointer finger goes through a path you've known for half your life.

Your throat tightens.

“You,” he says quietly, voice rough from emotion and steam and everything in between.

He takes your hand gently and takes it to his ribs, where your name's resided for the better part of his life. “And me.”

You stare down at the mark he’s making, not because it’s visible, but because it’s real. You can feel it there, etched into the space between heartbeats.

“You and me,” he murmurs again. “Always was gonna be.”

Then, still holding your wrist, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. Softly. As if you were made of prayer.

There’s nothing else to say. No big revelation. No sudden orchestral swell.

Just this. Just the sound of the water, the warmth of his chest against yours, the slow unraveling of every wall you ever built around the part of yourself that's wanted to believe in love since you were thirteen, staring at your skin in awe.

Later, there will be groceries. Buses. Shifts at the hospital. He'll have to go back to being an Avenger. Other lives moving in parallel lanes around yours.

But right now, it’s this.

It’s weightlessness.

It’s your name, written in the soft fog of his breath. And his name, traced endlessly across your skin.

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