arctichotch

[arctichotch]

i need some absolute heart shattering angst about bucky "dying" and then a few years later he suddenly shows up at the door

AND YOUR WRITING IS SOOOOK CHEFS KISS 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

lmao babe, I'm not gonna lie, this was soooo vague so I went off the rails with this one a bit, lol, which means I accidentally wrote a mini 15k fanfic

Come Home To Me

pairing | 40s!bucky x fem!reader & platonic!steve x reader

word count | 14.7k words (lowkey this is like a three part story put together)

summary I during the rise and ruin of the second world war, a sharp-tongued brooklyn girl falls for james buchanan barnes—only to lose him to the battlefield, a presumed death, and the silence that follows.

but almost two years later, when the war is long over and the wounds have scarred over, he comes back through her door, proving that some promises do survive the fire.

tags | (18+) brief smut, canon divergence, slow burn, friends to lovers, soft!bucky barnes, strong female character, angst with a happy ending, angst and feels, domestic fluff, pregnancy, bucky barnes needs a hug, period-typical attitudes, racially ambiguous reader, no use of y/n

a/n | I hope this satisfies you guys for the rest of the week, because I will be working unfortunately. lowkey have no idea where this idea even came from, but I'm actually in love with this. for context, they're all the same age so, 1936 - 18, 1941 - 23, 1944 - 26, 1946 - 28

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

divider by @cafekitsune

Brooklyn, Summer of 1936

Bay Ridge streets smelled like hot pavement, coal smoke, and fresh bread — if you were lucky. If you weren’t, it was just piss and heat and someone hollering three blocks away.

You were leaning against the iron railing outside your building, arms crossed, one scuffed boot propped up behind you. Hair pinned up in a rush, streak of grease on your cheek from helping your mother with the busted fan in the window. You didn’t hear them so much as feel them coming — like a ripple in the rhythm of the block.

“Morning, boys,” you said without looking, voice dry as kindling.

“Sun’s barely up and she’s already packin’ attitude,” Bucky Barnes replied, that usual drawl in his voice like he thought he was the second coming of James Cagney.

You gave him a sideways glance. “And you’re packin’ delusions. Must be somethin’ in the water on your end of the street.”

Steve gave a tired chuckle, already wedged between the two of you in spirit if not in body. He had a half-eaten apple in one hand and worry in his eyes — like always. “Can we go one day without a brawl before lunch?”

You raised a brow. “You think this counts as a brawl? Stevie, this is foreplay.”

Bucky damn near choked. Steve went red all the way to the tips of his ears.

You let the silence sit for just a second too long before snorting, then pushed off the railing. “Relax, Rogers. I wouldn’t flirt with this guy if he was the last swing dancer in Manhattan.”

Bucky smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself, trouble. You’d miss me if I dropped dead.”

“Only thing I’d miss is the peace and quiet.”

But he knew, and you knew, that wasn’t exactly true. You butted heads with Bucky like it was your second job, but there was something magnetic about him — the kind of boy who knew the weight of every girl’s stare but still acted like the world owed him one more.

He dressed like he owned the sidewalk — suspenders slung loose over a plain white tee, sleeves pushed up to show the muscle he never stopped bragging about. Hair slicked back, grin sharp enough to cut a streetcar in half.

You hated that he could smile like that and get away with murder.

Steve, sweet and lean, kept his shoulders tight like he was always bracing for something. He didn’t speak unless he meant it, and when he did, people listened — not because he was loud, but because he was honest. If Bucky was a firecracker, Steve was the matchbook — quiet, flammable, and always trying to keep things from going up in flames.

“Where we headin’?” you asked, pulling a cigarette from your purse. You didn’t light it — just liked the feel of something between your fingers when you talked. “We going to that theater again?”

“Nickel matinee starts in twenty,” Steve said, tossing the apple core into the gutter. “Double feature — G-Men and something with Myrna Loy.”

“Ugh,” you groaned. “Another damn fed movie? They’re just propaganda with prettier faces.”

Bucky gave you a lopsided grin. “You just don’t like cops ‘cause they keep catchin’ you runnin’ your mouth.”

You stepped in close enough that he blinked, caught off guard by how quickly you cut the distance. “I don’t like cops ‘cause they don’t care about girls like me unless we’re dead or useful. Big difference, soldier boy.”

His grin faltered — just a flicker — and Steve, ever the peacemaker, cleared his throat and gently nudged his way between you both.

“She’s not wrong,” Steve said quietly, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Cops only come to our side of the block when someone’s bleeding. Or brown.”

Bucky glanced between you two, then dropped the grin altogether. His voice went soft — maybe even respectful. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just tucked the cigarette behind your ear and started walking. “You never do, Barnes. That’s the problem.”

But still — still — when your shoulder brushed his as you passed, you didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t move either.

After the movie, the three of you settled along the edge of the promenade overlooking the East River, legs swinging above water that glinted dull and gray under the setting sun.

You were mid-rant. Again.

“And don’t even get me started on the benches,” you said, jabbing a thumb behind you like the injustice was sitting right there. “I mean, really? A freakin’ bench? Can’t share a place to sit ‘cause someone’s skin looks different? What kind of country invents trains and planes and peanut butter and still can’t figure out where a person should be allowed to sit?”

Steve nodded slowly, elbows resting on his knees, listening like he always did — not with judgment, not with pity. Just taking it in, quiet and steady.

Bucky popped the cap off a soda bottle with his belt buckle, because of course he did, and took a long sip before muttering, “You sure you don’t wanna run for office? You talk enough for three senators.”

You shot him a glare. “If I ran for office, I’d be dead before I made it to the first speech. They don’t like girls who say what they mean — especially ones who don’t smile while doin’ it.”

Steve winced. “She’s got a point.”

You gestured at him. “Thank you. Steve gets it.”

Bucky held up both hands, defensive but grinning. “I didn’t say you were wrong. I’m just sayin’, maybe the bench thing ain’t our fight. Not really.”

You stared at him. “See? That right there. That’s the problem.”

He blinked. “What is?”

“You thinking just because it doesn’t hurt you means it ain’t your fight.”

Steve looked over at Bucky, brows raised slightly. “You walked into that one.”

Bucky sighed and leaned back on his palms, looking up at the sky like it might hold some kind of answer. “I’m not tryin’ to be the bad guy, alright? I know the country’s busted. I know some people got it worse than me. I just—” He shook his head. “It’s not like I can do anything about it.”

You snorted. “That’s what they all say. ‘Ain’t my place,’ or ‘it’s just the way it is.’ Then you blink, and it’s been seventy years since slavery ended and we’re still out here arguing about who gets to use a water fountain.”

Bucky looked over at you — really looked. You were staring at the river like it had betrayed you personally, eyes hard, jaw set, that fire in your belly burning so bright it practically radiated off you.

“I just think,” you said, softer now but still fierce, “if you’re not mad, you’re not paying attention.”

Steve nodded again, quiet and firm. “You’re right about that.”

Bucky was silent for a beat. Then he said, quieter than either of you expected, “I am payin’ attention.”

You didn’t say anything back. You just sighed.

────────────────────────

One Week Later

It was too damn hot for anything. The kind of sticky, breathless heat that made the whole neighborhood move slow. You were sitting on the curb outside the corner store, nursing a warm soda and fanning yourself with a folded-up newspaper when Bucky came jogging around the corner, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Oh no,” you muttered as soon as you saw his face. “You’ve either done something stupid or something worse.”

He stopped in front of you, grinning and breathless, hands on his hips. “You remember that diner on 10th? The one with the best cherry pies in Brooklyn?”

Your eyes narrowed. “The one with the ‘whites only’ sign in the window?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You stared at him. “Bucky. What did you do?”

He pulled something from his back pocket and held it out — a metal sign, rectangular, scratched and dented, but unmistakable.

The words “WHITES ONLY” had been spray-painted over in red.

“I may or may not’ve borrowed this,” he said, tossing it onto the sidewalk with a loud clank. “And I may or may not’ve told the guy behind the counter he could shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

You stared at him. Blinked. Then burst out laughing — not because it was perfect (it wasn’t), or smart (definitely wasn’t), but because it was so Bucky. Loud, impulsive, dramatic, and maybe even a little dangerous.

He looked proud of himself, then uncertain. “Was that… stupid?”

You stood, brushing your hands on your skirt. “It was loud. It was reckless. And it was probably illegal.”

He winced. “Okay, so yes.”

“But,” you said, stepping closer, eyes locked on his, “you listened.”

Bucky shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “Don’t really like the idea of a place that’d take my money but not someone else's. Doesn’t sit right with me.”

Your throat tightened at that. You hadn’t expected much — just the usual back-and-forth, the teasing and fighting. But this? This was real. Maybe not world-changing, but it was Bucky-changing. And that mattered.

“You know,” you said slowly, “for a guy who runs his mouth like it’s his job, sometimes you say the right thing.”

He gave you that damn grin again. “I’m a man of many talents.”

You rolled your eyes — but this time, you smiled too.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, August 1936

It was late afternoon, and the sun had dipped just enough to turn everything golden. The heat still clung to the brick and concrete like a second skin, but a breeze finally cut through, lifting the hem of your skirt as you stood outside Wilson’s Department Store, eyeing the newest window display.

There it was. The dress.

Soft yellow with a sweetheart neckline, pleated skirt, and delicate white piping along the seams, like something you’d see on the pages of Ladies’ Home Journal if you ever had the spare coins to buy one. It was soft, feminine, ridiculous — and perfect.

And looking like it belonged to a girl who didn’t have to count pennies or scrub floors.

You stood there staring, thumb hooked into your belt loop, brow furrowed. You weren’t wearing anything special — a hand-me-down skirt that was a little too loose at the waist, and a blouse with a stain near the hem you’d tried to cover with a brooch. Your heels were scuffed. Your nails had oil under them from helping patch the neighbor’s busted radio.

You weren’t ashamed, not exactly. You’d worked for every thread on your back. But you still wanted to look nice, sometimes. Wanted to feel like a girl instead of just a fighter.

“Ey,” a voice behind you called. “You gonna rob the place or just stare it down ‘til it surrenders?”

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. That voice had been haunting you since you were thirteen.

“Don’t tempt me,” you muttered.

Bucky chuckled and stepped up beside you, Steve just a step behind with a tired smile already forming.

“What’s the occasion?” Steve asked, looking at the dress too. “Not your usual color.”

You shrugged, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Just lookin’. Ain’t a crime.”

“We were headed to Deluca’s,” Steve offered. “Thought you might wanna come.”

You hesitated — just for a second — then gave a shrug. “Sure. Can’t afford the pie but I’ll steal bites off your plate.”

The three of you fell into step down the sidewalk, the usual rhythm settling in. Bucky tossing a coin up and down in one hand, Steve quietly narrating neighborhood gossip in a tone that suggested he didn’t quite believe half of it, and you walking just a little ahead, tongue sharp and posture tougher than you felt.

“Y’know,” Bucky said after a while, like the thought had only just occurred to him, “never figured you for the dress type. Thought you were more… y’know. Practical.”

You turned to look at him.

“Practical?“

“Yeah,” Bucky said, encouraged by your silence. “Like… you don’t care about all that frilly stuff. You’re not like the other girls. You don’t care about all that stuff. Lipstick and ribbons and whatnot. You’re... different.”

“Different,” you repeated, flat.

Your jaw tensed.

Steve gave Bucky a sharp side-eye, already sensing disaster. “Buck—”

“I mean,” Bucky went on, oblivious, “you’re always talkin’ about politics, and unions, and—hell, you cursed out that priest last week for callin’ Roosevelt a communist—so like you don’t need to be pretty. You’re, y’know... rough around the edges. But in a good way.”

Steve groaned under his breath.

You stopped walking. “Rough around the edges?”

Bucky, to his credit, froze. “No, I meant— Not rough like bad rough. Just— You’ve got character.”

Steve tried. “He’s saying you’re—uh—authentic.”

You turned on Bucky, arms folded. “Let me see if I’ve got this. I’m not like other girls, I don’t care how I look, and I’ve got rough edges and character.”

“No, no—dammit,” Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s not what I meant. I’m saying you don’t have to put on airs. You’re... you.”

Steve muttered under his breath, “You should stop talking.”

“I meant,” Bucky tried again, hands up, “you’re—different in a good way. You’re smart, and tough, and you don’t need a dress to be beautiful.”

You stared at him, arms folded so tight across your chest you could’ve snapped a rib.

“Oh, so I’m not beautiful now, and I get points for not trying?”

“No! That’s not—Jesus, that’s not what I meant—”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “Buck, for the love of God, please.”

“I meant you are beautiful, but not because you try, just… ‘cause you don’t? Like, you’re not… shallow.”

“So girls who like pretty things are shallow now?”

“No! Not shallow. Just, y’know—less…” He trailed off, realizing he had no end to that sentence that wouldn’t get him killed.

You scoffed. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Barnes, ‘cause your brain’s hangin’ on by a shoestring.”

Steve coughed into his hand to cover a laugh.

Bucky was flustered now — flushed, nervous, trying to backpedal in boots made of wet cement. “All I’m saying is, you don’t gotta change a damn thing. You’re already—you’re already you, and I like you.”

“That’s rich,” you said, backing away him. “Coming from the guy who just said I’m not like other girls. Like being other girls is some kind of disease.”

Steve sighed. “He’s an idiot. He means well—”

“She knows I didn’t mean it like that,” Bucky said to Steve, then looked at you. “C’mon, honey—”

“Don’t patronize me,” you snapped.

His face fell. Just a bit. But enough.

You took a step back, jaw tight. “I do care how I look, Barnes. I just don’t have the luxury of pretending I don’t. I like dresses. I like lipstick. I like feelin’ pretty. But you know what I don’t like?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

“Feelin’ like the only reason a guy’s got anything nice to say about me is because I’m not like the girls he thinks are too much. Like I’m some prize for not askin’ for nothin’.”

Bucky looked stunned, like he hadn’t even considered that angle. Like he’d been trying to give you something and dropped it straight into the gutter.

Steve, quietly, said, “She’s right, Buck.”

You held your stare with Bucky a moment longer, then exhaled — sharp, frustrated, done.

“I’m goin’ home.”

“Wait—hey, hold on—”

You were already turning, fists clenched, eyes burning — not with tears, never that — just anger. Embarrassment. The ache of being seen just enough to sting.

“I said I’m goin’ home,” you called over your shoulder, “before I break somethin’ you can’t sweet-talk your way out of.”

You didn’t stop walking.

And this time, neither of them followed.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, Early September 1936

It had been a month.

Thirty long days of radio silence — no knocking on the stoop, no wisecracks outside the shop where you helped your uncle sort through junked radios, nothing.

Steve had tried. Lord, had he tried — showing up at your stoop like a walking apology letter, rambling about how Bucky was a jackass “but not that kind of jackass,” and half a dozen “he means well” speeches. You’d listened, arms crossed, jaw tight, thanked him politely, and shut the door with the kind of finality that said grudge fully intact.

And honestly? You didn’t miss Bucky Barnes. Not really. Not much.

...Maybe a little.

Now it was a Saturday night. Crickets chirped under the hum of streetlamps and jazz drifted faint from a neighbor’s radio. You were stretched out on the front parlor couch in your slip, your hair pinned halfway, half-heartedly reading a borrowed copy of Gone with the Wind that you’d dog-eared so often you were certain the library’d start charging you.

That was until your Ma called out from the kitchen, voice thick with flour and annoyance.

“Get the door! I’m elbow-deep in potatoes!”

You muttered a few curses under your breath — ones your Ma would swat you for if she heard — and pulled on a robe as you headed for the front door.

You pulled it open, half-ready to bark, “What?” — and then froze.

There he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Hair slicked back like always, but a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. No smirk. No swagger. Just Bucky, standing there with his hands shoved into his coat pockets like a schoolboy who’d lost his lunch money.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You blinked at him, arms crossing out of instinct.

“What do you want?”

Bucky shifted on his feet. “Can I... can I talk to you?”

You glanced over your shoulder, then stepped halfway onto the stoop, leaving the door cracked open behind you.

“I’ve been practicin’ this,” he admitted, eyes down. “For, uh. For a while. In my head.”

“Didn’t get a chance to use it on the other girls you insulted this month?”

He winced, hands tightening in his pockets. “No. Just you.”

You said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he began, voice low. “For what I said. For how I said it. I was tryin’ to say you don’t need all that stuff to be beautiful, but it came out like you weren’t allowed to want it. And that’s... that’s not fair. You can want lipstick and dresses and still want to break the whole damn system.”

You arched an eyebrow, still guarded. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Steve,” he muttered. “Well, mostly. And maybe a little from this pamphlet I found at the co-op, but it was all in real small print, and the lady at the desk was real intense.”

That made you almost smile. But not quite.

“I know I talk too much,” he continued. “And I don’t always think before I do. But I’ve been thinkin’ a lot. About how I made you feel. And how I hate the thought that you might’ve thought... you weren’t enough. Or too much. Or whatever the hell it was I made it sound like.”

You sighed quietly, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t wanna be angry all the time, James. It’s like—people expect me to be. Like the minute I open my mouth, it’s just bark, bark, bark. Sometimes I wish I could just... be. Y’know?”

He looked at you like he understood. Not fully. Not yet. But enough.

“I like your bark,” he said, almost sheepish. “But I like when you’re just you, too.”

You looked down, toes tapping the wooden stoop.

There was a pause — soft, honest, unpressured — before he asked, gently, “Did I blow it? Or... have you forgiven me?”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes like you were calculating the weight of the whole damn thing.

“I’m takin’ one of those quiet moments where I weigh your good qualities against your bad ones,” you said slowly, “to decide if you’re actually worth the trouble.”

He straightened, hands dropping from his pockets like he wanted to prepare for a punch.

You tilted your head. Composed. Narrowed your eyes.

“You made it.”

His grin bloomed across his face — that trademark Bucky Barnes smile, the one he used when he won a game of stickball or caught the last seat on the trolley.

It knocked the breath out of you a little, not that you’d admit it.

“I, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I got somethin’. For you.”

He stepped back a bit and pulled something from his coat pocket— a neatly folded bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He held it out.

You looked at him, suspicious. “What is it?”

“Just... open it.”

You frowned, lips already pursed, but your fingers tugged at the twine anyway.

You tugged the string loose and unwrapped the paper — and then you saw it.

Your breath caught.

Soft yellow cotton. Sweetheart neckline. White piping at the seams. The exact dress from the department store window. The one you’d stared at. The one you’d fought about.

Your heart tightened like a fist. “Bucky—this ain’t—this wasn’t cheap.”

“I know.”

You pushed it back into his hands. “Take it back.”

“No.”

“Did you steal this?”

“What? No!” he raised his hands. “I took extra shifts at my pop’s shop. I’m still covered in oil under this shirt. Go ahead, check.”

You gave him a flat look.

He softened. “I remembered you starin’ at it. That’s all.”

You looked down at the dress. Ran your fingers over the hem.

“I’m not takin’ this.”

“You are,” he said firmly. “Because if you give it back, I’ll just sneak it in through your window next time you leave it cracked.”

You stared at the dress. Then him. Then the dress again.

Your lips twitched — damn him — and you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t hand it back.

He noticed the smile threatening to appear on your face.

“Stop lookin’ so pleased with yourself,” you muttered.

“You’re smilin’.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Then, slowly, you held it close, not too obvious, just enough to breathe in the new fabric. Your lips twitched. “Fine.”

He smiled wider. “Fine?”

“Don’t make me repeat it.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Alright.”

Bucky hesitated again, rocking back on his heels. “I should probably head home. Don’t wanna push my luck.”

You looked over your shoulder, then back at him. “Ma’s makin’ shepherd’s pie.”

His brows rose. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “You know it's just me and her, and she always makes too much.”

He cleared his throat. “I mean... if you need help eatin’ it...”

“You comin’ in or what, Barnes?”

His grin turned boyish again — a little crooked, a little sheepish, all charm. “You sure ’cause I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Oh for God’s sake, Barnes, come in before I change my mind.”

He stepped over the threshold so fast you’d think you’d offered him gold.

And just like that, you shut the door behind him.

Five years Later

Brooklyn, September 1941

The diner smelled like strong coffee, burnt toast, and a little bit of grease — same as it always had. The bell over the door jingled as Steve and Bucky stepped in, the wind from the street trailing in behind them. The place was half-full, same old chipped counter, same tired cook hollering from behind the swinging door.

Bucky slid into a booth near the window, knocking his shoulder against Steve’s as he grinned.

“You’re buyin’. I got grease on my pants for you this morning.”

Steve rolled his eyes, shrugging off his coat. “You volunteered to fix the radiator, Buck.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t take effort, punk.” He kicked his boots up under the table and leaned back like he owned the place.

“Always with the dramatics,” Steve muttered.

Just then, the bell on the counter gave a sharp ding, and a voice called over it:

“Well, well. If it ain’t Barnes and Rogers. Lookin’ like you crawled outta a sewer and a church basement, respectively.”

You.

You were in your uniform dress — nothing fancy, blue apron tied at your waist, hair pinned back (mostly), a pencil tucked behind your ear. You had a rag slung over one shoulder and that trademark glint in your eyes.

Steve smiled. “Hey. Didn’t know you were workin’ today.”

“Pulled a double,” you said, striding over. “Mrs. Fratelli called out again. Probably ran off with the meat truck driver like she threatened.”

Bucky’s face lit up the second he saw you.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said smoothly. “Miss me since this mornin’, or you too busy dreamin’ about me in your sleep?”

You gave him a flat look. “I dreamt I ran you over with a trolley. Twice.”

Steve snorted into his water.

Bucky grinned wider. “Still think that’s your love language.”

You leaned in, eyes narrowing as you placed two menus on the table, voice low and teasing. “You keep talkin’, Barnes, and I’ll slip hot sauce in your coffee.”

“I like it when you threaten me,” Bucky said, eyes gleaming. “It means you’re thinkin’ about me.”

You rolled your eyes before bending just a little and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth — soft, familiar, like it wasn’t even a question anymore. Just something you did. His hand instinctively brushed your hip as you pulled away.

Steve groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. “Not in front of me. Please.”

You raised your eyebrows. “I kissed his face, Rogers. Relax.”

“Yeah, but then he’s gonna get all dopey and start sayin’ stuff that makes me wanna drown myself in syrup.”

“Too late,” Bucky said dreamily, eyes still on you. “Already feel like I’m swimmin’ in sugar.”

You grabbed the coffee pot from behind you and poured two cups — sliding one in front of each of them with a pleased smile. “And that’s why I’m rationing how much coffee you get today.”

Bucky raised a hand solemnly. “If lovin’ you means sufferin’ through caffeine withdrawals, I’ll take it.”

“Awful,” Steve mumbled. “You’re both awful.”

You winked at Steve. “You love us.”

“I tolerate you.”

“I’ll take it,” Bucky said.

You were already walking off to the next table, hips swaying, head turned just enough to catch Bucky watching you. You rolled your eyes at him, but there was no bite in it.

He looked across at Steve, still grinning like a damn fool.

Steve sipped his coffee. “You’re pathetic.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, watching you over the rim of his cup, “but I’m in love with a girl who can verbally eviscerate me and still kiss me like I hung the moon.”

“...Pathetic and doomed.”

Bucky just smiled wider. “Can’t wait.”

The diner’s usual low hum was alive with clinks of silverware and the hiss of coffee pots, but Bucky’s eyes were fixed on only one thing — you.

You were making your rounds like you ran the place, pouring coffee into mugs with an easy flick of your wrist, tossing back quips with regulars who knew better than to get fresh.

Your hair was coming undone in the back, a curl slipping down your neck, and your apron had a grease smudge near the hem — and Bucky swore he’d never seen anything prettier.

Steve followed his line of sight and let out a sigh into his coffee. “You ever blink when she’s in the room?”

Bucky didn’t even look away. “Would you, if that was yours?”

Steve snorted. “She ain’t yours. She lets you hang around.”

“She’s got that look in her eyes today,” Bucky said, head tilting as he watched you swipe a rag across a booth. “Like she’s two seconds away from smashing a sugar jar over someone’s head.”

“That’s just her face, Buck.”

Bucky finally turned to Steve, flashing that familiar smirk. “You remember last fall? That night in Fort Greene, after the street fair? I kissed her—right outta nowhere. Thought she was gonna sock me in the jaw—”

“She probably should’ve.”

“—but instead,” Bucky said, practically glowing, “she grabbed me by the shirt and kissed me back.” He smiled wider, tapping the side of his head. “Swear to God, I thought I’d been knocked out cold. Like I won the damn lottery.”

Steve made a face. “I think I liked you better when you were pining and pathetic.”

Bucky raised his cup in mock toast. “I still am. Just, y’know, happily pathetic now.”

Steve shook his head, a quiet laugh slipping from him. “She keeps you humble.”

“She keeps me honest,” Bucky corrected, and turned back to watch you.

That’s when the radio near the register crackled a little louder than before, catching just enough attention to lower a few voices.

“…German U-boats continue patrolling the Atlantic, with reports of more attacks on British convoys. American destroyer Greer engaged by German submarine in recent weeks. Though no formal declaration has been made, the Roosevelt administration urges continued readiness…”

Your hand slowed on the countertop, just slightly. Conversations across the diner dipped low or stopped altogether. The cook leaned halfway through the window to turn the volume up.

“—and while President Roosevelt affirms America’s stance as non-combatant, whispers out of D.C. suggest it’s only a matter of time. Should Congress act, all eligible men eighteen and up may be called to serve.”

The old man in the booth behind Bucky snorted and muttered, “Guess the boys better enjoy their hot dinners while they can.”

Someone else murmured, “Been coming for a while now.”

And just like that, the warmth in the diner cooled by a few degrees.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just talk. Same as last month. Same as the month before.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on you as you busied yourself clearing a table, like if you just kept moving, it wouldn’t matter what was on the radio.

That look was on your face again, the one Bucky knew well: that mix of anger and weariness you always wore when the world decided to take something instead of fix it.

Finally, he spoke, voice low. “Nah. It’s real now.”

Steve looked at him. “Buck—”

“I know it’s coming,” Bucky said, trying to sound casual but not quite managing it. “Same way my pop did. He knew in ’17. Signed up before they even came knockin’. Said if it’s gonna come for you anyway, you meet it head-on.”

Steve was quiet. He hated this part — the inevitability of it. Watching people he loved step into something they might never come back from.

Bucky looked down at his hands, fingers running over a small tear in the napkin dispenser. “If I go…”

“You don’t know that you’re going—”

“If I do,” Bucky cut in gently, “look after her.”

Steve blinked. “Me?”

“You’re the only one I trust to,” Bucky said. “She’s got no one left but you and me. Since her Ma passed…”

His voice faltered a little. Just enough for Steve to notice, but not enough to make Bucky admit it.

Steve leaned back, gave a dry laugh. “Buck, she’s more likely to look after me. She’d have me patched up, scolded, and fed before breakfast.”

Bucky smiled faintly. “Then look after each other. Promise me.”

Steve held his gaze. “Alright. I promise.”

They both turned to look at you, now laughing softly with a little girl sitting at the counter, sliding her a cherry from behind the counter when the cook wasn’t looking.

Bucky’s voice was soft, but firm. “She acts tough. Mouth like a sailor. But she’s got this big heart, y’know?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

The radio crackled again.

And in the brief stillness that followed, Bucky looked like he was trying to memorize everything — the sounds, the feel of the place, the curl of your lips and the way your smile came slow but full.

Just in case.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, November 1941 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The wind was bitter that morning, the kind that bit through layers and settled into your bones. Steam hissed from the train engine as the platform filled with a quiet hum of voices — families clustered close, trying not to show just how tight they were holding on.

You stood a little behind Steve, arms crossed over your chest, Bucky’s coat wrapped tight around you. The sleeves were a little too long — he always said he liked seeing you swallow up in it. But you kept your chin high, eyes fixed on the tracks like if you didn’t look at him, this whole thing wouldn’t be happening.

Bucky stood a few feet away, saying his goodbyes. He bent to hug his ma first — her face pulled tight and red with holding back tears. His father clapped him on the back with a hand that lingered longer than usual. And Rebecca, red-nosed and blinking back tears, hugged her big brother like she couldn’t believe he was actually leaving.

You shifted your weight, watching the family scene in silence. Steve nudged your shoulder lightly, offering the smallest smile. You didn’t return it, just stared ahead.

Then Bucky turned. Said his final goodbye to his folks, kissed Rebecca's temple and whispered something that made her laugh through her tears.

You watched it all, arms crossed, jaw set.

Steve stood beside you, shoulders hunched, breath curling in the air. He wasn’t saying anything, which you were grateful for.

And then Bucky turned.

He made his way over, bag slung over one shoulder, grin already blooming on his face even though his eyes didn’t match it. He stopped in front of Steve first.

“Well, punk,” Bucky said, trying to keep it light.

“Jerk,” Steve answered, just as steady.

They clasped hands — firm and fast, pulling into one of those hugs that ended with a clap on the back that said all the things they weren’t going to say.

“Stay outta trouble,” Bucky said, forcing a smirk.

Steve gave a small laugh. “How can I? You’re takin’ all the trouble with you.”

Bucky chuckled, low and tired. “Somebody’s gotta stir things up overseas.”

Steve looked at him, jaw flexing. “You’ll be alright.”

“’Course I will.” Bucky bumped his fist against Steve’s arm. “You think I’m gonna let you get taller and better looking than me? Not a chance.”

Steve laughed softly, blinking fast. “Write when you can.”

“I will.”

They lingered a beat longer, then Bucky turned to you.

You didn’t move. Didn’t meet his eyes. Just stared out over his shoulder at the trains, the people, the nothing that didn’t matter.

Bucky stepped toward you, slower than usual. You kept your arms wrapped around yourself, shoulders stiff, almost as if you were protecting yourself.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re really gonna make me leave without seein’ those eyes?”

You swallowed, jaw clenched as you pulled your coat tighter. “Train’s gonna leave whether I look at you or not.”

He reached out, gloved fingers brushing your elbow gently. “You’re wearin’ my coat.”

“I was cold,” you said flatly, eyes still fixed on something past him. “Not like I did it for sentimental reasons or anything.”

He smiled. “Course not.”

You didn’t answer. Just shrugged tighter into the coat, blinking fast. Bucky stepped in closer, so close the brim of his cap was nearly brushing your brow.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said quietly. “Just a little while. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”

“Don’t lie.”

That made him pause.

You finally looked at him. Really looked. And the moment your eyes locked, something in your face cracked — not broken, but bent under the weight of all the things you weren’t saying. The world behind your eyes was loud, and Bucky could hear every scream of it.

“I’m scared,” you said finally, voice small.

“Me too.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

Bucky’s face softened. “You think I ain’t comin’ back, don’t you?”

“I think a lot of boys say that to their girls before they leave,” you said, voice even but tight. “And not all of ’em get to mean it.”

Bucky reached up, thumb brushing the side of your face, glove rough against your cheek. “I’m not all of ’em. I’m me. And I’m coming back to you.”

You looked down at his chest, fingers curling slightly like you wanted to hold on and didn’t know where to start.

You bit your lip. “If… if something happens—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “Don’t say it.”

“I need to say it, James. I need to—”

“No.” His voice was firmer this time, but not harsh. He leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly to yours. “I’m comin’ home. You hear me? I’m gonna come back and you’re gonna yell at me for leavin’ my boots at your door again, and you’re gonna steal all the covers, and we’re gonna forget this whole goodbye thing ever happened.”

You blinked fast, breathing shaky.

“If you need anything,” Bucky said, “go to my ma. She’ll take care of you.”

You raised your brows, voice dry. “Your ma hates me.”

Bucky blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh. “She doesn’t hate you.”

“She glares at me like I taught Rebecca to swear.”

He paused, then grinned crookedly. “She just doesn’t love you as much as I do.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh — not quite whole, but better than nothing.

He kissed you then. No heat, no show — just steady and sure, like he was trying to anchor the both of you in the moment. Your hands clutched at his coat, pulling him closer for one more second, two, three.

When you pulled back, your voice was quiet.

“Come home to me.”

Bucky rested his forehead against yours. “You’re all I wanna come home to.”

The train let out a loud hiss. Passengers began calling their goodbyes, some already starting to board.

Bucky kissed your forehead, quick and sure. Then stepped back — one step, then two — still looking at you like he didn’t want to turn around.

“You stay warm, alright?” he called, voice louder over the bustle. “Eat something other than burgers and coffee once in a while!”

You scowled faintly. “You’re one to talk!”

He gave you that big, crooked grin, the one that always made your stomach flip.

Then he turned and walked toward the train, duffel slung over one shoulder.

And you stood there in his coat, trying not to let your eyes water in the cold, with Steve silently stepping closer beside you — not saying anything. Just being there.

The train pulled out of the station a few minutes later. And Bucky was gone.

Three years later

Brooklyn, October 1944 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The train pulled into the station with a shriek of steel and smoke, hissing to a stop under the gray Brooklyn sky. The platform was packed — families pressed up against the rails, hopeful and desperate, faces turned toward the windows of the arriving train like it might spit out salvation.

You were right at the front, your press badge pinned to your coat as you tapped your heel anxiously against the concrete, not even trying to play it cool. You looked good — hair pinned sharp, lipstick bold, a belted coat cinched over your skirt, the hem just brushing your knees. You always made a point to look good when he came back.

You weren’t just you anymore — not the loudmouthed girl with calloused fingers and second-hand dresses. You were a name in print now. Famous columnist at The Brooklyn Standard, known for stirring the pot and refusing to let anyone — the government, the public, or the boys back home — forget the hypocrisy of this so-called land of the free.

You had a national voice now, but today, that didn’t matter. Today, you were just the girl waiting on her boys to come home.

And then you saw him.

Steve stepped down first, tall and broad and shining like something out of a poster — because, well, he was now. The star-spangled uniform clung to him like it belonged there, a coat trying and failing to hide it, but that open smile on his face? That was all Steve. Your Steve. Brooklyn Steve. The one who carried extra change for the subway because he was sure one day you’d forget.

You didn’t even have time to shout before Bucky followed behind him — slightly thinner than you remembered, bruised under the eyes, but real. Whole. Alive. Still him.

And when he saw you—

“Doll—!”

You didn’t wait. You shoved past a vendor and a couple of sailors, arms already out. You practically launched yourself at him.

Bucky caught you mid-stride, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you clean off the ground. Your legs lifted, and you buried your face in the crook of his neck, arms tight around him like you were afraid he might vanish if you let go. His duffle bag dropped to the ground with a heavy thump as he spun you once, breathless and warm.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your temple. “God, I missed you, baby.”

He held you like he was afraid you weren’t real. Like if he let go too fast, you’d vanish into the smoke and the station noise and all the things he saw out there in the dark.

“I’m not crying,” you muttered against his neck.

You pulled back just enough to kiss his face — everywhere. Cheek, brow, nose, temple. He laughed, a sound somewhere between hysterical and joyful, as you brushed your fingers over the short edge of his hair.

“I’m kissing you so you know it’s me,” you whispered. “So next time you disappear, I’ve got your damn face memorized.”

He grinned, breathless. “Don’t plan on disappearing again.”

You pressed your forehead to his for one more second before turning to Steve, who stood nearby with a patient smile.

“Well, well,” you said, arching a brow and resting your hands on your hips. “Would you look at that. Steve Rogers. Has anyone seen him? Small fella, polite, sketchbook always tucked under his arm? You’re wearin’ his face, stranger.”

Steve laughed — loud and whole and rich. “That’s me, alright. Just with a bit more… calcium.”

Bucky snorted behind you, still clinging to your waist like he hadn’t seen you in a decade. “You mean steroids.”

“Super-serum,” Steve corrected.

“Fancy steroids.”

You grinned, stepping forward to pull Steve into a hug, strong and sure. He hugged you back with those new arms of his, still gentle like he might break you.

You whispered to him as you held tight: “Thank you for bringing him home to me.”

His voice was quiet. “Would’ve brought him back sooner if I could.”

You pulled back and cupped his cheek. “You brought each other back. That’s more than most people get.”

Just then, a kid across the station shouted, “Hey! It’s Captain America!”

Steve flinched slightly, and you rolled your eyes. “Great. They spotted you.”

“You’ve been in the papers too, y’know,” Steve said, tugging his bag higher. “Every time I see your name, someone’s mad about it.”

“Means I’m doing it right.”

Bucky watched you, chin tilted slightly, pride glinting behind tired eyes. “Told the fellas you were raising hell while we were gone.”

“I did more than raise it. I printed it in bold.”

He slid his hand into yours, fingers tight between yours like he hadn’t remembered what it felt like until now.

“We got you for a few days?” you asked, voice softer now.

“Four,” he answered. “Four days, and then they send us back to God knows where.”

You nodded. “Then I’ll make ‘em count.”

He glanced at you, and a little smile flickered on his face.

“You already are.”

────────────────────────

Your Apartment — 2:47 a.m.

The radiator hissed in the corner, clanking loud enough every so often to make you flinch. The warmth it gave off didn’t quite reach the corners of the old apartment. You were used to that — this was the place you’d grown up, after all. The chipped paint, the creaky floors, the faded wallpaper your ma had put up in '28.

Bucky had crashed in your bed as soon as you'd gotten home. You'd followed later, after checking in on Steve — who was passed out in your old room, still fully dressed. Poor guy had barely gotten the boots off before slumping on your old too small twin bed.

Now it was late, maybe two, maybe three in the morning. Outside, the city hummed quiet and cold. Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the thin curtains. You'd drifted in and out of sleep — curled against Bucky’s side, your head on his shoulder — until the sudden jolt of his body broke the stillness.

He gasped sharp, sucking in air like he’d been drowning, his muscles tensed tight beneath you. You sat up instinctively.

“Bucky?” you whispered, brushing your hand over his chest.

His eyes were wide and wild, not quite seeing. Sweat clung to his brow, and his breath came hard and fast. You gently cupped his face and leaned closer.

“Hey. Baby, it’s me. It’s just me.” You reached up to stroke his hair, fingers tangling through the soft brown strands. “You’re not there. You’re here. You’re home.”

He blinked, chest still heaving as he tried to slow his breathing. Your other hand rubbed soothing circles against his sternum.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely a breath. “Breathe with me, okay? You’re safe. You’re with me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Just breathing. Then he shifted, head pressing into the crook of your neck, his arm curling tight around your middle as if he was trying to burrow into you, as if your body was the only thing tethering him to this world.

The room was quiet save for the sputter of the radiator and the soft rhythm of your fingers in his hair. You didn’t ask too soon. You knew better than to push.

After a long while, his voice emerged — low, ragged.

“They kept us underground,” he murmured finally, voice rough. “No light. Cold. No names. Just numbers. They… they strapped us down, filled us with something. And when the pain started, it didn’t stop. I thought my head was gonna split open. I couldn’t scream after a while. My throat just gave out.”

You didn’t move, just kept your fingers stroking slow, steady lines along his scalp, the other hand curling along the back of his neck.

“I thought…” he swallowed. “I really thought that was it. That I was gonna die in some freezing hellhole in the Alps with no name and no grave.”

“Hey,” you whispered, voice cracking. “But you didn’t. You came back to me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, “Sometimes I feel like I left pieces of myself behind. Like I didn’t all make it back.”

Your chest ached at that. You tightened your hold around him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“You’re all here,” you whispered. “And the rest… the rest we’ll find together, yeah?”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t cry. You didn’t let yourself. Not while he needed you steady.

Silence again. But the kind that wasn’t heavy. Just close. Breathing. Rebuilding.

His head rested over your heart, and you felt him calm as he focused on the steady beat beneath your ribs. Then—

“Marry me,” he said suddenly, muffled against your skin.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He lifted his head, eyes locked with yours now — clear, steady, fierce in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Let’s get married,” he said again. “Tomorrow. Or today. Whenever you want. Just—let’s do it.”

You sat up a little more, still blinking at him, mind spinning. “James—”

“I don’t want to wait,” he cut in, softer this time. “I’ve been through hell and back, and every time I thought I wasn’t gonna make it, all I wanted was to get to you. Just to be here again. To hear your voice and feel your hands and—”

He grabbed your hand then, pressed it to his chest like he needed you to feel how real he was. “We’ve been through too much. We’re already each other’s, right? So let’s make it real.”

You stared at him — this man you’d grown up with, fought with, fell for. His eyes never left yours.

“I got it all in my head,” he added, quick like he was afraid you’d talk him out of it. “We’ll go down to the courthouse, get the papers. You can wear that yellow dress I got you. I’ll wear that suit Ma made me save for ‘something good.’ Steve and my family can be our witnesses. We’ll get egg creams after and laugh about how fast it all was.”

“You sound like you’ve been planning this,” you muttered, heart thudding.

“I have,” Bucky said, without missing a beat. “Since the day you kissed me instead of sockin’ me in the jaw.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — hair a mess, face a little pale under the moonlight slipping in through the window. He looked tired and strong and so, so sure.

You swallowed. “You know I always wanted more than marriage and housewives and babies, right?”

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s not what I’m askin’ for. I want you, just how you are. Loud and brash and brilliant. I just want to be yours — proper.”

You met his gaze, fierce and full of something too big to name. “I love you. So… yeah. Let’s get married, Bucky.”

Bucky smiled. That slow, boyish, heartstopping smile you hadn’t seen since before the war.

Then you leaned forward, kissed him slow, and pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “You better not change your mind in the morning.”

“Not a chance, doll.”

──────────────────────────────

The Next Evening

The second that Bucky opened the door, he bent low and scooped you clean off the stoop with a dramatic flair that made you yelp and burst into laughter.

“James Buchanan Barnes!” you gasped, arms flailing before looping around his neck. “What the hell are you doin’?”

“I’m carrying my wife across the threshold,” he grinned, eyes bright with mischief as he marched toward the living room like it was a palace. “That’s what a gentleman does, ain’t it?”

You tossed your head back laughing. “This dump is the same place I've been sleeping for years, James—”

“Not the point, sweetheart,” he said, adjusting his grip under your thighs “I’m startin’ traditions here. And one day, when I come home for good, I’m gonna carry you over the threshold of a real house. Big porch. Little garden. No leaky faucets.”

“You’re outta your mind,” you muttered fondly, brushing his hair back from his forehead as he leaned in and kissed you — quick, then long, then quick again.

Your feet finally hit the ground again and your fingers immediately went to the neckline of your dress — the same pale yellow one he’d bought you all those years ago. The satin straps slipped off your shoulders as you took a breath and said, “Can’t believe this thing still fits.”

Bucky tilted his head like a puppy, eyes scanning your body like he hadn’t already memorized every inch of you.

“Why wouldn’t it fit?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you turned toward the mirror. “Bucky, you got me this dress when we were teenagers. I was still livin’ on Ma’s grocery scraps and bad coffee.”

He stepped up behind you, hands curling around your waist as he dipped his head into the crook of your neck. “You look the same to me,” he murmured against your skin. “Just more beautiful.”

You turned toward him at that — letting your forehead rest against his chest. “You always been such a smooth-talker.”

“No,” he whispered, drawing his fingers slowly down your back, “I just speak the truth when it comes to you.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands slid lower, anchoring you against him. Your fingers reached for the buttons on his shirt with practiced ease.

“You know,” he murmured between kisses, “if you keep smilin’ like that, I’m not gonna make it to the bed.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You got somethin’ against the couch?”

“No,” he laughed, scooping you up again — this time with a little less ceremony — “I just figured the bed deserves the honor tonight.”

You squealed and let your head fall back as he carried you down the short hallway, your yellow dress now barely hanging on. Once in your bedroom, he laid you down gently, reverently, like he was handling something holy.

“You sure you don’t wanna wait till tonight?” you teased as he hovered above you, eyes dark with love and want. “Make it real proper?”

Bucky’s laugh was low and quiet, almost a hum. He leaned down, brushing his lips against your jaw, then your throat. “We’re married. That is proper.”

Your breath hitched as he kissed the hollow of your collarbone.

“You know I love you, right?” he said, suddenly serious — eyes locking with yours. “I’ve loved you since you threatened to throw a shoe at my head for callin’ you mouthy in ‘31.”

You smiled softly and cupped his cheek. “You still talk too much, Barnes.”

“Then maybe I’ll shut up and show you instead.”

And he did.

He kissed you like a promise. He kissed you like you’d never have to say goodbye again.

His kiss deepened slowly, and when his hand slid behind your neck to cradle you closer, you let yourself fall into it. Into him. Into the warmth and security and the slow realization that this was it. You were married. This was your forever.

Bucky kissed like he meant to remember every second.

He tugged gently at the fabric of your dress, fingertips moving with reverence, not rushing, not demanding—just feeling. When you shifted beneath him, he helped you sit up, fingers fumbling a little with the tiny row of buttons down your back.

“Too many of these damn things,” he muttered.

You laughed softly, leaning back into him. “You’ve been wanting to get me out of this dress since the ceremony, admit it.”

His breath ghosted hot against your shoulder as he kissed your skin between each word. “Since before that. Since I saw you this morning and realized I was gonna be lucky enough to call you my wife.”

The dress slipped down your arms, the delicate fabric pooling at your waist, revealing the soft cream of your slip underneath.

Bucky stilled for a second, eyes roaming over you like you were some rare treasure unearthed in candlelight.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, hoarse. “God—look at you.”

You reached up and tugged at his loosened tie, pulling him down into another kiss. “Then look closer, Barnes.”

That broke something in him.

He pressed you back down into the bed, hands everywhere now—still gentle, but needier. His mouth trailed kisses across your collarbone, then lower, tracing the edge of your slip with aching slowness.

“Can I?” he asked, lips brushing the swell of your breast.

You nodded.

He peeled the slip down carefully, like undressing a secret. When your breasts spilled free, he groaned, breath catching like it hurt. His lips closed over your nipple, tongue flicking gently before he began to suck, slow and deep.

You gasped, arching into him.

His hand moved down, smoothing over your stomach, then lower, over the delicate lace of your underwear. He kissed lower still, murmuring against your skin.

“You’re trembling.”

“I’ve wanted this,” you whispered, “for so long.”

“I know,” he said, voice thick. “Me too.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then dragged your underwear down, baring you completely. You heard the sharp inhale he took as he looked at you—eyes blown wide, filled with awe.

Then he was over you again, chest pressing to yours, and you were tugging at the waistband of his slacks, unfastening the button, the zipper, until he was bare too—hard and flushed and shaking slightly in your hand.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely steady.

“I married you,” you whispered, guiding him to you. “Of course I’m sure.”

And when he slid into you—slow, deep, stretching you in the most perfect, heart-wrenching way—it was everything. You both gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapping around his waist.

He moved slow at first, reverent, lips brushing over yours with every thrust.

“Love you,” he whispered. “So much. Always.”

You held his face as he made love to you, feeling him fill you again and again until your breath came in soft cries and your heart was a song in your chest. The pace built gradually—never rushed, just more. Deeper. Closer.

When you finally came, it was with his name on your lips and his body pressed fully into yours. He followed seconds later, buried deep, gasping your name against your skin like a prayer.

After, you held each other.

Naked. Married. Home.

And when Bucky whispered another love you against your neck, you kissed his temple and whispered back:

“We’ve got forever now.”

────────────────────────

Six Months Later

Austria – Hydra Territory, March 1945 | Before the Assault on Zola’s Train

The snow howled outside the makeshift command tent like a restless animal. A biting wind cut through even the thickest of coats, but inside, by the dull light of a single hanging lantern, Bucky sat hunched over a folded piece of paper — his hands trembling just a little.

He had read it once.

Then twice.

Now a third time.

Each word hit harder than the last, scrawled in your handwriting — slightly rushed, ink smudged near the edge where you’d probably leaned your elbow like you always did.

Steve stepped in, brushing snow off his jacket, eyes narrowing immediately at the look on Bucky’s face.

“Hey,” Steve said gently, careful. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring at the paper like it held the entire universe.

Steve leaned forward, concern building. “Buck?”

Bucky's gaze stayed fixed on the paper, his thumb rubbing over the last line like it might vanish if he stopped touching it. Then — slowly — he looked up.

And Steve’s heart dropped. Because Bucky Barnes, mouthy ladies’ man, unshakable Sergeant Barnes, had tears in his eyes.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky whispered, his voice barely there. He blinked, breath catching.

There was a beat of silence — and then Steve's mouth opened in a stunned, breathless laugh.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve breathed, standing as the words hit him. “You’re gonna be a dad?”

Bucky shook his head, jaw tightening, smile breaking free like light through clouds. “Six months along. She found out just after I left. She didn’t wanna tell me sooner — didn’t wanna distract me.”

Steve stepped forward, gripping Bucky’s shoulder. “Buck…”

Bucky let out a short, shaky laugh and folded the letter up carefully, tucking it back into the inside pocket of his coat, close to his heart. “A kid, Steve. I’m gonna have a baby. With her.”

“She’ll be a hell of a mother,” Steve said softly.

Bucky pulled him into a hug before he even realized what he was doing. The kind of hug men didn’t give each other unless it was earned through blood, war, and years of brotherhood. Steve hugged him back just as tight.

“You gotta come home for this,” Steve said against Bucky’s shoulder. “You hear me?”

“I will,” Bucky said fiercely, pulling back, that old steel in his voice. “We finish this mission. We stop Zola. Then I go home. I’m not missing that. I won’t.”

Steve gave him a firm nod. “One last job.”

“One last,” Bucky echoed, eyes lifting to the mountains beyond the tent wall. “Then I get to hold her. Both of ‘em.”

The snow kept falling. The train would be here soon.

But for a moment, there was warmth in that tent — a pulse of hope beating hard and stubborn against the cold world outside.

And in Bucky’s chest, beneath layers of wool and metal and grief, your letter sat close to his heart — a promise of what was waiting if he could just survive the night.

────────────────────────

One Month Later

Brooklyn, April 1945

Sunlight slanted through the lace curtains, warm and golden on the worn floorboards. Your fingers moved fast across the keys, glasses perched low on your nose, your rounded stomach nudging the edge of the desk.

You were working on an article about women in shipyards. Words came easier when you didn’t think about how long it’d been since the last letter.

You tried not to count the days anymore.

Then — a knock.

Your hands paused over the keys. You glanced at the clock on the wall. Just past four.

With a soft grunt, you pushed yourself up, one hand bracing the small of your back. You crossed the room slowly, brushing crumbs from your sweater, muttering, “If that’s Mrs. Klemanski again askin’ for sugar—”

You opened the door.

And saw Steve.

Your heart jumped up into your throat before you could stop it.

His uniform looked sharper than ever, chest full of medals, that familiar bashful way he stood with his cap held between both hands. Your smile came without permission.

“Steve,” you said, relief threading through your voice. “You’re—wait—where’s Bucky?”

Then your eyes dropped. You saw what he was holding — a folded jacket, a bundle of letters tied in twine, something metal glinting dully between his fingers.

Your smile vanished.

“No,” you whispered, instantly shaking your head. “No—”

Steve’s face cracked. Like something in him broke the second you said it. He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward with trembling hands, like he could soften the blow if he was gentle enough.

You backed away, hand flying to your mouth.

“No, no, no—don’t. Don’t say it.”

“Sweetheart—” he started softly.

“Don’t call me that, Steve—where is he?” Your voice shook, louder now. “Where is he?”

Steve’s eyes welled up. “The train—we were ambushing Hydra. Something went wrong, Buck—he—he fell.”

Your knees buckled a little. You reached for the edge of the wall to steady yourself.

“I don’t understand,” you croaked. “He promised—he said he’d come back. He promised me, Steve.”

“I know,” Steve said, stepping inside, setting Bucky’s things down on the table like they were sacred. “I know. He meant it.”

“No, no—he wouldn’t leave me.” Your voice cracked, nearly childish in disbelief. “He—he was coming home, we were—he was gonna hold the baby, we hadn’t even picked names—”

Steve crossed the space in two strides and caught you just as your legs gave out. He held you tightly against him, like he was trying to keep you from falling apart with just his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over again, into your hair. “I’m so sorry. I tried—I tried to get to him. He was—he was just gone.”

You were shaking. Hands fisting into Steve’s shirt, crying so hard your whole body trembled.

“He was supposed to come home,” you rasped, face buried in his chest. “He promised me, Steve. He swore it. He said—he said after this—he’d come back.”

“I know. I know.” His voice cracked and you felt his tears fall against your hair.

You cried like the world had ended. And for you, it had.

You didn’t even notice the letters scattered across the table, or the chain with the dog tags hanging over the edge. Not yet.

You just held on to Steve like he was the last piece of Bucky left in the world.

And in that moment, maybe he was.

One Year Later

Brooklyn, April 1946, 6:04 PM.

You juggled your bag, house keys, and the folded newspaper under one arm as you pushed open the door to your apartment. It clicked shut behind you with a satisfying clunk — thicker walls, newer locks, good insulation. Worth every penny.

You hadn’t gotten two steps in when the smell hit you.

Garlic, tomatoes, something rich and savory wafting in the air. Your brows furrowed.

You didn’t cook. Not when you’d been running around chasing sources all day.

The quiet babble of a baby's voice reached your ears before you could say anything.

You moved toward the kitchen, already shrugging off your coat.

“Jamie?” you called, more out of instinct and confusion than alarm.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called from the kitchen.

There he was—Steve, of all people—standing at your tiny stove like he owned it, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something in a pot. His cheeks flushed a little as he turned toward you, sheepish.

“I, uh… hope it’s alright. Didn’t mean to intrude,” he said with that boyish, bashful charm.

You leaned your hip against the doorframe, staring. “You're not intruding. Just surprising. Last I heard you were in Marseille.”

“Got back yesterday,” he replied, gently bumping Jamie’s foot with his hand as your son giggled, “And I figured I’d surprise you. Hope you don’t mind.”

You blinked, then shook your head with a soft huff of laughter. “Mind? I’m just surprised Mrs. B let you walk away with Jamie. She told me she was keepin’ him overnight so I could get some rest.“

Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said I could take him. Only because I promised to bring him back with no less than ten fingers and ten toes.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

He grinned. “I counted twice. All still there.”

“I'm just glad Mrs B loves Jamie more than she dislikes me,” you teased lightly, stepping forward.

Steve snorted as he wiped his hands on a towel. “I think she’s finally warming up to you.”

“Only took her a decade and a half,” you said dryly.

Your eyes shifted toward the high chair near the small table.

There he was—your Jamie. James Steven Barnes. Nine months old, dark hair a soft mess on his head, cheeks full and pink, legs kicking in slow, distracted rhythm as he banged a wooden spoon against the tray. He lit up the moment he saw you.

“Hey, baby,” you cooed, crossing the room quickly. You scooped him into your arms with ease, planting soft kisses across his face as he squealed in delight. “Mama missed you somethin’ awful.”

He babbled and reached for your face, hands warm and sticky.

Steve leaned over the counter, watching the two of you with something unspoken in his eyes. Something soft and heavy.

“Thanks,” you murmured without looking up, brushing Jamie’s hair back. “For watchin’ him.”

“Always,” he said quietly.

You glanced at him, then down at the little boy now tucked against your chest. You bounced him gently, kissing the crown of his head.

He looked so much like Bucky.

Jamie’s eyes had his smile in them. That crooked brightness. That same stubborn little crease between his brows when he concentrated. Every day he got older, he looked more like him. Sometimes it ached. Sometimes it made you laugh.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Steve said, breaking the silence. “Nothing fancy. Chicken and potatoes. I followed a recipe from one of those little books Mrs. Barnes keeps in her kitchen. The ones with the oil stains and notes in the margins.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully. “You can read her notes?”

“She writes in cursive. I’m not illiterate.”

You snorted. “I didn’t say it, you said it.”

Jamie giggled, delighted by your laugh.

The apartment had gone soft with golden lamplight. The radio murmured low jazz in the background, and your living room-kitchen hybrid felt, for once, more like home than like memory.

Jamie sat now wriggling in your lap, pudgy fingers smacking the edge of the table as he made soft, happy grunts. You held a spoon in one hand, alternating between your own plate and coaxing tiny, mashed-up bites of potato toward your son’s mouth.

Steve, across from you, ate slower now. The nervous energy that had filled him while cooking seemed to have drained, leaving him thoughtful as he glanced between you and Jamie.

You scraped the spoon along the edge of Jamie’s dish, gently cooing at him, “You’re makin’ more mess than you’re eatin’, baby.”

Jamie shrieked with laughter and kicked his legs against your thigh. You rolled your eyes, smiling, brushing his hair back.

Steve watched, silently fond.

After a moment, you leaned back slightly, sighing. “Steve…”

He looked up.

You hesitated, then spoke, voice gentler than your usual sharpness. “You gotta stop putting your life on pause for us.”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’m serious,” you said. “You’re here all the time, runnin’ yourself ragged makin’ sure we’re okay. You don’t owe us that.”

“I don’t see it like that,” he said.

“Well, maybe you should,” you said, a bit sharper now. “For God’s sake, Steve… there’s a woman across the damn ocean who’s in love with you. Who you love.”

Steve was quiet, picking at his food. “I do love her,” he admitted softly, after a beat. “I think about her every day.”

You nodded slowly, adjusting Jamie in your lap as he reached for your plate.

“But,” Steve added, eyes lifting to meet yours, steady and sure, “I love you. And I love Jamie. It’s not one or the other. It just… is. And Peggy understands that.”

You looked down at Jamie, brushing your thumb across his cheek as he leaned into you, content. You kissed his temple. “You were here when I needed someone. I’ll never forget that.”

“I wasn’t just here because you needed someone,” Steve said. “I wanted to be here.”

You swallowed thickly.

He cleared his throat, his demeanor shifting. More serious now. “I, uh… I need to tell you something.”

You looked at him. “What is it?”

“I’m going away for a while. Longer this time.”

You froze. “What do you mean?”

“They think Hydra’s back,” he said quietly. “There’s a lead—small, but real. I’ve gotta follow it. Could take a few months. Maybe more.”

Your fingers curled instinctively around Jamie’s waist, holding him tighter.

You were quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that stretches over aching bones.

Then you asked, voice tight, “Are you comin’ back?”

He nodded. “I’ll always come back.”

You stared at him, gaze sharp, testing him for truth. “You can’t promise that.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “No. But I’ll try.”

You looked away, blinking hard. “Just… don’t die, Stevie. I can’t lose another man I love.”

You sighed before kissing the top of Jamie’s head and gently passed him across the table. “Take him while I clean up.”

Steve took him easily, and Jamie reached for his face like he always did.

You stood at the sink, your back to both of them, hands trembling as you rinsed plates that suddenly felt too heavy.

Behind you, Jamie giggled.

And Steve said softly, “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.”

────────────────────────

Siberia – June 1946

It was colder than Steve had ever felt. The kind of cold that went through bones and memories, through war medals and stitched-up wounds. Snow drifted down in ghost-silent flurries outside the base, the world unnervingly still.

One of the lasts Hydra holdouts. Tucked into a mountain, almost forgotten.

The air inside was sharp with antiseptic and old blood. The hallways were long and shadowed, cracked concrete walls humming under the weight of hidden horrors. The Howling Commandos moved ahead in silence, boots heavy on the ground. Dum Dum took point. Gabe and Morita swept the side halls. But Steve… something had pulled him down this one, this narrow corridor lined with rusted steel doors and buzzing fluorescent lights.

He felt it before he saw it. Something like instinct. Like memory rising from his gut.

Then he saw him.

Encased in thick glass. Wires attached to skin. A cryogenic pod humming low and blue, the frost crawling up from the base, covering the sides in veils of condensation.

Steve froze.

He didn't breathe.

“God…” His voice was barely more than air.

Bucky.

Hair longer, tangled. Face gaunt. But it was him.

Still him.

And his arm…

Steve’s breath shuddered. The left arm was gone. Replaced with cold, glinting steel. Matte black plating layered in Hydra’s signature design, trailing from shoulder to fingertips. Wires snaked from the seams into the pod.

Steve's mouth opened, but no sound came out. It felt like grief all over again—but this time crueler. Because this time, Bucky was here. And Hydra had done this to him. The scars on his shoulder where steel met flesh were jagged and red, raw as if they'd been carved with no thought for healing. His ribs showed under his skin. His hair was matted. There were bruises on his face, half-healed and sunken.

He looked like a ghost.

“Cap?” Dum Dum’s voice came, low and hesitant behind him. “What do we do?”

Steve swallowed hard, eyes locked on Bucky's face. “We don’t touch it. We don’t dare open it. We don’t know what it’s keeping him alive from.”

────────────────────────

Somewhere in Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, One Week Later

It took seven days to move the chamber.

Howard Stark and his team worked around the clock. Peggy Carter coordinated intelligence and security. The best British and American minds worked shoulder-to-shoulder in the converted medical wing of the base. Stark called in every favor he had left. The facility practically vibrated with tension.

And then the pod was opened.

Slowly. Carefully. Oxygen, sedatives, heart monitors. He was intubated, stabilized, removed from cryo. They monitored every breath. Every neural spike.

And then…

Bucky screamed.

Woke like a beast torn from hell.

Hands strapped down immediately. His body thrashed, nearly flipping the bed. He screamed again—no words, just noise. Animal, broken, panicked. One arm flailed wildly—metal catching the edge of a tray, sending it clattering to the floor. A doctor tried to restrain him and got nearly thrown across the room.

Steve rushed in, yelling over the chaos. “Bucky! It’s me—it’s Steve! You’re safe, pal, it’s me!”

But Bucky didn’t hear him.

Didn’t see him.

His eyes—those warm, familiar blue eyes—were wide and glassy. Vacant and terror-stricken. He screamed again and then curled into himself, sobs ripping from his chest. A medic got a sedative in him. Slowly, the tremors faded. His breathing slowed.

Steve stood frozen.

Peggy stepped beside him, placing a hand on his arm. “He doesn’t recognize you.”

Steve didn’t respond. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “They broke him,” he whispered. “They really broke him.”

────────��───────────────

Later That Night

The room was dim now. Quiet. Just the steady beep of a monitor and the gentle hiss of the IV.

Steve sat at Bucky’s bedside. His best friend lay still, unconscious again. Shackled loosely—just in case. The metal arm still gleamed under the muted lights. Stark had examined it with thinly veiled horror. “Cut nerves, fused bone, direct-to-brain wiring,” he’d muttered. “Barbaric. Brilliant. Inhuman.”

Bucky’s skin was a mess of faded bruises and whip-thin scars. The tips of electrodes had left circular burns along his chest and temples.

Steve brushed a strand of hair back from Bucky’s forehead, gently. “I should’ve found you sooner.”

He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Bucky or himself.

Behind him, Peggy lingered in the doorway. Watching quietly. “You never stopped believing he was out there.”

Steve didn’t turn around. “I don't what I believed. I just thought that he'd somehow come back.”

Peggy stepped into the room, her voice gentle. “And now he has. It’s just going to take time.”

Steve finally looked up at her, eyes tired. “How do I tell her? How do I go back to Brooklyn, look her in the eye, and say… he’s alive, but not really?”

Peggy didn’t have an answer.

────────────────────────

Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, September, 1946

It had been five months since Steve had last seen you. And it tore at him every time he thought about it. You’d written him faithfully, letters worn with fingerprints and smudged ink by the time he finished rereading them—every one a small, steady light.

You wrote about how Jamie had taken his first steps at the park, how he reached for a pigeon and toppled into the grass with a giggle so loud people turned to look. How his first word, predictably, had been “mama.” How you were trying to wean him off the bottle and that it wasn’t going well.

You’d written with joy—exhaustion sometimes—but joy, nonetheless. You never asked much in return. You never demanded updates. You let Steve share what he could when he could. And he had written back. But he hadn’t told you about Bucky.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he didn’t know how.

What was he supposed to say? “Bucky’s alive, but he doesn’t know he has a son. He wakes up screaming and cries for you like a man who doesn’t know time has moved on.”

You deserved rest. Not more weight.

So Steve kept it in. And he sat with Bucky. Every day.

────────────────────────

Hospital Recovery Wing.

It had been three months since they’d opened the pod.

Bucky was healing—physically, at least. The bruises were fading, and the medical team had finally managed to remove the rusted remnants of Hydra’s control nodes from his scalp. Howard Stark had designed a brace to help ease strain on the shoulder where flesh met steel. There were less screams at night now. Sometimes, there were even full nights of sleep.

But the mind—that was still a maze.

Steve watched from the hallway as Bucky sat near the window, a blanket over his shoulders, hair tucked back behind his ears. He was paler than usual. Leaner. His hands—his real one and the metal one—trembled sometimes when he tried to hold a cup of tea.

But his eyes had life again.

And pain.

And hope.

Steve stepped in. Bucky looked up, and for a second, Steve saw the old grin threatening the corner of his mouth.

“You got news?” Bucky asked, voice still rasped and lower than it used to be, like his throat hadn’t fully recovered from the screaming.

Steve nodded, sitting across from him. “Another lead on Hydra. A nest in the Alps. Small.”

Bucky didn’t care about that. He never did.

His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket. “Steve… just take me home.”

Steve’s heart cracked—again. “You’re not strong enough yet, Buck. You know that.”

Bucky’s eyes were bloodshot, a tremor in his jaw. “I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore, Stevie. I need her. Please—please—just let me see her. She’ll fix me. She always does.”

Steve looked down at his hands, swallowing the knot in his throat.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky said suddenly. Desperate. “She told me. In the last letter. She’s pregnant and I’m here doing nothing. What if something happens? What if she needs me?”

Steve looked up slowly. He hadn’t told him. Bucky didn’t know.

“No,” Steve said softly. “Buck… she’s not pregnant.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped up in alarm.

Steve stood, pacing. “She was. A year and a half ago. You remember… pieces of it, I know. But it’s been almost two years since the train.”

Bucky looked lost. “But… the dreams. I keep reading her say she’s pregnant.”

“You remember what you needed to. What your heart clung to.”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What… what happened?”

Steve pulled a folded photo from his breast pocket. It was worn. The corners curled from too much handling. He handed it to Bucky gently.

It was you.

Holding Jamie.

In your lap, both of you bundled in coats on a bench, smiling at the camera. The baby’s grin was unmistakably Bucky’s.

“That’s your son, Buck,” Steve said quietly. “James Steven Barnes. He’s… he’s beautiful. He just turned one in July.”

Bucky stared at the photo for what felt like forever. His hand trembled as he held it. His lip quivered.

“I missed it.” His voice cracked. “I missed his first breath. First cry. First birthday. His first… everything.”

Steve crouched in front of him. “You survived. That’s what matters now. You get to be there now. And you will. He’s got your hair, you know. Wild as anything. And your laugh. Same crooked smile too, only shows when he’s about to get into trouble.”

Bucky gave a broken, watery laugh. “God. Steve. I gotta see ‘em.”

“I know.”

“I can’t wait ‘til I’m better. I need to see her, Stevie. Please. I need her. She keeps me here—just thinking about her. I hear her voice sometimes, I see her, clear as day. I need—” His voice broke again. “I need to know she’s real. That she’s safe. That she didn’t forget me.”

Steve rested a hand gently on Bucky’s shoulder, firm and steady. “She never forgot you, Buck. Not for a second.”

Bucky looked down, eyes wet. “Do you think she’ll still want me?”

Steve nodded slowly. “She’s never stopped. And Jamie—he’s going to know his father. Just… let’s get you strong enough to hold him first.”

Bucky clutched the photo to his chest and closed his eyes, whispering your name like a prayer.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, October 1946 – Late Afternoon

The apartment was warm and golden with late afternoon light, soft jazz floating low from the radio, and the scent of clean laundry still faint in the air.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, your skirt fanned around your knees, Jamie sprawled across your lap in all his squirmy, wiggly glory. His tiny hands tugged at your necklace with single-minded glee.

“Alright, Jamie bear, time to close those eyes,” you said gently, as Jamie giggled, flopping onto his side in a dramatic act of defiance. “I mean it, Mr. James Steven Barnes—fifteen minutes, that’s all I ask.”

He shrieked in laughter.

“Mama,” he giggled, pointing at you like he’d won something. “Mamaaaaa.”

“Oh, you think I’m funny now?” You leaned in, kissing his cheek noisily. “I’ll remember that when you’re sixteen and I’m threatening to walk you to school in curlers.”

Jamie laughed again, grabbing for your nose this time.

You gave him a side-eye. “Baby, I’m gonna be honest—you’re dangerously close to getting tickled into submission.”

He squealed, thrashing happily as you wiggled your fingers near his sides.

“You little tyrant,” you murmured affectionately, brushing his dark hair back from his forehead. “How can something so small hold me hostage with just a smile? I used to be terrifying, you know. Ask anyone. Your mother used to demand respect.”

He blinked up at you like you were the sun, gurgling some nonsense about “ba-da!” before grabbing his foot and trying to chew it.

You sighed, wrapping your arms around him. “You’re exhausting, and perfect. And I’m already losing this war.”

Just as you rocked him gently, trying to coax him into at least entertaining the idea of sleep, there was a knock at the door.

knock knock knock.

You froze, your hand resting on Jamie’s head. His body went still too, his laughter pausing as he tilted his head in curiosity, those wide, wondering blue eyes staring at the door.

There was nothing ominous about the knock. It was solid. Simple. But something in your bones went cold. Something deep and hidden in your belly clenched the way it had when Steve stood in that doorway a year and a half ago—holding a folded uniform and dog tags, with grief weighing down his eyes like stone.

You swallowed, whispered, “Stay here, baby,” as Jamie stared at you with a questioning look, still quiet.

You padded barefoot to the door slowly, every nerve in your body humming. The familiar creak of the hardwood beneath your feet didn’t comfort you like it usually did. Your hand trembled slightly on the knob, your heart pounding without rhythm.

You opened the door.

Steve stood there, tall and square-shouldered in his uniform, his hat tucked under one arm, and that soft, almost apologetic look in his eyes. You blinked, stunned, still registering the sudden appearance of him. Before you could even form a word—

He shifted.

And behind him stood someone else.

You didn’t breathe.

He was thinner and yet... bigger. Paler. His hair longer, jaw unshaven. The blue of his eyes more haunted. His shoulders stooped, as if the air itself weighed too much. A right hand holding a duffle. The other—

Your eyes dropped involuntarily.

And your breath stopped cold.

A gleam of dull silver. Seamless metal. The joints so real, so smooth, that for a split second, your brain couldn’t compute what you were seeing.

Your gaze snapped back to his face.

Bucky.

You stared.

And so did he.

Your knees almost gave out, hand flying to your mouth.

His eyes found yours—and they filled like floodgates breaking. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say anything.

He looked at you, like he’d been starved and was seeing food for the first time. He took one shaking step forward and whispered your name.

You didn’t think. You didn’t breathe. You just ran.

The tears came fast, blurring your vision, and then your arms were around his neck, and his good arm dropped the bag and wrapped around your waist as you collapsed into him.

You clung to him like your body remembered something your mind was still catching up to. Your fingers brushed the metal at his shoulder for half a second and you froze—staggered, breath caught—but then pressed your face to his throat, choosing his warmth over your confusion.

He was real. Cold metal and warm skin and heartbeat thudding under your hand. He was real.

Bucky buried his face in your neck, inhaling like he didn’t believe you were real, holding you with his one good arm like he’d never let go again.

“I thought—I thought I’d lost you,” you choked out, pressing your face against his cheek. “I thought—I held your dog tags, Bucky—God, I—”

“I know,” he choked. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

Behind you, a little voice called from the living room. “Mama?”

You stilled. Bucky lifted his head.

His eyes were wide.

“That... is that him?” His voice cracked.

You nodded. Gently untangling yourself, you stepped back, reached for his hand, and led him a few steps inside.

You pulled him gently into the apartment, guiding him just far enough for Jamie to come into view—standing wobbly on two legs, gripping the edge of the couch for balance, his gaze locked on the stranger, with big, curious eyes.

“Jamie,” you said softly, crouching beside him, heart pounding, “baby, this is your daddy.”

Bucky’s breath hitched audibly. He dropped into a slow, careful crouch, almost like he was afraid he’d scare the child by existing.

Jamie waddled closer, curious, and unafraid.

Bucky stared, completely still.

Jamie blinked at him. Then his face cracked into a gummy, delighted grin. “Pup!” he declared, mispronouncing it as he pointed at Bucky.

Bucky let out a choked breath of a laugh—half-sob, half-shock. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered, opening his arm slowly, still scared.

Jamie stepped into it without hesitation.

And Bucky wept as he held his son for the first time, cradling that tiny body like porcelain.

You moved beside them, touching his shoulder—his metal shoulder. He flinched slightly, but relaxed when your hand stayed steady.

You leaned in, whispering against the side of his head. “He’s been waiting for you.”

“I missed so much,” Bucky whispered hoarsely. “God... he looks like me. But he’s got your nose. He—he said Mama. He can talk?”

“Just a few words,” you murmured. “He took his first steps this summer.”

Bucky’s face crumpled, and he pulled Jamie closer to his chest. “I’m here now,” he said softly. “I swear. I’m here.”

Jamie reached up, tugging gently at his hair, and Bucky actually laughed—a real one this time.

And for the first time in so long, the ache in your chest loosened—just a little.

Because he came home to you.

And he was real.

And he was yours.

.

[arctichotch]

Chrysalis Heart

Din Djarin x Naboo Queen!Reader

summary: as queen you can handle many things (like the assassination attempts threatening your life) but the alluring mandalorian hired to protect you might be your heart’s biggest threat

word count: 9.2k (i’m sorry)

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI. post season 3, royal & bodyguard AU, use of gendered language, threats & moments of violence, reader wears makeup/gowns/headpieces but has no physical description, hidden identity, protective!Din, discussions of marriage, forced proximity, the starfighter can fit two people in the cockpit no matter the size (canon can fight me), competency kink, major yearning, spicy themes, good sweet fluff

a/n: this is my entry for the WIRED4YOU challenge [Din + Butterflies by Kacey Mushraves] huge thanks to @chaotic-mystery for hosting & letting me join! This is also a mini love letter to “the phantom menace” & “attack of the clones” because I believe we deserve our queen moment too lol, dividers thanks & credit to the ever talented @saradika-graphics

Assassination attempts on your life are, unfortunately, not new. In this final year of your reign, the threats have recently doubled though, which surprises you.

But finding out a mandalorian is now assigned to your personal guard surprises you even more.

While sitting in the throne room surveying him, you admire the striking warrior. Sleek in his ancestor armor, unwavering in his presence, you stay composed as possible but…

Curiosity blooms fast, already wondering about this new guard.

“Captain Teva highly recommended this bounty hunter.” Your head advisor, Hildegard, explains dutifully.

A bounty hunter? That’s even more interesting.

“We are glad to have you here, mandalorian.” Senator Trystan adds brightly. He starts rambling like the politician he is, and you tune him out, especially as your focus remains on the mandalorian.

“Your majesty,” the timbre of his voice is striking like a steady river. “I vow to keep you safe until the assassin is caught.”

Hiding your voice within the composed steady tone the Queen of Naboo is known for, you thank him.

With a final nod, the warrior departs.

You notice a brown satchel slung at his hip half hidden under his cloak. You swear the minute the mandalorian leaves the room, a small tiny green clawed hand crawls out from the bag.

—

“I bet he’s ugly”

“No, I’m sure he’s handsome.” You and your handmaidens have discussed the new mandalorian guard for weeks now.

He’s a rather elusive figure. Silently moving around the castle, he reminds you of a sleek phantom just out of reach. When the mandalorian does accompany you anywhere, he remains silent. You simply amount it to the warrior doing his job diligently, which you greatly appreciate.

His presence alone seems to deter any more attempts. The tension in the palace already has eased greatly. So much you now roam without any supervision along the grand lakeside today.

The glory of Naboo is one you take pride in, from the illustrious buildings, to the underwater depths of the Gungan city. You savor these moments when you can freely walk among the splendor of your planet.

There’s a secluded, normally untouched, lake villa near this area you enjoy visiting from time to time.

Until you discover it’s no longer abandoned.

The sight stops you frozen in your tracks. By the edge of the lake, under the soft shade of the looming trees, stands the mandalorian. But he is not alone.

A wonderfully tiny and precious green creature waddles around through the grass.

Both of them turn towards you. It feels like you’ve just stumbled upon an ancient secret.

“Handmaiden.” The mandalorian greets you steady, cautious.

For a split moment, you had forgotten you’re in these robes.

“Mandalorian.” You greet back, thankful you don’t have to hide your voice.

Being under the guise of a handmaid offers you this freedom.

“And may I ask, who is this little one?” You smile and kneel down to the height of the small creature staring up with starry curious eyes.

A moment passes.

“He…is my son.” His words hit you like a blaster shot.

“Your son?” The monarch mentality leaks out momentarily as your voice jumps. You never would’ve hired this hunter knowing he has a child who could be put in harm's way.

“Yes.” The mandalorian nods.

“I’ve never seen him around before.” His little hand must have been the one you saw that first day in the throne room.

The mandalorian’s son curiously shuffles to you. You don’t miss his father’s fists clenching tense, hesitant and cautious, worried about this interaction.

“I…was not sure the queen would allow him to accompany me. So I keep him hidden.”

The baby is adorable with shimmering eager eyes. He rests his tiny hands against your robes. You can hear all your advisors screaming at you to consider releasing this hunter from your duty.

But you can’t now. Not when you tickle his son’s chin and the little one giggles sweet like a bell.

“Don’t worry,” you tell the mandalorian confidently. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“And besides,” you add casually. “Between you and me…The Queen won’t mind. She has a soft spot for little ones.”

You smile as the baby, now deeming you worthy, starts climbing onto your knee.

“What’s his name?” You ask.

“…Grogu.” The mandalorian answers.

As if on cue, Grogu chirps hearing his name and you laugh.

“Well it’s nice to meet you Grogu.” You nod then gently poke his tiny nose.

Infectious giggles greet you.

You then officially introduce yourself to the youngling, and in turn his father, freely giving your name.

Again you can almost hear all your advisors' horrified screams. Of all the things sacred and needed to be hidden, your name is the most important.

Even though the crown keeps you protected under an alias, it doesn’t mean your true identity is forever safe.

But you believe you can trust this warrior.

Or you hope so.

The University’s belltower rings off in the distance. You didn’t realize how late it got. You’d need to head back soon.

Grogu chirps confused when you softly place him back on the grass. His bright moon eyes almost make you stay longer.

“It was wonderful meeting you Grogu. I hope I can see you again soon.” You truthfully tell the little one.

Then you glance at his father.

You knew enough about mandalorian culture to understand how precious children are to them and how protective they are of their own.

Grateful for this moment, you thank the mandalorian for allowing you to meet his son.

Without another word, the warrior silently nods.

This strong hunter with the most adorable son plagues your mind the rest of the day. So much that you rearrange your calendar so you’re available to walk along the lake again.

You continue sneaking back to the lake home as much as you can.

The moments here away from the palace, from the politics and headache, are a precious respite. Currently Grogu watches enraptured by the butterflies fluttering in the air.

You glance back at the lake house secluded in the lush countryside and how it perfectly fits a mandalorian.

“Is this where you’re staying?” You ask.

“Yes. Unless I’m needed at the palace.” The mandalorian answers.

“Thankfully it’s been rather quiet again since you’ve arrived. So I’m grateful for that.” You speak as both handmaid and queen.

“I…” the warrior begins then stops, as if realizing he shouldn’t be saying much.

“You can talk freely. Trust me, whatever you say the queen probably already knows.” You almost dryly laugh at your own joke.

The hunter nods.

“I believe the threat is still at large. Simply hiding and waiting for the right time.” He admits strained.

You agree. It’s what everyone close to you believes as well.

There have been whispers, rumors, of a darkness looming among the edges of space. Now it seems to be slithering into your home.

But for now, you simply hold onto these glimmers of peace - like watching Grogu chase after the butterflies among the field.

His little claws reach for the soft colored creatures, and you think of your own childhood days where you chased after them too. You remember the trick your old tutor taught you when you were little.

So holding out your finger, you wait. Patience pays off. A lone butterfly flutters to land on your finger believing it to be a branch.

Grogu instantly notices, makes a noise of surprise, and scurries over.

But his fast movement scares the butterfly, and it rapidly flies away. The sad confused noise Grogu gives breaks your heart.

“It’s alright, they just get frightened easily.” You explain.

So again you hold your finger out, a welcoming rest spot. This time you place it closer to the baby.

Another butterfly thankfully floats down on your finger.

“Bweh!” Grogu shrieks giddy.

Very steadily, you move your finger closer to Grogu trying not to scare the bug.

“Here… can I see your hand, little one?” You softly ask.

The mandalorian helps his son out, raising Grogu’s little claw besides yours.

The butterfly gently wanders from your finger to Grogu’s hand, and the sweet baby giggles in pure joy.

The bug of course doesn’t stay long and flutters away. But it brings enough excitement to Grougu. He’s completely taken over by twinkling giggles the rest of the time, eagerly chasing after more butterflies.

“Are you often away from the queen for this long?” The mandalorian’s sudden curious question takes you by surprise.

“As long as one handmaiden is with the queen, no protocol is broken.” You effortlessly recite the mandate.

“Besides, we all deserve a bit of fresh air and some time alone.” You add.

From the corner of your eye, the mandalorian nods.

Then, the belltower rings signaling your return.

Grogu, now in his fathers arms, waves at you goodbye then yawns.

Wishing the little one good night you, you then bid the same goodbye to his father.

“Take care, mandalorian.”

“…Din...”

The phrase stills you.

“My name is Din.” He reveals. “Seems only fair since you gave me yours.”

Din, it fits him beautifully.

“Until next time, Din.” A grateful glow swirls in you knowing his name.

You vow to keep it sealed safe in your heart. You wouldn’t be able to use his name while wearing the crown anyway. Faintly, it reminds you how in the same way the mandalorian, Din, would never know your true name as queen.

That realization digs a hollow hole into your heart.

—

Peace doesn’t last long.

The assassin fires shots from one of the high towers near the capitol. Chaos erupts wild and dizzying, sending everyone into a panic.

Except the mandalorian, Din.

Effortlessly he jumps in front of you blocking the second blaster shot with his armor, a literal shield before you.

Once you’re secured safely, your eyes widen witnessing Din in action, flying up to the tower.

Even with the distance, you catch glimpses of the mandalorian fighting before you’re escorted away.

And he’s marvelous.

There’s a swift deadly power to him, a legend of myth right before your eyes.

Then he’s by your side again.

“Are you alright?” He immediately asks returning to you breathless.

You want to ask if he’s the one alright, if Grogu is with him. Instead all you can do is nod, earnestly thanking him.

“He’s doing his job, m’lady.” Hildegard jokes.

But it’s true.

You’re getting tangled in a web of emotions over a man who will vanish from your life once the threats are eradicated.

Yet it still doesn’t stop you from visiting him again. It takes more convincing this time to sneak away, but you’re thankful you still can.

Worried you’ll miss seeing Din and his son, you rush to the lakeside. But you forget how hot the handmaiden robes can get, and exhaustion hits.

Your heart drops seeing the field vacant.

Guess you were too late.

Exhausted and annoyed at yourself, you rip back the robe’s hood allowing yourself a relief of air before you dejectedly walk back to the palace.

Someone says your name, your true name.

Din steps out from the villa, a sleek beautiful hunter emerging from the shadows.

Soon he stands frozen, his sleek helmet focused on you. A moment passes, an awkward stand off of you and him simply staring at each other.

Petrified, you suddenly realize you’re facing the mandalorian without any cover or protection of the robe’s hood.

“Sorry, you must be busy.” You blurt, ready to turn around and scurry away.

Din again says your name.

“It’s fine. I was just gathering my things.” He explains.

“Oh?” The confusion in your voice or on your face must be embarrassingly blatant for him to explain.

“I’ll be staying at the palace full time after today.”

Oh… so you’ll be seeing him more.

“You were amazing today.” Admiration flows from you.

He thanks you with a hesitant mumble, vaguely shy.

“Are you alright? Is Grogu okay?” You immediately ask, knowing those questions have been bothering you since this morning.

“We’re both fine. You should be worried about the Queen.” Din replies firm.

“The queen’s fine.” You snort, hoping he doesn’t notice your dryly amused tone.

“There was an amazing mandalorian that made sure everyone was safe after all.” You mean those words.

Din stays quiet keeping his helmet directed on you. A dread sets in, worried if you’ve overstepped or said something you shouldn’t have.

The sun has just set over the horizon casting an illuminating glow on the planet. It paints the mandalorian a shining warrior bathed in golden glory.

You wonder if you’re staring at him too much.

A familiar coo arrives, and soon after Grogu waddles out of the villa. Witnessing this armored warrior move to cradle his son, who snuggles into his father’s arms, unfolds a warm wave in you.

“I’ll let you two get back to your evening,” you smile gentle as Grogu yawns adorably in agreement.

“And I guess I’ll be seeing you around more.” You half joke with Din.

He dryly chuckles, and the sound is a gift.

“If you’re heading back to the palace I can return with you. So that you’re not walking alone.” He offers and your eyes go wide.

You immediately accept his offer.

With a nudge of his helmet you follow him inside the cabin. The layout is similar to all the other lake homes, except a cluster of weapons sit on the table. You’re in awe knowing he knows how to handle so many of these.

Grogu now wiggles fussy in Din’s hold.

“Here, I can take him.” You offer.

Hearing your words immediately Grogu lifts his little arms towards you ready to be carried.

“Kid,” Din dully sighs.

You reassure Din and happily scoop the baby up. Feeling him snuggle against your shoulder is a precious thing

Din goes silent and returns to gathering his belongings.

Now the night sky casts a blanket of midnight blue over the lake.

Out of the villa, a gleam of silver draws your attention. You inhale sharp but try staying quiet with Grogu sleeping peacefully in your arms.

“Is that a N-1 Starfighter?” Your voice, even whispering, jumps shocked. The familiar bright yellow coating has been stripped, but you could recognize that ship anywhere.

Din chuckles beside you.

“You know your ships.” He sounds impressed.

You didn’t. You just know that one.

You remember seeing the starfighters in your history lessons. They looked like beautiful sea creatures soaring among the clouds. You were heartbroken finding out they were retired.

You even tell all of this to Din.

A humorous thought emerges. You wonder if one dramatic last act as Queen could be you reinstating the starfighters.

“How does it fly?” You ask Din curiously.

“Like a dream.” His wistful voice lets your mind soar into a daydream wondering what it would be like to witness the N1.

“Maybe one day you’ll see it fly.” Din offers and you turn to him, grinning.

“Now that would be a dream.” You warmly mirror his phrase.

If you manage to make it through your final days as Queen, maybe you could beg the mandalorian to let you see the ship in action.

The walk to the palace is peaceful among the lake. You treasure Grogu snoring soundly in your arms, and you’re thankful Din allows you to hold his son.

But approaching the palace, you return the baby back to his father to hide him, just in case.

Your instincts are right. At the very edge of the palace steps, all your advisors, along with the senator and his aids, wait anxiously.

You stayed out too late.

Immediately they spot you with the mandalorian, and the reactions are mixed. You’re however more worried when Din reacts.

“Seems you were needed.” He comments.

“I stayed out later than planned, that’s all.” You half lie.

“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” You joke again, and he nods.

Even though you made the joke, you do end up seeing Din much more.

Except as the Queen of Naboo.

He stays in your personal guard close to the head captain. Even when you return to your private study, you’re surprised Din stays, truly acting as a loyal personal guard.

While overlooking legislation orders, a rustling comes. Off to the side, the mandalorian fidgets with his satchel.

Grogu.

“Mandalorian,” you speak in your composed tone. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” He huffs, trying to sound calm himself.

But it’s too late. One of Grogu’s adorable ears pops out from the satchel. And despite his father’s best attempts to settle him, the baby pokes his entire head out.

Two of your handmaidens gasp excited.

“I apologize.” Din quickly stammers.

You don’t even hide the grin on your face seeing the baby.

“No need to apologize. I’m quite fond of little ones.” You assure Din, remembering what you told him previously.

“Mweh.” Grogu squeaks glancing around at the new room with sparkling curious eyes.

Your handmaidens are already smitten, trying not to rush over to him.

“Is it a pet?” One asks eager.

“No.” Din bluntly answers, and you even feel a bit insulted for him.

Ever the trouble maker, Grogu climbs out of the bag and starts waddling around exploring with ease.

“Kid.” Din sighs, a frustrated parent, and your handmaidens giggle amused.

“It’s fine, mandalorian.” You again reassure him.

Grogu turns to blink curiously up at you. Under the thick ceremonial makeup, wearing your ornate headpiece, you understand how strange you must look to a child.

Instantly he scurries towards you, little clawed hands grabbing the air signaling he wants to be picked up.

Panic seizes your breath.

There’s no way Grogu could recognize you. You rationalize that this is simply him finding your Queen persona interesting.

Din moves to snag Grogu, even saying his name sharp and reprimanding.

But you chuckle swooping down to the little creature first. Your gown today weighs heavier, yet you don’t mind knowing Grogu gets to settle in your arms.

His sweet eyes search your face. You smile politely and gentle. Then his tiny hands press against your cheeks, and a bright smile lights up his face.

And you can’t help it, you smile back.

The curious eyes of your handmaidens burn holes into your face. They whisper like a pack of loth cats plotting their next attack. So diverting their attention you place Grogu back down on the ground letting him roam.

Immediately your handmaids rush kneeling at the baby’s level, completely captivated by the new arrival.

“He seems to enjoy the attention.” You tell Din.

The mandalorian simply hums, an agreeing sound.

You wonder if he’s upset or possibly nervous about all of this.

“Please know he is safe here and free to roam.” You say encouraging, hoping to soothe the tension.

“Thank you…m’lady.” Din replies low, and your heart trips over itself.

It’s the first time he’s ever addressed you by the proper title, and his voice sparks a wildfire.

After this introduction, Grogu happily now enjoys being carried in the arms of your handmaidens or resting openly in Din’s satchel. A little wave of jealousy rises when the baby plays with one of your handmaids during a council meeting. You ache to trade places with her more than ever.

Seeing his son giggle freely unhidden relaxed Din more. He starts walking besides the captain of your guard and chatting with her, the two of them now easy comrades.

Now Din steps in pace right behind you, a beskar coated shadow you think of often.

During a particularly rainy day, you accidentally slip among the sleek stair tiles.

Immediately Din grabs you fast, steadying you from falling. His hand, unwavering and strong, holds you. Your heart thrashes furiously hearing his magnetic voice so close asking if you’re alright.

This unfortunate infatuation towards the mandalorian blooms a wicked weed digging its roots into your heart, and it’s become more unbearable.

Thankfully, your final months as Queen help keep your mind mostly occupied.

After meeting with the current Gungan Boss, you sigh exhausted.

Glancing at the wall, the portraits of monarchs past loom watching you, waiting to see what you do next.

“Many of the queens seem… younger than you.” Din suddenly comments observing the previous rulers.

“Are you calling me old, mandalorian?” You tease as much as your steeled composed tone allows.

“I…” he’s stunned, taken off guard for a minute. It’s adorable. For a split moment you smirk, keeping a laugh firmly locked away.

“I jest.” You recover quickly.

You explain how customarily many of the previous rulers were chosen at a young age, some even children. The belief was that those who possessed a child like wonder and wisdom should rule. Of course, that slowly faded away over time.

“And when the empire arrived?” Din asks.

When the Moff assigned to Naboo arrived, dark days followed. Terror seemed to choke your planet. You quietly tell Din of this.

“I…understand. I’ve seen the damage that can be done because of a Moff’s rule.” An ancient sorrow hangs within his voice.

Your eyes flicker to the shining warrior besides you. Din is striking, incredibly so. A selfish desire grows wishing to know him more, to know the face of the man taking residence in your heart.

Until another asassination attempt reminds you danger persistently lurks ready to steal your peace.

One of the food testers in the kitchen has a dangerous reaction to your meal. Thankfully she is tended to in time and will make it. But these threats grow deadlier.

“This might be … when we should start considering you going into hiding, m’lady.” One of your advisors suggests.

Those words hang over you an ominous storm.

After the recent attempt, you hide in handmaiden robes more.

You shouldn’t be wandering around this late in the night among the hallways, but you can’t sleep.

Turning the corner, you stumble upon Din standing by the hallway’s edge. He focuses on his transmitter, reading a holo message.

Ever a warrior, his keen senses notice someone else is here and he looks up. Not wanting to startle him, you pull back the robe’s hood to reveal yourself.

He exhales your name, and it flutters into your heart.

“It’s been a while.” You sleepily grin.

“Indeed.” He nods, and his voice sounds warmer.

“Been a bit busy around here.” You joke, but a somberness hangs.

“It has.” Even his reply mirrors the underlying tension.

“It’s also been difficult trying to figure out which handmaiden you are.” Din says, as if trying to break the thick tense clouds.

You laugh, and it’s freeing.

“That means it’s working.” You snicker. “No one should know who a handmaid is, much less what they look like.”

Each handmaiden was handpicked because of how similarly they fit your height and vaguely your appearance.

Handmaids are the silent heroes of the crown, quiet protectors ready to step in and surround you any given moment. Guilt festers in you knowing their lives are at risk too.

“And yet… you let me see you.” Din curiously notes, and your chest tightens.

“Well, I trust you.” You tell him simply. And you do, completely and irrevocably.

“Besides, if you decide to do anything suspicious the Queen would be the first to know.” You jest, enjoying the double meaning.

“Never.” He shakes his head earnest.

Under the lowlights of the hallway, Din steps closer. Your fingers itch to touch his beskar, to run the cool armor beneath your touch.

You wonder every night what color his eyes are.

The sound of glass shattering erupts, and suddenly the world blurs. You’re in Din’s arms falling to the floor.

His hand cradles your head from colliding on the hard marble floor. But you don’t have time to process that. Instantly you reach for the small blade hidden in your robes.

“Are you alright?” Din rapidly asks, and you nod stunned.

Someone shot at you through the window.

Someone knows who you are.

—

“You must go into hiding,” Hildegard, ever your most trusted and wise advisor, urges begging now.

Stubborn, feeling raw, exposed, you sit in angered silence. No makeup on, no crown, just a simple soul at the mercy of fate.

“Maybe we should keep the queen here?” Senator Trystan suggests.

“Because…to me, it seems like the Mandalorian isn’t quite living up to the legends told of his people.” He adds dangerously untrusting.

A blazing fury bursts in you.

“I’m alive because of him.” You snap glaring at the senator.

“And he is the only one I’ll trust accompanying me if I must go into hiding.” Your declaration rings absolute, the voice of a ruler.

Yet that night you can’t sleep. Neither can your handmaidens, especially with how curious they are.

“So…are you going to tell us what you were doing with Mando in the hallway?” One of them asks curiously.

Partially lying, you say how you couldn’t sleep and simply ran into him.

“Are you having secret rendezvous meetings with the mandalorian and haven’t been telling us?!” Another handmaiden shrieks giddy, and you rapidly deny.

But it’s hard when the fluttering feelings in your stomach now thrash wanting to fully take flight and escape, revealing your truth.

As playfully pestering as they are, this time with your handmaidens lightens your spirits immensely.

Because you know the looming decision.

The spring equinox here on Naboo will be your official final outing as ruler. That day, you’ll give your final address to the planet, sign your final law into action at the gala, then step down in the eyes of the New Republic.

It will be a momentous day.

For one month until then… you’ll be in hiding.

One moon cycle away from Naboo.

But as declared, you’ll be departing alone with the mandalorian.

A war rages in your heart as you clutch your small pack.

You wish to stay and fight, stand your ground. Yet you understand the danger that will come if you stay.

So walking into the darkness alone, you find a gleaming warrior among it.

A curt nod is how he greets you.

Din has been quiet since your identity was revealed. You wonder if he’s disappointed or angry knowing who you are.

But all the emotions get shoved aside when you see your mode of transportation.

The starfighter gleams glorious under the moonlight.

“Will we fit?” You wonder aloud a bit hesitant.

“Might be a tight squeeze, but we’ll make it. The trip is not too far.” Din answers and his voice again does strange things to your heart.

He wasn’t lying about the tight fit.

You’re practically slotted between his legs in the compact pilot’s seat. His arms reach around you effortlessly readying the systems. Your mind goes over boring litigations and mandates trying not to let it wander into dangerous territory.

Then, the ship bolts to life airborne.

Immediately your gaze flickers back to your home planet watching it drift further away in the night sky.

“Don’t worry,” Din suddenly mutters, comforting. “Everyone will be fine.”

You swallow hard and nod.

The atmosphere dissipates all around until you’re among a sea of stars.

“So…you’re Queen of Naboo.” Din speaks first. It feels like a peace offering.

Your lips twitch back a laugh.

“Apparently.” You joke.

His chuckle lightens the ache trying to consume you.

The trip, as promised, isn’t far.

Nevarro resides in the outer rim. Even though Naboo is considered mid-rim, its bordering location is close to the outer rim, so you know of Nevarro. The planet’s growth and evolution has been admirable to witness.

You find it’s easy to settle in and embrace the planet wholeheartedly.

Or… you embrace Din’s world wholeheartedly.

His home sits peaceful at the edge of the lava flats. You begged him to let you stay at an inn in town so you wouldn’t be a bother. He adamantly shut that option down.

“Being here means I can keep you safe.” He explained.

So now you take the spare room in Din’s abode. The spartan walls, bare minimum furniture, they all strangely perfectly reflect Din. But you enjoy spotting the various stuffed toys littering the floors.

Grogu enjoys being back at home, showing you the pond he loves chasing creatures around.

Suddenly he magically lifts a small frog into the air and you gasp. These abilities…

In secret, you briefly had studied the Jedi, the ways of the force, and knew of the strange abilities that came with it.

“He can use the force?!” You squak, turning to Din.

The mandalorian simply tells you it’s complicated. You don’t press the topic. Yet it makes sense now remembering how Grogu was able to notice you single you out even in your makeup.

He really is a special star. His giggles brighten the home, a joyous little light.

Currently he sleeps peacefully in your arms, belly full from the dinner you cooked.

“A queen who knows how to cook?” Din had joked earlier when went into the market to grab supplies.

“I haven’t always been queen.” You huffed back.

You had a life before your crown, but now you wonder how it will look after.

“What was it like before you were queen?” Sitting besides you outside on the porch, you’re surprised Din is this curious.

This spot here is quickly becoming a favorite of yours. The warm Nevarro air floats thicker than Naboo, yet there’s a gentle comfort to it.

You tell Din of your early university days, secretly holding a dream of abandoning everything to become a rebel spy.

“A spy?” His voice curls amused, and you wish you could see his face.

“I read too many adventure romance tales.” You shrug.

You used to dream of meeting a handsome rebel pilot while fighting for your home planet and then falling in love.

Now your dreams only contain a warrior clad in beskar.

“Were you always a bounty hunter?” You now question Din about his life as much as you can.

You treasure all he gives you, telling you about days hunting bounties across the galaxy until he stumbled upon a certain little green creature.

The mudhorn, the empire hunting Grogu, the days they spent apart from each other… It all led to Din gaining a son. And it’s all because of that single bounty.

“Your job led you to a wonderful gift.” You fondly praise while Grogu snores peacefully against your shoulder.

“Yes...” Din agrees, yet his voice seems to trail off.

“After you step down, what will happen to you?” He softly changes the subject, pressing another question.

One that strikes deep.

“There are two recommended options…” you mutter.

The first choice is to marry a noble and stay within the royal sphere.

The other option is becoming a senator.

For some reason, your heart doesn’t feel compelled thinking of either option.

You aren’t attracted to any of the nobles trying to court you. And the role of a senator is demanding. You already feel frustrated with the state of politics and after being around it for this long…you wish for quieter days.

“What if you don’t want either?” Din sounds somber, yet inquisitive.

You suppose you could simply walk away from everything, slip into the galaxy to become another soul simply passing through.

You’ve never given that option much thought.

“You could stay here.” Din says, and a burst of light crashes into your chest.

Here? With him?

“Nevarro has good housing options. You would always be welcomed here.”

Then his second comment, more formal in tone, becomes a splash of water immediately diminishing any hope wanting to ignite you. You weakly grin.

“You just want me nearby for the free babysitting services.” You joke hoping to quell the heartbreak trying to leak in.

He chuckles amused.

You still earnestly thank him for the offer. But now, the future looms more nebulous than ever.

—

Through secret comlinks and encrypted messages, you discover another assassin tried striking the palace.

“You think it’s a group at work?” You ask Din, sounding more like the concerned ruler you are.

“No, it feels too planned, like the culprit is trying to mislead us or lure you back.” And he sounds like the sharp skilled hunter he is.

“May I ask… why does someone want you dead?” He questions hesitant.

You sigh.

The last law you want to sign into action would undo a final decree the Moff put into order. You want all traces of that evil gone.

“It could be an old sympathizer wanting to stop you.” Din immediately concludes.

That doesn’t narrow down any choices. But you suspect the assassin is connected to someone within your circle since they knew when to attack you even as a handmaid.

Paranoia has you restless, on edge. It’s why you return to your blade.

The familiar self defense moves flow through you. Simple, effective, enough to strike before you can try making an escape.

“Your arms need to move faster.”

You swore Din had been working on the starfighter and with Grogu down for the night, you took the alone time to practice among the fading twilight.

Now he saunters to you eased.

“Your arms have the right motion. They just aren’t steady.” He instructs.

“Well it would be different if someone was attacking me.” You scoff.

“Alright then,” something excited sparks in Din’s voice. “Spar with me.”

You think you misheard him. Then Din pulls out a seasoned, rather deadly looking, vibroblade and stands at the ready.

You stammer out excuses. There’s no way you can fight a mandalorian.

Suddenly he strikes first. Din rushes fast, darting forward and swinging his blade to swipe at you.

It becomes a fast dance, evading and dodging as Din attacks unrelentlessly.

“You haven’t tried striking me.” He doesn’t even sound tired while you’re barely hanging on.

“Because I have a mandalorian after me!” You wheeze frantic, and he chuckles.

Din stops his offensive and places his blade away.

“The way I moved is how you should.”

“I’m not a trained warrior.” You huff catching your breath. Even without seeing his eyes, the way his helmet tilts you know he’s rolling his eyes.

Gently, his gloved hands slide to your arms, and you freeze. Your mind momentarily shutting down. He touches you gingerly, delicate. Then he begins maneuvering you into the same stance he was in.

In a steady patient voice, Din explains every move and guides you through them. The close position, feeling his sturdy build pressing against you, the way his voice oozes with a gentle dominance, it overwhelms you.

Din makes you go through the motions repeatedly, a patient teacher.

“Your stance is good. You were taught well.” He admires, and you shakily thank him.

“Had to be ready as both queen and handmaid just in case.” You say lighthearted trying to battle the raging emotions swirling like a dangerous riptide.

“At first I didn’t understand your guard system or the handmaidens.” Din explains.

“Now I see why you go to great lengths to hide your identity. It reminds me of mandalorian tradition and why we hide our faces.” Din’s voice floats out kind and gentle.

The realization unfurls in you quietly that you almost miss it. You and him have run parallel in different ways, wearing masks to protect yourself and your people.

You’re grateful the force brought you to this man, one you will always hold in your heart even when fate decides to take him away.

You and him practice late into the night. He even lets you spar with his blade. Surprisingly, you take to it well, and Din even notices.

“Keep it.”

You gawk, stunned at his words. Immediately panicking, you tell Din you could never take a weapon from a mandalorian.

“I have another. And trust me, it will be useful if…I’m not around.”

His somber words dig into you, another sharpened knife, one you wish he could take back.

—

Your final week on Nevarro approaches and sorrow tangles itself around you constricting. You’ve grown attached to this planet. You’ve made friends with the floral shop keeper. The merchant who sells your favorite dried fruits now jokes with Din wondering how a grumpy mandalorian snagged someone as lovely as you.

You laugh weakly at the jokes, yet Din stays silent.

The silence has multiplied between you and Din, creating a terrifying canyon separating you from him.

Grogu senses it. Whimpering, he stubbornly tries hanging onto both you and Din more.

You shove away tears at night.

This dream, this carved out home you’ve started settling into…you knew it was going to end eventually. You just became so foolish hoping it wouldn’t.

Slowly, you start packing, childishly dragging your feet as if it will prolong your stay.

A knock arrives at your door, and it slides open.

“Can I show you something?” Din’s voice, hesitant and cautious, snaps your spine straight.

You agree without hesitation.

With Grogu currently enjoying a play date with one of the children in town, it’s just you and Din together for the day.

But you regret your choice of not accompanying the baby when you realize you’ll be jumping back into the starfighter.

Having Din’s arms enclosed around you, his strong chest pressing against your back, all the close proximity heats your skin, a reminder of what you’ll be losing in just a few days.

“You said you wanted to one day see how she flies.” Din says soft.

You technically had seen her fly when Din brought you here. Unfortunately your mind was so foggy you honestly couldn’t savor the journey.

“You didn’t get to see much last time. So…Let’s stretch out her legs.” Din’s voice holds a proud smile.

Your eyes widen. He remembered. Before you can say anything else, you become one with the wind.

Din was right. The N1 soars like a dream. She glides gracefully among the craters and canyons, dipping low among the lava flats and zooming with ease past the town.

But you also realize, Din is an amazing pilot. He effortlessly maneuvers the ship with a fluid flow and striking awareness. As if you couldn’t be anymore attracted to him, knowing he’s not just an amazing warrior but an incredible pilot makes your blood hum.

“You’re amazing.” You tell him earnest and true.

You swear his arms curl around you tighter.

“Ready to see the best part.” He purrs, sounding eager.

“Wait, best part?” You can’t imagine what’s next.

He points to a switch and when he hits it, you fly out of your body reaching a speed you never expected.

And it’s dazzling.

You laugh bright and alive. The weightless sensation overflows into your bones.

The atmosphere melts away as Din pushes the ship to the very edges of the planet.

The stars float just out of your reach, twinkling with knowing eyes.

Suddenly, Din lets the ship drop. The N1 plummets into a free fall that has your stomach jumping into your mouth. You almost scream.

In the descent, Din quickly spins the starfighter swiftly, a dramatic turn that sends it flying fast in a new direction. The move is a trick, one he seems to be showing off proudly.

You laugh breathlessly relieved.

“You know I’m still queen. I can punish you for that!” You wheeze.

“I’d like to see you try, m’lady.” He challenges back amused. You grin wild and greedy hearing the title.

The flight, the exhilaration, it dissipates the tension of this week, almost purifying you. Because now you notice… you’ve fully melted against Din’s chest.

Your head even leans back to rest against his helmet.

Yet Din hasn’t moved you.

The silence thickens as he flies the ship back towards town.

“Thank you for showing me this.” You mutter, barely able to get those words out.

Din’s helmet nods moving against the side of your head. One of his hands leaves the control panel and gently rests against your thigh.

You and him remain this close the rest of the flight.

The next time you’re in the N1 -

You’re flying home to Naboo.

The entire flight is silent.

You sit as furthest away from him as physically possible within the cramped space. Din maneuvers the controls and trying to keep yourself steeled, composed, your eyes focus on his movements.

That’s when you catch it.

His gloves shift and a sliver of his skin is exposed.

Sun kissed and beautiful, you think you just imagined it. Until you notice it again when Din steers the ship out of the atmosphere.

Countless nights you thought about what he looked like under his helmet, wondering how his lips would feel against yours. Now you’re allowed this one small peek at the man beneath the armor, and a dangerous greed immediately slithers in.

Your lips ache to kiss that spot, that glimmer of Din unmasked.

Greed morphs into a deadly lust. You imagine yourself, if you were braver, grabbing his wrist and lifting it to your lips to kiss him, taste him, at least once.

How would he react if you did that? Embrace you? Reprimand you?

Punish you in a way that turns filthy…

You wonder how extra tight this cramped space would be trying to ride him in, to feel the heat between you and him build into a blazing cloud. Even now, if you concentrate hard enough in this terrifyingly quiet flight, you can hear his soft breathing, his gentle exhales modulated through the helmet.

Your mind melts thinking of him whispering deep against your ear as he thrusts up into you-

Instantly your mouth goes dry at the erotic thought and you close your eyes, trying to reset yourself.

When you open your eyes, Naboo approaches fast, a gorgeous gemstone among the stars. Your dreams and lustful wishes shatter like broken titles leaving you feeling empty to pick up the pieces.

—

Your final gown as Queen gleams stitched with a final goodbye. It’s glorious, dripping in grandeur and beauty. Wearing it, clusters of emotions clash with each other. You’ve allowed yourself a minute alone just to compose yourself. Giving one final glance at a mirror, you silently bid farewell to this piece of you.

A knock comes, and one of your handmaid's pops her head into the room.

“Senator Trystan wishes to speak with you.”

Of course you let him in.

The familiar face beams at you proud.

“You look splendid, m’lady.” The senator bows his head, and you thank him.

He updates you on the various monarchs and other planetary senators who have arrived. Your mind unfortunately only thinks of one beskar wearing guest.

Tonight is your last night with Din. Once the grand event finishes and if you remain safe, he would receive his hefty sum. Your paths will seperate.

He hasn’t spoken more than five words to you since you’ve returned. You’ve barely seen Grogu either.

You understand the rush of trying to prepare for everything has kept you busy. But you catch the looks your handmaidens give you of heartbroken understanding as though they can sense the turmoil in you.

Your mind, even now, feels like it could burst holding so many thoughts.

Then footsteps stamped forward.

The senator, blade in hand, lunges at you.

A surprised scream escapes you before you swiftly move, jumping into action.

Pulling out your vibroblade, Din’s blade, you swipe at the traitor.

The moves Din taught, his weapon, they become your saving grace.

You keep the attacker on his toes. But Senator Trystan acts fast stepping on your gown causing you to trip before you can run to the door.

You fall hard onto the floor. Hissing in pain, your eyes close.

Move, a voice in your head sounding intensely like Din, urges you to react.

Then a thundering collision crashes into your chambers, and your eyes snap open.

One moment the senator stands poised above you, blade in hand ready to attack. The next he’s gone.

Scrambling up, you discover Din wrestling Senator Trystan onto the floor.

“The Moff was right!” The traitor screams in anger trying hard to thrash against Din’s hold.

“You’re pathetic!” You snarl back.

“You are ruining our world!” Sentaro Trystan screeches staring you down. “Long live the empire-”

Din aggressively knocks the raging senator unconscious.

Immediately your handmaidens and a few healers rush to your side tending to you, trying to calm you down.

A thick haze swirls in your mind. Senator Trystan was the one behind the assassinations. Why hadn’t you noticed it?

Suddenly a warm gloved hand grabs yours and squeezes. Blinking out of the mental haze, Din now kneels before you. The stark black visor of his helmet stares unwavering.

He whispers your name.

Tiny little hands climb their way up your gown. Glancing down, you find Grogu staring up and whimpering worried. You stroke his soft head and it eases you and him both.

“Are you alright, m’lady?” Din asks cautious, concerned.

You nod still slightly overwhelmed.

“I owe you my life, mandalorian.” You tell him through a shaking voice.

Din doesn't reply, instead squeezes your hand tighter. The exhaustion slowly creeping into your body begs you to lean forward, to rest against Din’s shoulder. But you don’t know how he’ll react.

And even if you did try to lean on him, you noticed your grand headpiece would’ve gotten in the way of you moving closer to Din, a literal barrier reminding you of the truth.

New Republic officers along with the rest of your advisors and guards storm in.

You’re grateful the threat is over, eternally in debt to Din. But the truth settles in cold and bleak. Your time is up. The mandalorian will be leaving you.

“Your reward will be doubled.” Hildegard says grateful through tears patting Din on the shoulder.

“I was just…doing my job.” He nods curt.

A job, that’s all you are.

You eventually hand Grogu to one of your handmaidens. This night will be busy. Din however refuses to leave your side.

“She needs to rest.” Din orders sharp after realizing you’re still attending the gala.

“I can rest once this is all over.” Your monarch's voice, the voice of a queen, slips in.

Din remains silent.

Even though you feel caught in the waves of a turbulent sea, a queen must bottle all those things and store them away.

So wearing your crown proudly, you sign your final law into motion and hold your head high.

The previous queens still alive arrive at your side. You kneel, and their hands lift the weight of a planet from you.

Queen no more.

Among the roar of applause, among the illustrious crowd, your eyes only seek out one guest.

Din leans against a column, hands crossed over his chest sticking out a sore thumb. And he’s beautiful.

“I suppose you want this back.” You hold out his blade waiting for him to take it.

His helmet shakes an adamant no.

“I told you, it’s yours now. Knowing it kept you safe is even more reason for you to keep it.”

A thick sorrow and adoration, the strangest mixture, shred your heart wide open. But under the glimmering lights, along the magnificent marble ballroom, you have to seal everything away tight.

The Gala is a gorgeous celebration, the triumph of Naboo slowly returning to its beauty. The Gungan Boss teases how his nephew would make a fine match now that you’re available for marriage. He isn’t the only one making suggestions.

Many suitors from noble families blatantly make their courting intentions known. You smile with as much grace as you can.

One of the noblemen, a man you vaguely remember from your university days, even gets bold and places a kiss on your hand when he bids you farewell.

“It seems royal marriage is what everyone wants for you.” Din comments stiffly.

You stay quiet, numb.

“What do you want?” He asks.

Your eyes return to him, his glorious helmet, and you wish more than ever to know his eyes.

“What I want doesn’t matter.” You reply just as stiff.

“But it does. You deserve to make that decision.” He argues low, deadly, reminding you of the bounty hunter he is.

“Maybe who I want doesn’t want me back.” Your words strike sharp under your breath.

“Who…who do you want?”

Terror barrels in hearing Din’s question. You didn’t even realize you had said who.

Din’s stare, even without seeing his eyes, is unflinching.

An overwhelming panic overtakes you like a feral rancor.

So you flee, scurrying away fast.

Immediately you tell your advisors and handmaidens you need to be excused, saying how the rush of the night has finally caught up to you.

Understanding, everyone allows you to slip away from the gala’s ballroom towards the palace.

But ever the persistent shadow, Din stays close behind.

“I don’t need your services anymore, mandalorian.” You snap, refusing to turn around to him.

“I’m your guard until the night ends.” He growls back.

“I thought our agreement was fulfilled when the threat was discovered. Besides, my crown is gone. You can leave Din Djarin.” Your voice bounces off the empty hallways like an angered ghost.

Earlier, the new republic officers had scanned his chaincode and when you heard his full name, it felt like a final goodbye.

“Is that what you want? For me to leave?” Din’s tone cuts deadly, stopping you in the middle of the hallway.

You don’t want him to go. You never want to leave him.

Din says your name, pleading.

“It doesn’t matter what I want. Leave.” You robotically order, except your voice cracks, and you regret speaking.

You force yourself to move forward.

He doesn’t follow, and your footsteps echo alone in the hallway.

Arriving at your chambers, your hands shake as you wipe away tears.

Queen no more, now all alone.

A solid knock arrives at your door making you jump out of your skin.

Still worried from earlier, you cautiously open the door, holding Din’s blade at the ready.

Then you slide it open fully and let the weapon drop instantly.

Din stands in the doorway.

“Tell me what you want, who it is you want. And then you will never see me again.” A plea aches in the mandalorian’s voice.

“It’s you, Din…” you sob, unable to hold it in anymore. “I want you, you ridiculously stubborn man-”

His warmth is engulfing. His strong arms wrap around you tight with the promise of never letting go. Beskar presses hard and unyielding, but you welcome it.

Your arms wrap around him just as tight.

“When I thought you were just a handmaid, I searched for you every time and I felt guilty. I knew my loyalty needed to be with the queen, when all I wanted to do was protect you.” His voice whispers soft, tender, soaking into your bones.

“It was only until I realized… I’ve been protecting you this entire time.” He squeezes you tighter.

Gravity shifts. Your orbit now becomes tied to this warrior.

Gently, you lean out of his embrace to stare at him. Placing your hand against his helmet, imagining his cheek below your palm, you reverently stroke the sacred beskar.

“My future is with you, whatever it is. I want it to be with you, Din.” You tell him through watery croaks.

A gloved hand now holds your face. Din exhales your name, delicate and reverent. Then he moves forward.

His helmet leans against your forehead, a holy act that makes your eyes close. The cool beskar against your skin feels like a sealed vow, the promise of a kiss and the hope of many to come.

Now, no crown keeps you from him.

—

Sunlight gently wakes you.

Your mind groggily starts thinking over the things you have to do today. An exasperated sigh escapes you.

The bed is cozy. You don’t want to leave, but you need to. So wearily you wiggle to slip out from the covers.

Until a solid sturdy arm drags you back into the blankets, pulling you against a warm broad bare chest.

“You can’t keep me in bed all day.” You mutter half asleep, half amused.

“We’re on our honeymoon. We’re allowed to stay in bed all day.” Din’s voice, unmodulated and thick with sleep, drips with pure delicious decadence.

Soft kisses pepper your bare shoulder. The soft scrape of his facial hair, the tickle of his mustache, feel glorious.

“We did that yesterday. And the day before that.” You remind him amused.

“Then today should be our final time.” Din smirks, nipping at your shoulder while his hands map out your skin.

“There’s still things I need to do for the coronation.” You try sounding determined, but your voice instead is a dreamy sigh, blissed in pure newlywed reverie.

“A queen’s job is never finished.” He teases letting his lips kiss across your jaw lazyly.

“Not a queen anymore.” You cheekily remind him, and your hand reaches back to run into his soft curls.

You’re a wife now, a title you cherish just as much as Queen.

“Always will be a queen to me… m’lady.” He mutters into your skin.

Immediately his words make you twist in his arms. You take a quick glance at your husband - your incredible husband with the most gorgeous rich soil soulful eyes. Then you lean forward to kiss him fierce.

Din meets your frenzy passion with a steadiness that disarms you. He kisses you slowly, unworried, like he plans to savor every moment, and you become a cloud ready to float into his atmosphere.

Then a small crash comes from the living room. An amused little giggle reveals the culprit.

You and Din now sigh for another reason.

“We should have let your handmaids keep him another day.” Din mumbles.

You laugh swatting at his shoulder.

With a final playful kiss, you grab your robe and slip out of bed.

Grogu squeals excitedly seeing you. Scooping him up into your arms, you kiss his sweet adorable cheeks.

“You adorable little trouble maker.” You snicker ticking his tummy.

You don’t even mind that Grogu knocked over the lovely congratulations bouquet the gungan boss sent. Your son’s giggles are worth it.

The morning sun dances beautifully across the grand Naboo lake. Sitting among the lush grass, you now watch Grogu once again chase after the fluttering butterflies.

Heavy boots crunch approaching. Then Din presses against you. You snuggle closer to lean against his paladin covered shoulder. His arm slides to curl you even closer into his side.

“Always hoped we would get to come back here.” Din admits.

You did too. It’s why when the coronation for the next Queen of Naboo arrived, coincidentally taking place just a month after your wedding, you eagerly convinced Din to take a break from Nevarro to return to this special place.

“Thank you for bringing us back.” You tell him grateful, pressing a kiss to his beskar.

“No, thank you for suggesting this.” You knew Din was kind hearted before. But now, as your husband, he shows you a pure adoration that doesn’t feel real at times.

“They will need you at the palace soon.” Your mandalorian reminds you gently.

He’s right of course. So many events, things to plan, all wait for you.

But for a few more moments, you stay within the golden glow of your little family…simply letting the butterflies dance all around.

[arctichotch]

Hard to Love [dave york]

Two negatives make a positive. Or, two people, both alike in loneliness, fall in love where they shouldn’t.

my masterlist! pairing: professor!dave york x f!student!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), professor!dave york AU, dave is not a hitman, teacher/student relationship (and the power imbalance that accompanies this), divorce, obsessive!dave, jealousy, age gap (reader is early 20s/dave is 40s), yearning and pining and longing etc., what do you expect from me by now, dom!dave, so much sexual tension that it morphs into melodrama, seriously i was on something here, forbidden romance on multiple levels, deeply enthusiastic consent from both parties, f! and m!masturbation, reader has no physical descriptions and is able-bodied, law firms get their own warning, fingering, sexting, sending dirty pics, phone sex, pussy pronouns, light light spanking, some free use, dirty talk, liberal use of "sir" word count: ~ 15.5k a/n: hi friends! just wanted to say that there are likely a million conflicts of interest in this fic and none of them are good and also please don’t fuck your professors. that being said, i love you all and i hope you enjoy!! this is just a one-shot for now, but i love these freaks so much that maybe i'll continue writing for them in the future!! thank you as always to @cavillscurls for being my incredible beta and matching my freak xoxo

By mid-September, at least twenty students have dropped the course. 

Your designated seat is in the second row. The windows in the cavernous lecture hall filter greyish light into the room. Dust particles float in the air and it smells of rainwater. People are shaking off their umbrellas as they pour inside, grumbling to their friends, shuffling to their seats. Every now and then, someone walks in wearing heeled shoes, and the click-clack, click-clack echoes throughout the room. 

You see eye bags and yawning mouths and slumped shoulders and you straighten your posture, aligning your pencil parallel to the lines in your notebook. The seats on either side of you have been empty since the second week of classes. 

Whispers crescendo as more students enter the lecture hall. How do you think you did on the test? That was fucking brutal. Do you think the midterm will be as bad? Should we start, like, a class group chat so we can all trade notes? When’s the deadline to drop a course again? Do you think you could ask the professor for an extension on the paper? God, no, I’m not talking to him if I can help it—are you crazy? You hide your printed paper underneath your notebook and tune them out to the sound of the rain pounding against the windows. 

Silence chokes the room as Dr. York strolls in, sliding his bag off his shoulder and unpacking his books. A stack of worn, yellowed texts on God-knows-what. Most times, he doesn't even consult them. You suspect he likes to keep them around for decoration, to intimidate the students. Maybe they're a security blanket. 

“Good morning,” he says without looking up. He turns to the chalkboard as he always does and begins to write a series of websites and books in list order. He never uses the projector that hangs from the ceiling. “I know a lot of you are on the pre-law track, but a lot of you also can't seem to write a grammatically correct sentence to save your lives.” 

A nervous smattering of chuckles. He doesn't appear to be joking. 

“Copy these resources down and study them. You're in university; you should know how to write and how to cite a source. If you're going to stay in this class, don't expect me or my TAs to be lenient.”

The sound of scribbling pens deafens the rainfall outside. Dr. York shucks off his jacket—the facilities management workers have finally turned on the heat in the North building—and rolls his shirtsleeves up with two measured flicks of his wrists. There's a Cartier watch on the left one which he never takes off. When he's reading a passage from one of the weekly case studies, he puts on a pair of glasses. His dark hair is always combed back and rarely gelled. A permanent frown has seared a wrinkle between his brows. He sits on his desk while he lectures. His Ferragamo loafers could pay your rent for a month; they're scuffed at the toe. 

A few girls behind you snicker to one another. You calmly open your books. Dr. York’s voice, rolling darkly over the room like oncoming thunder, sits heavy in your chest as he gives his lecture. He speaks clearly and quickly; stray even a few seconds behind and one will find themself scrambling to catch up to the present moment, sneaking glances at their neighbour’s notes. He goes to the wire and by the time the second hour is over, the sound of the students around you packing their bags is lethargic and winded. You shrug your bag over your shoulder, covering a yawn, and make your way to Dr. York’s desk at the front of the room. 

You wait for a line of brave students to clear from the queue, a great number of them looking dejected. Subconsciously, you adjust your sweater as you step up to the plate. He turns around, assesses you quickly as if he can uncover your reason for approaching with just one clinical sweep up and down your body, and speaks before you can open your mouth. 

“I’m not providing extensions on this assignment, so unless you have a broken wrist or the Black Plague—”

“I’m not asking for an extension,” you cut in, more than a little wounded by his judgement, sliding your paper from between the pages of your notebook and placing it, title page facing skyward, on his desk. “I’m finished.”

He frowns, somehow deeper than usual, and his eyes flicker up to yours at last. “Are you sure?”

You lift your brows. “I’m sure. Law school applications are due soon, so I’d like to focus on those.”

He leans back against his desk and folds his arms over his chest. “Most schools’ deadlines aren’t until November. Sometimes December. Your definition of soon is a little skewed compared to other students in this class.”

“I work my best when I have plenty of time to prepare.” You don’t know why you feel so ready to defend yourself. Perhaps it’s his too-righteous-for-thou attitude. 

“You won’t always get plenty of time in the real world,” he says, and oh, your pride prepares a winding swing in retaliation at that.

Your smile is a brief violent slash across your face. “It’s a good thing I work well under pressure, too.”

Should I show you my resume, Dr. York? I’ll glue my internships and volunteer efforts and research assistantships to your smug face.

He doesn’t speak for a moment. Rubbing his fingers over his mouth, he observes you with that infernal stare, the pools of his eyes black under the awning of his lashes. He’s stone still for a long while. He hasn’t so much as glanced at the paper on his desk.

“Is this sufficient?” you ask, indicating your assignment, code for Can I please leave now, for the love of God? “Stapled on the left.”

He’s trying to scare you off. In his eyes, you’re just another overeager student trying to land a networking opportunity by way of his good graces. You’re fairly certain Dr. York wouldn’t know good graces if they kicked his dog, but you’d prefer not to make him hate you before the first month of the school year is over. He probably knows many powerful people who could make or break your chance at a good career. It’s best that you keep your interactions with him to a minimum. 

“In my experience, early papers are sloppy and rushed,” he says.

Does he try to diminish every single student he comes across? Does he have to duck his head when he enters a room to keep from bashing his ego on the frame? You level him with your chilliest stare.

“I’m confident with my work, Dr. York. I don’t really have the time to tuck my tail and run off to go fix whatever you think is wrong with it.” Your bag is starting to weigh on your shoulder. The spare change you have in your pocket designated for your morning coffee still jingles around, unused. 

He finally looks down at the title page of your neatly-printed essay and picks it up with the rest of his things. “All right,” he says. “I’ll have feedback for you before the end of next week.”

You blink. That’s it? 

You’ve already wound up your throwing arm for a professionally-worded parry against his next underhanded comment, but it never comes. Instead, he turns, slides his books—with your paper—into his bag, and leaves the lecture hall. You’re left standing alone in the room until the motion sensor lights dim to a slow death.

“OH MY GOD!” you shout. “Ohmygodohmygodohmy—”

A fist pounds on your bedroom wall from the other side. “Can you shut the fuck up in there? Some of us are trying to have sex—not that you’d understand.”

Not even your roommate and her new conquest will dampen your spirits—not when you’ve opened your email to a shiny new internship offer. 

Your eyes skim the bulk of the text, gathering the important information first. We here at Gladwell Family Law seek to uphold an enthusiastic and challenging work environment… Please enter the building through the side door to avoid ongoing construction on Fifth… Fatima will meet you in the lobby to give you a key to the building… You will be working closely with your supervising lawyer John Gladwell on his current case… We look forward to seeing you Monday… 

Your hand is glued to your mouth as you continue to scan your eyes across the screen. In the next room, you hear your roommate’s headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall. 

You've organized your entire schedule around this internship, leaving your Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights free so there would be no class or extracurricular conflicts that could reflect negatively on your time management skills. You've meticulously designed your LinkedIn to tailor to their interests. You've suffered through weekend nights, sipping coffee and drowning out your roommate’s cries of Oh, yes! Fuck me harder! so you could practice every possible answer the interviewer would throw at you. All so you could snatch this position at Gladwell. 

Another email crowds your inbox and your pulse spikes. Maybe you should keep a blood pressure monitor handy. 

From: Dave York

Re: Feedback

You sigh, your cursor hovering over the attachment labelled “Feedback.docx.” Creative. 

Leave it to Dr. York to sour your mood. Dread twists you in your seat as you debate opening the file. It looks like your only bottle of wine will remain corked another night. 

You wince as you click on the attachment. Scrolling through the many track changes to the bottom of the document, you see his final comments in red. A.

A. He gave you an A.

I’m impressed with your work. See my marginal comments for details on how you can improve for your next assignment. 

— DY

The dread uncoils in your stomach and you can feel it well up with frustration. No apology for how condescending he was this morning. You aren't surprised. He’ll forget about you by tomorrow. You just hope he's a little ashamed that he thought so little of you. 

You reply just as coolly: Thank you for the quick feedback. I will take your suggestions into account and look forward to the next assignment. Feeling a little high off your academic success, you add, I hope you have a great weekend. 

After all, he must be equally antisocial, grading a student’s paper on a Friday night instead of drinking stale beer at a bar and crunching peanut shells underfoot. A shard of sympathy sings in your chest. 

You decide to uncork your bottle of wine in the end. 

Georgia Gladwell’s stern face peers down her glasses at you from her framed picture in the lobby. She sits above your new desk, her arms folded, surveying your every move as you methodically unpack your bag and settle into the swivelling chair behind the receptionist’s desk. 

A shiny new key to the building jingles on your ring. When you aren’t shadowing your supervising lawyer John on his case, you’ll be manning the phones at the front desk, familiarizing yourself with the firm’s clients, environment, and routine. Everything is pristine, sterile, and faintly smells of eucalyptus. Smooth jazz pours slowly from the speakers. The effect it has on you is instantaneous: having missed out on your morning coffee trying to decide on the perfect First Day outfit, you feel your eyelids drooping. Perhaps it’s a psychological tactic—to imitate a spa day so that the stressed parents in custody battles and angry ex-spouses will feel disarmed. 

You twirl a pen in your hand as you finish reviewing your contract. The pay is typical of a work study, but your scholarship has assured that you won’t need to work three jobs to make it through the rest of your undergrad. At least the other baristas don’t bother you much; they seem a little afraid to approach you most days, in fact. But friends are a luxury good these days and you can’t seem to find one to save your life. You suppose it’s mostly your fault.

Signing your name, you slide the pen through the clipboard with a finalistic flair and rise to find John in his office. Failing to calculate an appropriate walking speed, you nearly barrel right into someone’s back as he emerges from an office nearby, clapping his hand in another man’s for a firm handshake. You gasp, stumbling backward to avoid a collision course as you come face-to-face with Dave York in the narrow hallway. 

The sound of the office door closing makes you jump out of your skin. The plaque on the frosted window reads: 

John Gladwell, Esq.Family Law Attorney

Shit.

You clutch the clipboard close to your chest and give him your most polite smile. “Sorry, Professor.”

A suit jacket is draped over his forearm and his silver watch gleams at you, the rising sun reflected in its face. His shirtsleeves are rolled to his elbows and his hair is dishevelled, as if his fingers have spent a good amount of time abusing it. His lips part, his brows drawing together as he assesses you, something circling the pupils of his dark eyes that you can’t extract. He’s handsome in this light, unkempt and a little golden, and maybe it’s your imagination, but he smells of eucalyptus.

He clears his throat, courteously dips his head, and your spine locks. 

You aren’t sure why his vacant frown stings, but you look down and curl your fists around the clipboard as if to squeeze some of your pride from the cork. He doesn’t remember you.

It’s all right, you tell yourself, bitterness oozing. It’s only been an entire weekend. He probably sees a hundred students a day. 

“Was it helpful?” 

His deep, rasping voice chills you. When your eyes flick upward tentatively, testing the waters of how much of your embarrassment to give away, you feel his gaze peel you apart, layer by layer. It feels less like he’s trying to remember your face and more like he’s trying to dig his way inside it.

“I’m sorry?” you say weakly. Twice now you’ve apologized to him for nothing.

“My feedback,” he says, and your bones feel like they could melt under the temperature of his voice. There’s a distinct melody to it; it recedes from the tide and pushes back in, always coated in the warm, sticky nighttime one feels on the coast. It’s humid and it sits on your skin like dew. “Was it helpful?”

You swallow. He remembers. “Oh. Yes. Very helpful, thank you.”

“You write well,” he says. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here.”

He sounds so close to conversational, to pleasant, that your neck begins to ache from the whiplash. “I’ve wanted this internship for months,” you reply. “I’ve pretty much organized my entire life around it in the hopes I’d get to shadow an attorney here.”

He loosens his tie slightly and you notice that he doesn’t wear a wedding ring. A bullseye tattoo sits between his thumb and forefinger. 

“And…” You lick your lips, anxiously tapping your fingers on the back of the clipboard. “It looks like I’ll be shadowing yours.”

He rubs his hand over his jaw and you notice the beginnings of a beard he has yet to tame. “I’d prefer if you didn’t say anything about this. Don’t really need all my students knowing their professor can’t hold a marriage together, let alone a class.”

You’re taken aback by the fractal of vulnerability lodged in his expression, the slight wince accompanying his request. “I don’t have anyone to tell,” you say earnestly. “And I wouldn’t if I did.” 

Something inside you hums at the way his eyes flicker across your face, up and down your body, as if scanning lines upon lines of print. What does he see when he reads you this way? “Thought you’d have more friends than you can count.”

Your face feels hot under his scrutiny. “It’s mostly just me. I’m busy, so… you know. I mean, there’s my roommate, but she’s occupied most of the time. And she’s sick of me playing my study music until three a.m.”

You swear that’s a smirk on his face. “Studies show sleep is actually good for your health. You should try getting some.”

You tsk at him. “Don’t think I haven’t caught you micro-napping at your desk during class breaks, Dr. York.”

“Call me Dave,” he says. “While we’re here, at least.”

You hesitate. It’s bad enough that your supervising lawyer is handling your criminal law professor’s case; if you make even one misstep, it could mean your chance at a career. “I don’t know if that’s appropriate.”

His frown morphs into something softer, and it makes the hair on the back of your neck rise. His intense gaze should frighten you. It should turn you on your heel. Instead, you want to lean your ear in and hear more of his voice. You want to open your eyes wide. 

“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out of your mouth before you realize where they’re heading. “About your divorce. It must be hard.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he says, and it sounds close to a question, as if the words sit too heavily on his tongue and he’s trying to swirl it carefully around them. “I thought you would be different. And I judged you.”

You shake your head. It's nothing. You haven't figured out what about him makes his presence so suffocating. “I have to get my contract to John, so…”

Wordlessly, he steps out of the way, and you feel distinctly like prey being eyed by a lion as you knock on John’s door. 

“You deserve to be here,” says Dave. He's close enough that his breath wraps its warm fingers around your neck. You cannot suppress a shiver. “Don't forget that.”

“I won’t,” you say, your back to him. And you won’t let anything compromise this.

You learn things about Dave York over the next two weeks. 

He's rarely jovial; you’d go so far as to call him a grump. He has no patience for latecomers and even less tolerance for whisperers. He writes on the chalkboard because he seems averse to all kinds of technology. His cell phone flips open like a jewellery box and fits in his breast pocket. He gesticulates with his hands as he talks and rarely sits still. He's an engaging lecturer. It's no wonder his course has a reputation. 

The sound of laptop keys clicking irritates him and the sound of pen scratching across paper soothes him. He rarely strays from a black or blue suit, though you think he'd look charming in brown. He plays with his cuff links when he's thinking. His soon-to-be-ex-wife is Carol. She rarely stops by the firm, but when she does, her own lawyer in tow, she makes her meetings with Dave and John quick. You keep to yourself in the corner of the room, scribbling notes in your own shorthand. 

Carol seems lovely, but there's a chill between her and Dave. Neither of them seem inclined to show affection; if you didn't know they'd been married six years, the polite handshake they share at the beginning of every joint meeting would never give it away. 

He has no children. Carol has two daughters, and they had been living with their father until she realized she’d fallen in love with him again. If Dave thinks she's been unfaithful, he doesn't seem broken up about it. 

No love lost, you wrote in your notebook, underlined in bold red pen. 

As for Dave, he keeps his distance from you, mostly. He chews on the inside of his cheek or bounces his leg when he's feeling restless or impatient. He doesn't speak to you, the shadow, during his meetings with John. You do a decent job of making yourself invisible. 

Sometimes you watch him from afar, your notebook balanced in your lap or the phone tucked under your chin. It's so strange, you think. He's perfectly polite to everyone in the office and he treats John as one would any colleague. But he seems so detached. He can glance at every single face in the room and it feels like he's sizing them up to swallow them whole. 

It's hard to picture him in love. 

“What the hell are you still doing here?”

You jump at the sound of his voice and scramble to gather the papers you scattered across the table. Night fell some time ago, and you really don’t have much of an excuse for staying so late in the office when half the city is already asleep. 

Dave leans against the doorframe to the conference room, jacket folded over his arm (does he ever wear the goddamn thing?) like a waiter’s towel. His frame is illuminated by the dim hallway light, which occasionally flickers out when it senses no bodies nearby. You can hardly see his face in the darkness, but you know yours is starkly lit by your screen, your features on display for him to take apart piece by piece. 

“I should be asking you the same thing,” you reply. “John left hours ago.” 

He prowls toward you and lowers himself into a chair, leaning forward on his knees. “I was planning tomorrow’s lecture, actually.”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Like, home?”

His mouth twists and your eyes are helplessly drawn to it. “Don’t you?”

“You’re down to the wire, Professor.”

“Mm. I like the thrill.” Your pulse hastens and you have the sudden urge to button your blouse to your throat. “Doesn’t seem like you enjoy it so much,” he adds, glancing at an unfinished personal statement on your laptop screen. The cursor has been blinking at you from the left margin for nearly twenty minutes now.

“My LSAT wasn’t as hard as this.” You rub your brow. “I should be wowing them with my achievements, but I’m stuck wondering if I have anything meaningful to say about myself at all.”

He frowns. “You’re an exceptional student.”

“Can you repeat that on record for me?” you say miserably. “It’s just… I’ve spent my whole life working toward the next goal, winning the next scholarship, getting the best grades. None of them would want me if they knew how little of a life I really have.”

He studies you for a moment, his thumb gliding across his mouth, his dark eyes inscrutable. Leaning toward you, he folds your laptop shut and the room is bathed in darkness. The only light to be seen filters upward through the floor-to-ceiling windows from the streetlamps outside. Even the jackhammering and shouting has stopped. For a moment, you catch his scent as he pulls away, cologne and leather, the bridge of your nose stinging with him. 

“Not like this,” he says softly. “Not now, and not tonight.”

“Dave…”

He shuts you up with a look, his brows lowering, his eyes burning you to the spot. It’s infuriating. You can’t seem to reel even a sliver of him into you. He’s impossible to study. You try to cast your line once more and your hook is caught in the air between you.

“You have a life,” he says, “and you’re gonna do incredible things with it. But you’re not sleeping. You’re living on coffee. This isn’t how you get there.”

You fold your arms over your chest. Has he been watching you, too? “You don’t know me.”

“I know me,” he says. “I know working myself to the bone and letting the work swallow me alive. I ruined my marriage before it even began.”

Your heart squeezes. You can hardly imagine this Dave reaching for his wife’s hand, cupping her face, laughing with her, kissing her. You wonder if he used to bring her flowers or arrange picnics or pay for her shopping trips. Did they have an all-consuming love? Did they fall into one another’s arms and kiss in the pouring rain and dance in the middle of a crowded restaurant the way they do it in the movies? Does he mourn what he could have had? Does he regret the small, sweet things he never did for her?

“Are you… still in love with her?”

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “We were friends for a long time. When she left Rob, I was there. And she loved me as hard as she could, until I stopped being there, and she couldn’t anymore.” He traces the contours of the wooden table, his eyes downcast. “I don’t blame her for any of it. How could I?”

You shake your head. “Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. Maybe you weren’t made for one another.”

“You think?” He scoffs like it’s a ridiculous thing, to think for even a second that he isn’t guilty. “You believe in meant to be?”

“I think if you believed it, you would have tried harder to keep her,” you tell him, and his head slowly tilts, considering, watching you so closely that you wonder if he can sense the minute shift in your breathing. 

“And you?” he says. His voice rattles your ribs. “Have you ever been in love?”

You pull your lip between your teeth and he doesn’t miss it. “I’m hard to love,” you tell him.

A muscle twitches above his brow and you wish you could know what it means. “Then nobody’s tried hard enough.”

Pressure stings behind your nose and you hurry to gather your papers before he can see your eyes well with tears. You try to say something like, I should be on my way home, but you don’t make it past the first couple words before you’re choking on the rest. 

You shrug your bag over your shoulder and Dave’s hand curls around the strap. “Let me take you home,” he says. “It’s late.”

“I’ll take a taxi,” you say, with more bite than you intended. “Thank you, Dr. York.”

He takes a step forward and it’s too close. Too warm. Your coat scratches like wool and the hairs on the back of your neck rise as he slowly slides the bag off your shoulder. “It’s late,” he says, and it’s stern, cool, but you’re burning up under his gaze, a popsicle abandoned on a hot pavement. 

“Okay,” you whisper. You can’t manage much more than that.

The seats are leather and you’re afraid to touch anything in case you scuff the interior of his car. He closes the passenger door after you and you're suddenly overcome with the panic of being caught inside your professor’s vehicle. You hug your bag close to your chest and refuse to touch a single control on the dash. Dave settles into the driver’s seat and turns on the ignition. 

You begin to laugh and he eyes you quizzically. “You listen to the Pet Shop Boys?”

He turns down the volume. “Is that disturbing?”

“I took you for… I don't know, a Hadyn or Grieg sort of guy.”

He pins you with a look. “Not everyone over forty listens exclusively to classical music.”

“You're telling me you don't have a CD collection hidden in this car somewhere?”

He chuckles and pulls away from the curb. “No comment.”

The ride back to your apartment is quiet. Occasionally you provide him with a Turn right up here or a Left at the next light, and he makes the turn with grace, his watch ticking away the minutes. Your head lolls to the side as you watch the city pass by outside the window, bars lined up around the block and grates steaming and streetlights glowing red. Your heartbeat slows to the steady purr of the engine and your panic ebbs. You're safe. Here, in the dark, covered in a coat of night and smelling his cologne, the world feels like something you can conquer. Maybe it won't swallow you after all. 

“Up here, on the right,” you tell him, and he pulls up to the curb outside your brownstone. “Thank you, Dr. York. I mean it.”

“Dave,” he says again. “You're not the most difficult passenger I've had.”

You laugh. “No. I’d put money on Colin.”

“Yeah?”

“You haven't noticed him digging through the trash bin each night to see if someone accidentally dumped an important receipt?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head as if doesn't know whether to laugh it off or check his pockets for an important receipt. “I can honestly say I’ve never noticed that.”

A passing car bathes his face in light and it dances in his eyes. For a moment, you're struck by the fact that you can see him so clearly. He isn't obscured in the shadows or giving you that impenetrable stare. He looks deeply human, maybe for the first time, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and a scar on his nose and a five o’clock shadow. 

Your hand trembles as you reach for his arm and gently squeeze. His eyes follow a path from your shoulder to your fingers. 

“I know you’ll figure it out,” you say. “Everything with Carol. You're a smart man.”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Tell me something.”

You don't know why you agree so quickly. “All right,” you say, your fingertips tingling. His jacket is rumpled where you touched him. 

“Why did you take my class?”

You smile. “Because I need the credit.”

His grin is lopsided, almost boyish, and it makes you flutter. “Good. An honest lawyer.”

It feels like his eyes are writing his name into your skin. “You never answered my question, you know. You never told me if you still love her.”

“I figured you'd think I’m an asshole,” he says, “if I told you I never did.”

Frankly, you're surprised to learn he thinks anything of your opinion at all. You open the passenger door. “That's not why I think you're an asshole, Dr. York. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You know he's watching you the entire walk up to your door, but you don't turn back to look. 

The weeks chug forward, overcast and gloomy, and midterms are fast approaching. The libraries are overcrowded from morning through evening and nothing much has changed about your dismal sleep schedule. Only now, you meet Dave outside his office every Friday after class and he drives you both to Gladwell. 

He chipped away at you until you were nothing but flesh and bone, even though you'd put up a fight. I can take the bus, Dr. York. I really don't mind. 

Well, I do, he replied. It can be dangerous. 

You sound like my father. 

He levelled you with a glare. Defiant, you folded your arms in front of your chest. We're going to the same place, he said. Stop being so proud. 

My pride is my proudest feature.

He just opened the passenger door and stared you down. If we keep arguing, we’ll be late. 

That convinced you. You slid into the passenger seat of his Audi and begged him to let you pay for coffee. All was well until he slid his card in front of the machine while you were making small talk with the barista. 

Dave, you protested, I don’t want to owe you any more than I already do. 

He took your coffees from the barista with a curt nod and shouldered the door open for you. You owe me when I say you owe me. A coffee and a car ride aren't going to set me back. 

Must be nice, you grumbled, plucking your latte from his hand. Your fingers brushed as you touched the cup and the contact nearly jolted you into dropping it. 

Ever since Dave caught you in the height of your writer’s block in the conference room that night, the air has felt different around him. Charged. You don't know what to make of it. The pair of you have been perfectly skirting the edges of professional, ignoring one another during lectures, tolerating the quiet during the drive to Gladwell. But your skin electrifies when he draws near. You lean forward from your shadowy perch in the corner of the office when he speaks, your pen drooling ink through the pages of your book. He asks you about your day and you stumble over your words, where you’d once been cool and composed in the face of his righteousness. Your pulse spikes when you pass one another in the hallway or when John CCs you on an email to Dave. 

It’s the smallest moments that slot together into this jagged, confounding image of him. It’s him pulling a pen from the inside of his jacket when you sheepishly admit that you’ve forgotten yours. It’s him offering to read the first draft of your personal statement just because he thinks you’ve got a real shot, that you have what it takes. It’s the silence of just sitting with him in the conference room, the Newton’s cradle on the long glass table tick-tick-ticking away, lulling you to sleep or insanity, listening to him typing on his laptop while you study until your eyes melt off your face. He makes it easier, somehow.

It’s Monday now, and you’re yawning widely as you step off the bus. It lets you off a stop early thanks to the construction and splashes you as it drives off for good measure. The cold rain pelts your umbrella as you hurry down the block. You have two minutes until you're officially late. 

The muddy rainwater soaking through your pants is starting to make you shiver as you wait at the crosswalk. Someone bumps into you from behind and you grit your teeth, holding onto your umbrella for dear life as the wind picks up and nearly carries you to the other side of the street. 

Outside the firm, you pick through each of the keys on your ring until you find the right one and practically shove the door open. The lobby is peaceful and quiet and your ears pop as you shut the door against the torrent outside. You store your umbrella with the others, take off your waterlogged coat, and pat your pockets for your wallet. 

Panic zips up your spine as you dig your hands into each of your pockets only to find a gum wrapper and lint. Your wallet was in your coat pocket. You're sure of it. You always keep it where you can easily—

Recalling the stranger who bumped into you at the crosswalk, you feel your blood freeze over. “No,” you croak. “Nonono. Fuck, fuck, this can't be happening.”

“Hey.”

The gentle rumble of his voice startles you. Ducking your head, you squeeze your eyes shut and hope he will go away. You're too humiliated to turn around and face him. 

“Hey,” he says again, his voice achingly soft. “You're shivering.”

You sniffle, hugging your arms close to your middle. “Just cold.”

“C’mon.” You could melt under the heat of his palm, your body guided by his hand on your elbow. He takes you in as you shamefully meet his gaze, his frown deepening at the sight of your tears. “You’ll catch a cold like this. Come with me.” 

His soothing rasp beckons you forward. Your feet carry you to John’s office and Dave shuts the door, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and draping it over your shoulders. His fingers curl gently around your arms, rubbing them up and down through the soft material of his jacket. The gesture is tender, so giving, and this couldn’t possibly be the cold, detached Dave York who spends his Friday evenings grading papers, who drove his wife away because work always came first. He swipes the pad of his thumb under your chin to nudge it upward, to make you meet his eye.

“Tough day at the office?” he teases.

A weepy laugh stumbles its way out of you. “You could say that.”

He clicks his tongue, his eyes scouring your body. “Vivian keeps spare clothes in the lounge. If you don’t mind advertising for Gladwell Family Law.”

“I’ll advertise anything if it means getting out of these clothes,” you tell him, your fingers trembling as you pull his jacket taut around your shoulders. It smells like his cologne and you’re hit with a dizziness that forces you into the closest chair. Dave returns with a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt emblazoned with the Gladwell crest, and he stretches his hand toward you, palm-up, an offering. 

Your fingers glide along his lifelines, his calluses, closing at last around his knuckles. His brow wrinkles, his eyes fixed to where your hands meet, following the road back to your face. You feel your lips part subconsciously, searching for something to say, but the cold and the wet bleed the energy from your bones. 

You think of how this must look, and the urge to pull your hand away is quelled by the tender way he pulls you to your feet, steadying you with his other hand on the small of your back. For a moment, your faces are so close that you can count the freckles on his jaw—there's another tattoo just behind his ear—and your head feels stuffed with him, smell and sight and touch. 

A shiver starts at the apex of your spine and hits every knob on the way down. Dave’s head moves, his strong nose inches from your temple, and you're reminded of a lion sniffing at its prey, nudging its way around the body. You could claw at him, fight back, but you're frozen, deerlike, and you aren't sure you even want to run. 

He abandons the kill, stepping back with a sharp inhale and squeezing your hand. “Bathroom,” he rasps. “You can change in there.”

Right. You hurry past him, taking the change of clothes from John’s desk, your hand slipping from Dave’s. Locked safely in the bathroom, you peel yourself out of your clothes and step into the freshly-laundered sweatpants. The methodical act of dressing is a welcome distraction from the fact that soon you'll have to emerge from the bathroom and face Dave York once more, knowing that for a moment, you'd thought about kissing him. 

Stupid. The weight of his big, warm hand on your back still lingers, severing you at the waist, dismantling you for parts. If John had been in his office, none of this would have happened. And if John had walked in on the two of you, you could say goodbye to your internship. You're upset, and stressed, and Dave was there. He always seems to be there. But this—whatever this is—cannot continue. You cannot let it. You’ll cut your feelings at the roots and let them wither underground. Dave York is not an option, for more reasons than you can count. 

You freshen up in the bathroom and meet him back in John’s office, your soiled clothes bundled into a damp ball. “Hi.”

He takes his hands out of his pockets and stops pacing, turning to face you where you stand cautiously in the entrance. “You look…”

“Professional?” you offer, performing a halfhearted twirl. 

He rubs his jaw and there's something burning in his eyes that you can't—don’t want to—unravel. “Warm,” he says. 

You swallow hard. The air is sinking over your head and beginning to choke you. “I guess… we should wait for John.”

“Yeah.” His voice has retreated into his chest and the low rumble makes your skin break out in goosebumps. “Listen, I—”

“Dave,” you say weakly, hugging your old clothes to your chest, “let's just… I shouldn't have…”

“Honey,” he says. Your heartbeat is throttled into submission as he steps forward and takes the bundle of clothes from your arms. “Just tell me what happened.”

And you're so grateful for the change of subject that you sigh, lowering yourself into a chair. Dave sets your clothes next to his bag as if he expects to take them home with him. 

“Someone stole my wallet,” you tell him, looking down at your folded hands. The embarrassment sings through your cheeks. “God, I need to cancel all my cards, replace my ID… I even lost the keycard for this building.”

Dave leans on John’s desk, towering over you, his forearms taut with muscle. You wet your lips. 

“I’ll handle it,” he says, and fuck, you want him to. You want to crawl into bed and sleep for days and let him handle everything. He'd field your calls, order you brand-new cards, pick them up himself. He'd intimidate the goddamn mugger himself into giving you back your wallet if he could. You know it. You know he would. 

But you're shaking your head, wrenching your shears around the root. “I wasn't careful, and I’ll take care of it. You've done enough for me, Dave.”

He assesses you, sizing up your stubbornness, calculating how far it will go. You can see it play out in his face, all the way to the end. He knows you'll never budge. “All right,” he says at last. “Then come out for a drink with me.”

You blink up at him, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry?”

“A drink,” he says, “after I’m done here.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Is that… appropriate, Dr. York?”

He tilts his head to the side, and your body reacts under his gaze, your posture straightening, perspiration tingling on your temples. His eyes flicker down to your mouth and there’s so much intention in his lowered eyes that you free your bottom lip from between your teeth. “It’s just two colleagues,” he says, so quietly you can barely hear, “getting drinks together.”

“Just two colleagues,” you echo, and you may as well be in a trance, watching him rise from the desk and stand a mere two feet from where you sit. You crane your neck backward to look him in the eye and he seems pleased. 

“Meet me at the front desk.”

The gentle command blooms from your core, warm and sap-sweet, and you’re beginning to worry that the roots have multiplied beyond your control. You nod your head and rise from the chair, your eyes catching the watch on Dave’s wrist. 

“John will be here soon.” You’re leisurely in your visual pursuit up his muscled forearm, his broad shoulders, the angle of his jaw, his nose, the plush softness of his mouth. “You didn't have to get here so early. Why did you?”

He isn’t subtle in the way he watches you, either. There’s something voyeuristic about his eyes dipping between your collarbones, catching the hard peaks of your nipples under the fabric of your borrowed shirt. It’s more than wanting to undress you. You’re halfway convinced he wants to eat you alive. 

His nostrils flare and you’re more than convinced you’d let him sink his teeth into you.

“Do you want me to answer that?” His voice rumbles deep in his chest.

Yes. Please, yes. 

Tell me all the ways you want me. Tell me how much it’s killing you not to touch me. Tell me you show up early each day because you’re hoping to catch a glimpse of me.

“No,” you say, your voice breaking. “Not yet.”

His tongue darts out across his lower lip. “Good,” he says. “You’re a good girl.”

Impulsively you nod again, more desperate in this moment to please him than to get far, far away before John walks in on you both. “I’m not dressed for the bar,” you say, and it feels pathetic before you can even finish the sentence.

The corner of his mouth twitches up into a smirk. He can barely get out a syllable in response before John opens the door and steps into his office, briefcase in hand. “Good morning,” he says breezily, frowning at the bundle of clothes on the floor next to Dave’s bag. “Everything okay in here?”

Your blood chills as reality rudely intrudes into the space between you and Dave. You’re being astronomically stupid, letting him stand so close to you, letting him say the things he does. Letting yourself fall into him like he’s some bright star, when you know giving in will only ruin everything. 

“All good,” you say pleasantly. “Got splashed by the bus on the way here.”

You retreat to the shadows with your notebook and pen and promptly ignore him for the rest of your work day. He and John are beginning to close in on agreements with Carol and her lawyer, which means that soon he’ll no longer be tied to Gladwell. And you’re happy about it. You’ll be glad to see him free of the stress that’s been straining his brow. But a part of you aches at the thought of having to part ways with a cordial smile and a handshake. A part of you wonders if he’ll just slip away someday without so much as a syllable. Maybe whatever exists between you, whatever green thing has started to poke its knotty fingers through the earth, will be killed by the frost. It will be winter soon. 

He’s wearing his glasses now, flipping through a paperclipped pile of papers from the bank, thighs spread wide in his chair. Your body hums at the sight and your pen quivers in your hand. You can’t let this continue. You can’t.

But God, you revel a little in his attention and you hate yourself for it. Every time you yawn, stretch, give your input to John, ask him to clarify something, Dave’s hand curls around the arm of his chair. He clears his throat, adjusts himself in his seat, watches you when John isn’t looking, the tip of his pen chewed to mulched plastic. He watches as you leave the room and he watches as you return. 

His desire is warm and it’s sunny and you can’t help yourself but stretch yourself out in it, filling every little nook and cranny. 

He meets you in the lobby, opens your umbrella over your head to shield you from the rain, and guides you into the passenger seat of his car. By now, you’ve filled it more times than you can count. It’s second nature to meet him out in the staff parking lot every Friday and settle into the cool leather. But you hold yourself more reserved now, his blazer draped warmly over your shoulders, refusing to fiddle with his air conditioning or the volume of his music. 

One afternoon, you were digging through the CD collection in his glove box on the drive to Gladwell. And what is this, Dr. York? you said, triumphantly holding up a burned disc upon which Dave has scrawled in his neat handwriting, Mozart.

He snatched the disc from your hand. Show me a university professor who doesn’t listen to this shit to calm down.

Oh, yes. Of course. You laughed. You have such tough students, after all.

Yeah, I’m looking at one of ‘em.

Sonata No. 16 is trilling softly through the speaker system now. You glance at him and though he doesn’t look your way, the corner of his mouth twitches. The ride to the bar is quiet, and you like it this way. You've never needed to fill empty space with him. 

The bar, Ricky’s, is a couple blocks away. Inside, the tables are dusty and the grey daylight filters lazily through the windows. A couple regulars—you assume they must be, kicking their feet up and watching the tiny televisions that are broadcasting the Cubs game—keep on minding their business when you and Dave walk in. 

“It's quiet,” you point out. 

He chuckles. “Expecting an authentic club scene at four o’clock in the afternoon?”

“I guess I thought a guy like you would like something a bit more along the lines of a… well, I don't want to say speakeasy—”

Behind you, he dips his head to whisper in your ear. “How old do you think I am?” 

You shiver at the feeling of him so close to you. “Do you want me to answer that?”

“What can I get you folks?” says the bartender as she wipes down a beer tap. 

Dave orders a beer and you play it safe with a rum and coke. His foot rests on the bar of your stool, keeping you close, and you can't tell if it's the relaxed lighting or the muffled noises of traffic outside, but he looks more at ease than you've ever seen him. And he's so handsome like this: sleeves rolled to his elbows, a couple buttons undone on his shirt, his large hand choking the neck of his beer as it sweats over his knuckles. His hair is tousled from the wind. When he smiles or drinks, little creases appear next to his eyes, and you find yourself leaning closer to him to see all these details. 

“So,” you say tentatively, “what made you ask me to get a drink with you, Dr. York?”

He takes a tactical swig of his beer and Jesus, his mouth fits so nicely around the lip of the bottle. “What made you agree?”

You roll your eyes. “Apparently, I’m a people pleaser.”

“I know,” he says. “I know you work overtime because John asks you to and you can't say no even if you have ten other things on your plate.”

“I always have ten other things on my plate. One more doesn't hurt.”

“You think it doesn't,” he says softly, “but you're running on steam. Adrenaline. I know a little bit about that.”

“Yeah, well, I can't afford to rest.”

“That's right,” he says, clearly amused. “You wanna catch the bad guys.”

You turn your chin up a little. “That first day I came up to you with my paper, I thought you were a total jackass.”

He hums, unaffected. “And I thought you were some try-hard who would get a B-minus at best.”

“And you're still a jackass,” you say, taking a sip of your drink. 

“But you're nothing like how I thought you'd be,” says Dave. “You're different. Every time I look at you, it's something different.”

“You look at me a lot?”

He takes another swig and pride bubbles up into your throat. 

“Carol always said I never made enough friends. I didn't go out enough.”

You lift your brows. “And is that what we are now? Friends?”

His eyes perform a daring swoop over your body. “I’m not very good at friends.”

“But you're so warm and welcoming.”

“Mm. And you’re so funny.”

But he’s smiling, hiding it behind the drink he takes, and it's charming enough to make your cheeks warm. 

“I’m going to ask you a question,” you tell him, “and I want you to answer honestly.” 

He watches you expectantly and you feel consumed by his attention, your back ramrod straight, your palms clammy. “Did you ask me here so nobody could walk in on us?”

He runs his tongue over his teeth and you imagine kissing him. “I can be selfish,” he says, setting his bottle on the bar. He won't quite meet your eye. “I've been selfish with my money, my things, my work. I’ve taken things I didn't deserve because I didn't want someone else to have it. I fought hard for my job at that school even though I knew it would take me away from Carol, and I was already losing her. I just kept driving in the nail.”

He turns to face you and the black of his pupils seems to pool outward, drowning his irises. 

“And I’m selfish with you,” he says. “Your time. Your attention. I can’t get my goddamn fill of you.”

His words are dizzying. “Dave…” 

“Come here,” he says. 

His stern tone is fucking intoxicating. Thrilling. You're in public, out in the open, and any pair of prying eyes could stray toward you. They could find you standing between your professor’s thighs, his hand cascading down your spine until it rests, content, on the small of your back. You're caged, trapped, on all sides by him, and you're drunk with the smell of cologne. 

He lifts his other hand, his thumb ghosting over your bottom lip. You let him, and you're fucking pleased to, enjoying the way he carefully explores you, dancing around the real taste you know he wants. 

“Maybe I asked you here so nobody could see,” he says, and you're melting into his touch, gooey and warm where his knuckle traces the shape of your jaw. “But maybe I want them to.”

You gasp as he hooks his fingers at the nape of your neck, holding you like a kitten by the scruff. His mouth inches closer and you want to beg him, plead on your knees, to finally kiss you. But you're at his mercy like this, and your mind is delightfully empty for once in your life. 

“Maybe,” he says softly, cradling your head like it's more precious than gold, “I’m just some dirty old man, and I want what I shouldn't take.” His thumb slides around your throat and presses gently into your pulse. “But your heart’s beating like crazy.” 

“Maybe I’m afraid,” you say, your head dipping back into the weight of his palm. 

He hums, his other hand toying with the hem of your shirt. “Are you?”

“Yes,” you say, your eyes contemplating the line of his jaw, the slope of his mouth. “But not of you, Dave.”

His brow furrows. A lion releasing the wounded deer from its jaws. He's applying pressure to the small of your back, the slightest push, and you're floating closer to him. 

“Well, I’m afraid of you,” he says. 

You shake your head. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“You're smart, you're driven. You're more than I’ve become in twice your lifetime.” He swipes the pad of his thumb over your chin. “I could follow you from a speeding train and never catch up. And Jesus, I don't want to. I want to keep following you forever. And where does that leave me?”

And God help you, but it doesn't feel selfish. There's nothing selfish about the tension lining his mouth as if he's trying to pull away from you before he makes a severe mistake. There's nothing selfish about the way his eyes squeeze shut when your fingers gently trail down his neck. 

You think he'd let you sink your teeth into him. 

“Maybe I’m afraid,” you say hoarsely, “because you can fuck up my whole future.”

“And you can't risk it.”

You swallow hard, your head tilting as you lean toward him. “And I can't risk it.”

He leans in too, and you can smell the beer on his breath, the cologne on his collar. You can see the black of his eyes swell as he nears your mouth and your lips are nearly touching when his cell phone begins to ring. 

He pauses, and you pull away altogether, your fingers hovering over your mouth. Oh, God. 

You almost kissed him. Your fucking teacher. 

You back away and stumble into your stool as Dave, clearing his throat and scratching the nape of his neck, fishes frantically for his phone. Your eyes are drawn to the large bulge in his pants and your cunt clenches. Fuck, you almost kissed him. The phone rings into the din of the bar and you consider fleeing. You consider hanging up the phone for him. You consider dragging him to the bathroom, dropping to your knees, and taking his cock in your mouth. 

Instead you stand, frozen, as he finds his phone and answers the call. As he speaks to John, his voice taut, syllables clipped, his eyes don't leave you for a heartbeat. It feels so filthy, so wrong that for a moment you contemplate quitting on the spot, but oh, he's devouring you whole and it tastes sweet. You sit on the stool, rubbing your thighs together to relieve some of the tension in your core, and his chest is heaving as he watches it all. You feel dirty. But you can't stop. You don't leave. You sit, prim and proper, and something in his starving gaze tells you that you're being good. A good girl. 

And you'll be good for him. 

So when he hangs up the phone and demands that you hand him yours, you give it over without a moment’s hesitation. 

“When I drop you off at home,” he says, sounding out of breath although he's only just had the briefest of phone conversations, “I want you to get in bed and touch yourself until you come. Can you do that for me, baby?”

You open your mouth and find you're equally short of breath. Your heart keels over at the sound of him calling you baby. “Yes.”

“And when you’re done, I want a picture,” he continues. 

Your knees are trembling. “Yes, sir.”

His nostrils flare and you like this. You like making him crazy. He gives your phone back with his number in your contacts. He’s put his name as “David” and for some reason it makes your heart flutter. Another small piece of himself you get to keep tucked in your pocket. 

“You could get in trouble,” you say softly. For so many reasons. 

“I’m already in it,” he replies. 

By the time Dave pulls up to the curb outside your apartment, you're so dizzy you can barely look him straight in the eye. The lust is consuming you from the inside, severing your sensibility, eating you to bones.

“I want you to know,” he says, his voice velvet-dark, “how good you are. I need you to know it. I’m not going to fuck this up. Not you. Not the way I did before.”

“Dave,” you say. “You're a good man.”

He looks your way and there's a melancholic curve to his mouth. “Just didn't meet the right person the first time around, huh?”

“Yeah.” You give him a smile and he echoes a sliver of it. “Doesn't make you bad.”

He reaches across the console and squeezes your thigh, so you place your hand atop his. He scans your face, fondness evident in the care he takes to do it, and you're a puddle of water in his palm. “You trust me?” he asks.

“I trust you.”

His hand trails further up your thigh and you squirm in your seat as you watch your own hand follow. “Trust me enough to play with this pretty pussy?” he muses, his eyes fixed between your legs. When you don't respond right away, too busy trying to level your breath, he gives your thigh a smack. “Answer me, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you plead. “Yes, sir.”

“Say it.”

You've never been so aroused in your fucking life. “I trust you to play with my pretty pussy. I want you to. Please.” 

“Oh, baby,” he says, a mocking tone of pity colouring his voice, “I will. But I want to see you play first. Go on inside.”

Feverishly, you open the car door and gather your things, slipping out and hurrying up the stairs to your door. You risk a glance behind you, and Dave’s there, watching you intently through the car window. He rubs his hand over his mouth as you wiggle your fingers at him in farewell. 

Two can play, Professor. 

Dave's phone buzzes in his pocket before he pulls in the driveway. 

His back is aching as he locks the front door behind him and tosses his keys and bag onto the bench. The thud echoes down the hallway. The walls of the spacious living room are cold and bare since Carol left with her myriad of artwork. The thermostat is set to a chilly sixty-eight because he tends to overheat. There are three bedrooms and he only uses one. It's empty and it's serviceable and he mostly despises it. 

He can't help but wonder how you'd fill the space. Your bare feet padding on the cold tile. Your body sprawled across the couch in front of the 85-inch television he rarely turns on except to let it scroll through dynamic screensavers. Your shampoo and your perfume clouding his head all hours of the day. He’d bend you over in front of the bathroom mirror and watch himself take you, your throat cradled in the nest of his palm, his every nerve falling keenly into you, bending to your will. 

His cock is already straining uncomfortably against his zipper as he wrenches his tie from around his neck and rubs the sore muscles there. Sitting at his desk, Dave pulls his phone from his pocket and finds a message waiting for him. 

His cock swells at the sight of your name alone. Yanking off his belt with one hand, Dave opens the attachment you've sent him. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. Your simple cotton panties are pulled to the side as if you couldn't wait to slip your hand inside and touch your pussy. Your fingers spread your lips apart so he can see your pearly, swollen clit, your slit wet and messy with the arousal that webs between your fingers. 

‘all for you, sir’

His thighs flex as he practically tears off the button of his trousers in his haste to unzip his fly. His cock, heavy and leaking, curves up against his belly, and he can't help himself as he squeezes the base for relief. 

‘Call me,’ he types. 

He only needs to wait a few seconds for you to obey his command. “Hi,” you say softly, your voice tinny and a little out of breath. 

“Did it feel good, baby?” he says hoarsely, spitting into his palm and wrapping his fingers around the head of his cock. “You give that pretty pussy what she needed?”

Your little gasp oozes down his spine and his cock twitches in his grasp. “Are you touching yourself?” you ask him. 

“Yeah,” he says, his head lolling back over the edge of the chair as he begins to drag his fist over his length. “Fuck, yeah. Sent me such a pretty picture, sweetheart. Couldn't—fuck—couldn’t help myself.”

“Dave.” There’s desperation in your voice now and he squeezes his eyes shut, picturing you on your knees at his feet. “It felt so good. Felt so fucking good, thinking about you licking my pussy.”

“Jesus,” he grunts, precum dribbling from his tip, his thumb smearing it over the head, his brain clogged with the sound of your filthy words. “Bet she tastes so sweet. My sweet fuckin’ girl.”

“Want you to taste me,” you say, and fuck, you're touching yourself. He can hear it in the hitch of your breath, the muffled rustling of your bedsheets. “I want you so badly.”

Dave’s grip is ironclad around the phone as he fists himself, his teeth bared as he imagines sliding his cock over the flat of your tongue, feeding himself to you inch by inch, working you up on his terms. Making you plead for it. 

“So goddamn impatient,” he growls. “Close your eyes.”

“Yes, sir.” 

That's his favourite sound. Your obedience, your trust. You’re so quick to pour yourself into any cast he decides. He’s going to have fun with that. 

“Play with your tits,” he commands, and he knows it slides down your throat like warm honey. “You don't touch your pussy ‘til I tell you to. Understand?”

You whimper, the sound melted butter in his ears, and he can see you pinching your nipples, your naked hips writhing for the touch he can't give you. “That's it,” he says, his fist sliding up and down his cock, the obscene sound of it echoing off the walls. “Such a good listener. Always so smart.”

Your heavy breathing is almost enough to make him explode on the spot. “Wish I could touch you. Wish I could suck your cock, sir. Wanna show you how good I am.”

He’s blind with lust, his cock angry red at the tip and begging to slide inside something warm. Oh, he'd fit so nicely between your thighs. You’d swallow him whole and beg for more still. 

“You wanna take my cock in your mouth, sweet girl?” he says, and the vision is decadent: your eyes blinking up at him, tears streaming from the corners as you hollow your cheeks around the girth of him, taking him so slow, your mouth hot, spongy, drooling for his cock. “Is that what you touch your pretty little pussy to? Sucking your teacher's dick? Hmm?”

“Yeah,” you whine, and he knows you're on the verge of begging. Just where he wants you. “Wanna be your best girl. Your only girl.”

And God help him, his heart squeezes at that. His cock likes the sound of it too, throbbing in his fist, so desperate for release that he’s beginning to feel lightheaded. 

“My best fuckin’ girl,” he grits out. “The only fuckin’ girl I want. You’d let me stuff you full, wouldn't you?”

“God, yes. Yes, I want you inside me. I'd let you do anything to me.”

“I know,” he says. “Now rub your clit for me. Nice and slow.”

The moan he hears when you obey his order makes his balls pull up and goddammit, he doesn't want this to be over so soon. “Fuck,” you gasp. “Oh, fuck, that feels so good.”

“Yeah? That feel nice, sweet girl? Go a little faster.”

He's got seconds left and he’s going to make them fucking count.

“Dave… fuck, I’m gonna… I’m gonna…”

“Let me hear it, sweetheart. Give it to me.” 

You cry out his name, and he groans low and loud, opening his eyes to watch his cock pulse in his hand, cum spilling over his hand and onto his belly. Every moan he hears from your mouth urges more from him, and it doesn't fucking end. It's sticky, filthy. And he doesn't feel guilty about a second of it. 

“Fuck,” he says, his heartbeat pounding against his ribs. “I was gonna take things slow.”

You laugh, a little delirious with pleasure, and pride simmers low in his chest knowing he's taken your mind off things, even if it's just for a while. 

“Thank you, Dave.”

He’d do any-fucking-thing to hear that again. To make you feel good. 

“You busy tonight?” he says. 

You hum, and the flirtation in your tone makes him feel twenty years younger. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I decided I want to see you again,” he replies, “and I’m an impatient guy.”

“Are you inviting me into your home, Dave York?” 

“Are you saying yes?”

“Of course I’m saying yes. I’m incapable of saying no, remember?”

And he’ll work on that. But he likes it when you go easily to him. “I’ll come pick you up. We’ll have dinner.”

“Dave, you were just here. I’ll take a cab.”

“You know I love arguing with you, baby, but I’m feeling generous.”

“Well, sure you are. Orgasms will do that.”

He chuckles. “I’ll be outside in twenty.”

You're practically skipping to his car when he arrives. The drive back to his place is serene. Idle chatter fills the space as you discuss your week: the assignments piling up for each of your classes, your dentist appointment that isn't fully covered and the extra shifts at the café you'll need to pick up, the days getting shorter. Your fingers toy with the cuff of his leather jacket and his hand rests, contented, on your thigh. It's hard to believe you made each other come over the phone not half an hour ago. These moments in between, when everything falls quiet, are the peace he rarely gets. 

“When you meet with Bentley tomorrow,” he says, “don't let him intimidate you into being his research assistant. He’ll talk up the position, but you'll get paid dirt and he’s a shitty boss.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“Because he was my boss for a summer, and it nearly made me quit law altogether.”

You laugh. “Well, maybe my constitution outweighs yours, Dr. York.”

“I know for a fact it does,” he says, “but I’d rather not have anyone else try to monopolize your time. That's my job.”

“Yeah? You’re gonna have to start paying for my time.”

“Happy to,” he says. “What's your price?”

You study his face as he turns into the driveway and parks his car. “I haven't decided yet.”

He turns off the ignition and darkness falls heavy and silent. Still, he can see the glow of your eyes through the black and he's momentarily stunned by the fondness softening your gaze. It’s so warm and sticky that for a moment he's disarmed into believing he's earned it. 

“Hungry?” he asks the darkness. You incline your head. 

His skin hums for a real taste of you. Dave offers his hand to you as you climb out of the car, and he doesn't miss the way your eyes follow the line of his arm down his chest and torso. Always so observant. Slipping your hand into his, you rise, and his cock twitches at the scent of your perfume drifting breezily toward him in the crisp air. 

He doesn't let go of your hand. Instead he laces his fingers through yours and guides you toward the door, locking it behind him so he can turn around and press you up against the cool wood. 

Your soft gasp sends a shockwave down his spine. “Dave.”

“I couldn't wait,” he says, his other hand sliding achingly slow down your spine, letting himself luxuriate in the softness of your sweater, the feeling of drawing closer and closer to its hem. He presses his palm into the small of your back, where he knows you'll curve so sweetly against him, and already the haze is descending over your eyes. It's fucking exhilarating to watch you slowly give yourself over to him, to let your thoughts spill from your mouth where it whispers his name. 

“Tell me I can't kiss you.” His eyes are fixed to your mouth, looming over it like a starving, circling hawk. “Tell me you don't want this, and I’ll stop.”

“I can’t.” Your brow furrows and he wants to press his mouth against the point of tension and feel it melt away. “I should shove you away. I should have stopped this a hundred times. But I can’t. I don't want to.”

“You want me to kiss you,” he says, unfolding his hand from yours and splaying your palms flat against one another. “Say it, sweetheart. Say it and it'll feel so good.”

“Yes.” 

And you can barely begin to say it before Dave is crowding you, slanting his mouth to fit yours, the permission still echoing off the cold, dead walls. 

Your soft whine makes his ears ring. He knows he's practically suffocating you but you seem all the more eager to crush his body into yours, one hand encircling his bicep, the other sliding your fingers through his hair. The tingling sensation of your nails along his scalp makes him growl into your mouth. 

It's heaven to answer your little pleading moans with another kiss, to oblige your wants even as you crumble completely under his touch, to mold his perfect girl to the shape of him. It's so easy to take your bottom lip between his teeth in a teasing bite. It’s so easy to catch whatever piece of you may fall and slot it back into place. 

Dave coaxes your mouth open so he can lick his way inside, and your arms wind around his neck to bring him closer. His hands wander, bunching up the hem of your sweater so he can drink in your soft skin, clenching the fabric around his fists, willing it away. You taste like coffee and mint and he folds himself into you, the door frame creaking with his weight. 

Your fingers grasp greedily at his hair and the sting of it goes right to his cock. Your needy hips push against his and he groans at the thought of fitting himself between your thighs, settling in at your molten core like he was made for it. He thinks he may be. 

Dave’s hand coasts up your back and cups your throat lightly, tilting your head back. Nipping your chin, he guides his nose along your jaw, his mouth puffing hot breath over your skin, letting it bloom, letting you writhe as he continues his careful exploration. He kisses and bites at the spot below your ear and answers your breathy little moan with a gentle squeeze of his fingers around your throat. 

“So fucking beautiful,” he says, his lips ghosting down your neck and back up again, planting himself in every pore, ensuring it's his mark that’s left behind. He bares his teeth and sinks them playfully into your shoulder. 

“Dave!” you gasp, your nails carving half-moons into the back of his neck as you keep him fixed to you. 

He shuts you up with another kiss, prying you open, tipping himself inside, his hand applying a little pressure to the sides of your throat, getting you nice and warm and pliant for him. And fuck, it works like a charm. Your whimpers knock on his ribs. They slither into the grooves of his brain. He’s a goner. He was a goner from the moment you walked up to his desk that first day. 

His watch beeps on the hour and he reluctantly pulls away from you. He smirks at the way you follow him for a moment after his mouth leaves you, and he brushes his knuckle under your chin to get you to meet his eye. And Jesus, your pupils puff up when you look at him, panting, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. It seals his fate then and there. 

He nudges his nose against yours. “You with me?”

You pout, and he swoops down to nip your protruding lip in reproach. “It's getting late,” he says. “And I promised I’d feed you.”

You shake your head as if in a trance. “I don't need dinner right now,” you say, trying to pull him toward you for another kiss. 

Dave chuckles, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose instead. “I decide when we eat,” he says firmly. “You’re not gonna argue with me, are you? When I’ve been so nice?”

Your hand trails up his bicep and he needs to be vigilant or he'll give into your every single whim. “No, sir.”

He lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses the inside of your wrist, your pulse throbbing tenderly under his lips. For a moment, you stay just like this, the both of you orbiting one another, trading atmospheres, your quiet breaths mingling in the dark of the room. 

It's so hard to remind himself that this is wrong. When he looks into your eyes and puts his mouth on you and feels your body sing under his touch, he's never felt more certain about anything. 

You're wearing his favourite sweater today. 

You file into the room and float to your seat without so much as a glance his way, and he can smell your perfume. Curling his fingers around the edge of his lectern, Dave distracts himself with his notes. But the scent of you circles his head like little butterflies, and you’re still embedded in his fucking skin. 

Carol was at Gladwell yesterday and he could feel you skirting around him because of it. All day, Dave itched to get you alone, to find a quiet little corner where he could have a taste of you, but you kept it so professional he was almost convinced he'd dreamed all of your time together. 

He knows you're afraid of being found out, of throwing away your career and his too, but now that he knows how it feels when your body melts into him like candle wax, he's struggling to let it go. And a day without your attention is practically giving him the shakes. 

You ended up staying late at his place Monday night. He made space at the dining table for you to spread out your work and continue to fine-tune your personal statements and application letters. Every so often you asked him for advice and he leaned over you, his thumb massaging a knot in your shoulder. You hummed happily and he held your jaw so he could kiss you. 

When he decided you'd worked for too long, he sat at the opposite end of the table and patted his knee. You closed your laptop, his silent command carrying you, and lowered yourself into his lap. He lost track of how long he kissed you that night. 

You're chatting with the student beside you, some kid he doesn't recognize, and Dave works his jaw. Impulse wins. Fishing his phone from his pocket, he sends a text. 

You pull your phone out of your bag and squirm in your seat, struggling to pay attention to the conversation you're having. Dave’s chest puffs up a bit. 

Time ticks down to the hour and he gestures for the class to quiet down. A hush gradually descends over the room, and he begins.    

You bite your lip when you write. Sometimes, you'll pause for a moment, look up at him through your lashes, and quickly avert your gaze when you find him already staring back. He's memorized your penmanship from your ‘A’s to your ‘Z’s. He knows the shape of the loops in your ‘Y’s. He knows how fast you type and he knows that you can only work when there's white noise churning in the background and he knows that John wants to keep you around at Gladwell after your contract is up because you're more competent than half their team. (“But don't tell her yet,” said John.)

He knows the way your eyelids droop when you're sleepy and he knows how your voice pitches up when you try to convince him you're wide awake. He knows the pace of your inhales and exhales. He knows your pulse better than he knows his own. 

He tries to keep his sweeping gaze from stuttering when it falls on you. But he's drawn to the tilt of your head and the movement of your pen. He likes the way his heart spills through the bars of his ribs when your eyes meet. 

You’re so goddamn attentive to every word he says that he's inched his way behind his desk to continue his lecture so nobody will see how hard he is.  

You yawn from your seat, blinking hard as you try to focus on your notes. You haven't been sleeping well. Last night, he turned up the thermostat by two degrees so you wouldn't have to bury yourself in layers and blankets next time. 

Next time. 

Yeah, he thinks. I’m fucked. 

Dave clears his throat. “Any questions?”

“What about smothering my grandma to death with a pillow if she's already got terminal cancer?” pipes up some kid from the back of the classroom. “Like, hypothetically, obviously. My grandma’s fine.”

Dave schools his face into a cool mask of anticipation. He's used to outlandish hypotheticals and typically leaves it up to the class to answer them for him. “Anyone?”

You raise your hand and answer, “People vs. Brackett.”

He smirks. “Year?”

“1987.”

That’s my girl, he thinks. Instead he gives you half a nod and says, “Good.”

You bite your lip and give him the most wicked smile and Christ, he nearly forgets where he is in the middle of explaining the case. By the time the hour is up and everyone is hastily packing their things, his cock is greedily stealing all the blood from his brain. 

A gentle knock sounds on the other side of the door not long after he's back in his office. “Come in,” he says, adjusting his pants as he best he can from where he sits. 

You poke your head inside and his heart swells with fondness. The sweet smile you give him sends his pulse skittering. 

“I got your message,” you say, dropping your bag by the door. 

“Lock the door,” he says plainly, and you obey, turning the lock until it clicks. He leans back in his chair to take in all of you as you approach, standing between his spread thighs. 

He slides his hands up your hips, fingers fiddling with the hem of your sweater. “Missed you yesterday,” you tell him, your fingers scratching at the nape of his neck. 

He can practically hear himself purring under your touch. “Yeah? Have I been neglecting you, sweetheart?”

“No, sir,” you sing. “Just… missed you.”

“Looks like you made a new friend today,” he says, his tone practised. 

“Hm? You mean Kevin?” you say airily. “No, he's just a classmate. He wanted to ask if I was still tutoring.”

He squeezes your hips possessively, heating up under his collar. “And is Kevin offering a good rate?”

You give the back of his head a gentle smack. “Are you jealous, Dr. York?”

“Please. Of that kid?” He scoffs. “Wouldn't know what to do with you if he tried.”

“And do you know what to do with me?” You crowd him, your body heat singing through him, and he cranes his neck back to look up at you. “Why'd you ask me here, Professor?”

Oh, your boldness is intoxicating. Dave guides his hands up your waist, dipping beneath your sweater, and cups the soft swells of your breasts in his hands. You exhale, a sharp little puff of air, and he unclips your bra with a flick of his wrist. 

“I asked you here,” he says gruffly, “because I wanna play with my toys. Turn around.”

You obey, and he vocalizes his pleasure, ordering you to take your bra off under your sweater. It lands in his lap, a pretty blue thing he knows you wore just for him because he's seen it in the pretty little pictures you send him late at night. ‘your favourite colour, sir.’

Dave tucks it into his bag. Coasting his hands over your thighs, he gives your ass a swat and you yelp. 

“Gotta be quiet, baby,” he says. “Don't want anyone to hear us, do you?” 

He reaches for your zipper and slowly slides your pants down your thighs, exposing the matching blue panties covering your ass. You shiver in the cool air of his office and his cock twitches at the sight of you so exposed. His windows overlook the entire campus. If he wanted, he could press you up against the glass and take you for everyone to see. 

Your pants pool around your ankles and Dave admires the sight, grabbing a handful of your ass. Already, a dark spot blooms on your panties, your pretty pussy soaked for him, and he's so hard he can barely see. “On my lap,” he commands. 

And you go so easily, lowering yourself onto him, looking over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of him. But he grasps your jaw between his thumb and fingers, clicking his tongue. “Did I say you could peek?”

“No, sir,” you gasp, your hips writhing, your core making sizzling contact with his hard cock, separated by the fabric of his slacks. You whine, but Dave just smacks your flank. 

“You do what I tell you,” he says, sliding your hips toward him, “and you take what I give. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That's right.” He's enjoying his exploration, squeezing your ass, teasing his thumbs over your stiff nipples, his nose nudging your temple, guiding your head back onto his shoulder. It lolls against him, your sleepy eyes fluttering. “You like this, don't you? You like me touching you when you know anyone could be walking by outside that door.”

“Please,” you whimper. “Please, Dave…”

“Shhh,” he coaxes, pinching your nipple and rolling it between his fingers. “Relax, sweet girl.”

Your laboured breathing is thunderous in his ears. Dave slides his hands down your body, one easing your thighs apart while the other plays at the waistline of your panties. You grasp his hand and he thinks he hears you whisper, “Fuck.”

Dave nips your jaw as he dips his fingers inside your panties, just enough to feel you writhe, to feel your heartbeat this heavily under his mouth where his lips rest over your pulse. To hear your breath hitch in your throat at the mere promise of his touch. 

He’s fairly certain his cock has never been so hard in his life, and yet the thought of taking any pleasure from your body flees his mind before it can take root. 

“You’re so fucking good,” he says, coasting his palm over your pelvis and cupping the warm heat between your thighs. “You feel so goddamn good.”

“You haven't even… touched me,” you pant. 

He presses his mouth into your cheek, his lips curved into a mocking pout. You turn your head toward him to try and capture his mouth in a kiss, but he grasps your jaw and tuts. “You speak,” he says, “when I tell you to speak. Open your mouth.”

You do, dropping your jaw as you bat your eyes expectantly. Dave slowly spreads your folds with two fingers and drags them through your wetness. Your whole body shudders into him. His cock throbs under your ass. 

He lifts his fingers and hooks them on your tongue. Obediently, you close your lips around them and swirl your tongue, tasting yourself on his skin. 

“That's right,” he hums. “That's what this pretty mouth is good for.” 

As you clean him off, he slides his other hand under your panties and circles your entrance with the pad of his middle finger. You whimper, your mouth stuffed with his fingers, and he slides in to the knuckle. 

You cry out, your fingers curling around the arms of his desk chair. Bucking your hips, you try futilely to squirm, but he grasps your jaw tighter and you take the command to stay still. Dave curls his finger, pressing his palm to your needy clit, and drinks down the sound of your heady moan. 

“Shh, shh,” he scolds lightly. “Quiet, sweet girl.” To make it harder on you, he adds another finger, stretching you out on him, pumping in and out, in and out. 

You're a fucking wreck, the slick sounds of your pussy music to his ears, his hand and wrist covered in your pleasure, his eyes fixed to the junction of his fingers and your mouth. Your eyes are drooping, your neck glistening in sweat and mingling with the tears of your efforts to stay quiet. He wants to spool every thought from your pretty head until his name is all that's left. 

Dave’s fingers circle your clit and your thighs instinctively jerk closed, shying away from the pleasure with a sweet little whine that nearly has him coming in his pants. But he scolds you with a soft Tsk, tsk and you ease your legs open once more, your muscles trembling. 

“So good,” he says, rewarding you with a slow kiss along your jaw, his lips tracing its shape until he finds your mouth. He removes his fingers so he can turn your head toward him and kisses you long and sweet. 

He lets you grab him by the back of his neck, your nails scratching just hard enough to send small shockwaves to his cock. He rubs your clit as you kiss him, a little sloppy, teeth and tongues clashing, and he grins against your mouth. 

My good girl, he thinks, and maybe he mumbles it all the same, losing himself in the daze of All mine, my sweet girl. You're writhing now, bucking your hips to meet his fingers, and he knows you're close as your mouth freezes open. Your lips slide along his cheek as your body stutters. Dave captures your jaw, sliding his hand over your mouth, and holds you firm to him as you come. 

“That’s it, baby,” he coos in your ear. “I've got you. So good, sweetheart. You did so good.”

Your cry puffs out against his palm, your fingers curled in his hair, your eyes rolling back. He coaxes you through it, his fingers slowing and dragging up your body. Your skin erupts in goosebumps where his touch strikes your nerves. Cupping your breast, he feels your heartbeat slow gradually under his warm hand. For a moment, he feels as if he's sharing it with you. 

You both bask in the silence for a long while. Dave’s ears begin to ring as his head lolls back against the chair, his hands pulling you into him. 

Your laugh rings out through the quiet like bells. Turning around in his lap, you hook your arms around his neck. His hands slide up your back beneath your sweater. “This a first for you?” he teases. 

You lift a brow. “Is it not a first for you?” 

He smirks. “Not if you count my dreams.”

“Oh, please,” you purr, leaning down to nip his bottom lip. “Flattery gets you nowhere, Dr. York.”

“Really? I think it got me…” He gives your ass a firm squeeze. “Everywhere.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “Are you gonna give me back my panties?”

He pouts up at you. “I thought those were a present.”

“Just this once,” you say, and your kiss tastes sweet as candy. 

“You feel good?” he says, running his hands along your arms. 

You incline your head. “I feel good.”

“And your work?”

“Hmph. A guy fingers a girl in his office and he doesn't wait two minute before putting his professor cap back on.”

“Well, I've got energy for more,” he says, nudging his nose into yours. “Do you?”

You laugh. “I think my applications are all lined up. Just need to…”

“Pull the trigger,” he finishes. “You're gonna get it, baby. All of it’s there for you.”

“You don't know that.” But you're already slipping, your eyelids drooping, and Dave reaches up to grasp your jaw between his thumb and fingers. 

“I know,” he says, “how smart you are. And I know you need to trust me when I tell you.”

You shrug. “But I like it when you keep telling me.”

“I heard John put in a good word.”

“He was generous,” you say, biting your lip. Dave brushes his thumb across your mouth and you press your lips to the pad in a lingering kiss. “I’ll spend tonight reviewing everything, and then I guess there's nothing left for me to do.”

“A fun Friday night,” he says. “My wild girl.”

Your hands come to rest on his shoulders. “Wherever I go,” you say, “whatever happens… This'll have to end, won't it?”

He frowns. “Why should it?”

“Dave, it's too risky,” you say quietly, as if the words are fighting your tongue. “My whole career could explode in my face if we… if this doesn't work out.”

“Hey,” he says, pulling you closer with his hands on your hips. Your eyes are fixed on his tie. “Look at me. C’mon, baby.”

Tentatively, you meet his gaze. “My life just feels so real now.”

“And this isn't real?” he counters, slipping his fingers through yours. He places your palm to his chest. “Feel my heartbeat? Feel how goddamn crazy you make me?” 

You draw in a shuddering breath. “Someone’s going to find out.”

“You think I’d let that happen? You think I’d let anyone hurt your chances at the life you deserve?”

“That isn't up to you. If we get caught…”

He shakes his head, turning your palm up so he can put his lips to the heel. “We won't,” he says. “We won't.” 

Tears glitter like jewels in the corners of your eyes. “I'm not easy to love, Dave.”

It wedges firm in his heart, a chisel poised to hammer away at the rock. “That's the problem, sweetheart. It's too easy. It’s too fuckin’ easy.” 

You shake your head, your thumb smoothing the wrinkle in his brow. “I like who I am when I’m with you. I don't need to be more than myself.” 

Dave’s heart swells so big it lurches out of its cage to catch you inside it. 

“And what if I don't know who to be when I go out into the world?” you wonder. 

“You will be you”—he cups your face in his hands and gives you a little shake—“because you are smarter and better and stronger than anyone else who'd tell you different. And wherever you go, I’ll be following behind, running to catch up even though I never will.”

You let out a teary-eyed laugh. “You will?”

“I'd follow you,” he says, “even if you pushed me off the fucking train. You can't shake me, baby.”

“Good,” you say firmly, “because you owe me a pair of panties.”

THE END.

[arctichotch]

RASPBERRY GIRL / MASTERLIST

Simon Riley masterlist

complete (Captain) Simon Riley/female reader 18+ mdni, explicit sexual content, blurry lines of consent. Captain Riley in his forties. Heavy daddy kink. Age gap relationship. Reader is neurodivergent. Each part to have their own individual tags and warnings.

Raspberry sweet roll Lemon meringue pie Funfetti birthday cake Rosemary focaccia Boston cream pie Brown butter chocolate chip cookies Little berry girl Hot chocolate and whipped cream Chamomile tea and berry girl's no good very bad day Not ready Guilt first meeting Duchess Pancakes Rhubarb Robbery Raspberry Girl

Raspberry Girl's recipes Raspberry Girl art by @/rayven-dark-fire

Divider painting and credit

[arctichotch]

Fix You

John Price/female reader 11k words - AO3 - story is set in Through Me (The Flood) but is an AU and can be read as a standalone. Tags: 18+ major character death, heavy angst, loss of a loved one. Grief. Overconsumption of alcohol. Explicit sexual content. Emotional hurt/comfort. Complicated feelings. Angry sex. Caretaking. Trauma. Tenderness. Reader is a widow.

John Price knocks on your door in the late afternoon.

When the doorbell rings, you slip the baby into her bouncer and rub Orion’s hair affectionately at the table where he’s scribbling away with some crayons.

You’re not expecting anyone, but you guess it could be Cami. Though she usually just waltzes through the front door after using her key.

But it’s not.

It’s John.

You’re silent in front of him, eyes wide. He’s holding a bag, a black duffel, still dressed for work, for battle, face pinched in despair. Your heart lurches. “What is it?” He peeks over your shoulder to where the kids are, preoccupied, happy.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“No,” you tell him sharply. “No, I- what is it? Where is he? How bad is it?” His eyes soften, and he whispers your name. You barely notice when he reaches over to close the front door, too busy cycling through every worse case scenario. He eyes the chairs on the porch.

“Let’s sit down.”

“No.” You’re going to be sick. “Just tell me. Say it.” There’s a long moment where your life plays out in front of you. The stretch of before, and after. John takes a deep breath.

“He’s gone.” Gone. Gone as in, missing? Gone as in, on a different mission? What does gone mean? Your confusion must be blatant, because he reaches for your shoulder. “He’s dead. I’m so sorry.” You jerk away and laugh. That’s all you can do. Laugh. Laugh at the absurdity. Simon's not dead. He can't be. That makes no sense.

“No, he’s not, he can’t be. I literally just talked to him, like three days ago. He said you guys were wrapping up, that you were done.” He shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, he’s-“

“Stop. Don’t- don’t say that. He’s coming home. You’re all supposed to be home next week, he promised, he-“ Your mind is fighting something your heart already knows. “It’s not true.”

“We ran into a situation, there was-“

“Stop!” You back away, bumping into the railing. You’re shivering, sobbing, unable to catch your breath.

“C’mon,” he says gently, trying to guide you towards the chair, but you don’t budge. You can’t. If you don’t move from this spot, you don’t have to accept it. If you don’t move from this spot, you don’t have to move forward. You don’t have to live a life without him. You don’t have to walk inside and tell your son his father is dead. Your daughter won’t have to grow up without ever knowing him.

“Please.” Your voice cracks, and you stare up at him. “Please, it’s a mistake, it must be. It has to be. He can’t- He promised, he promised.”

“I know.” You shake your head.

“Please.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. I couldn’t save him, I-“ His voice breaks, and then you do, sobbing so loud you’re sure it can be heard over the hills. A scream is building up inside you, burning and itching to get out, and he tugs you forward, cradles a hand around the back of your head and pushes your nose to his chest.

When it finally breaks free, it echoes directly over John’s heart.

You’ll never understand how people can say funeral services are beautiful.

They’re not.

They’re agonizing. Devastating. The last screw in the finality of your new reality.

It’s only you, the kids and his team. That’s all he had.

“You’re everything mama. I love you so much.”

Orion’s barely old enough to understand. He asks when he’ll see his dad again, and your answer is traumatizing for your child, at best. Daddy’s not coming home, you tell him. Daddy’s going somewhere else now, somewhere better.

He’s dead.

You black out during the entire thing. There are words being said, by a priest, by Johnny, by John, flowers being thrown. Cami stands at your side, holding your daughter, the child who will grow up never knowing her father. Barely five months old. Occasionally you look over at her, blissfully asleep, and you feel envy. Envy of your own child, who will never know this loss. Who will never feel the pain of losing Simon Riley.

Someone asks you if you want to do the honors of dumping the first shovelful of dirt onto his coffin.

You laugh out loud.

What a ridiculous custom.

Johnny and Kyle exchange a look of concern, you ignore them. You know what they think.

“Let’s get you home.” John’s eyes linger on your face, their sapphire and gunmetal shine holding you captive for a second as you grapple with what he’s said. If you were more present, more aware in this moment, you’d probably say they were akin to the palest hydrangeas, the color of the shrubs growing in your own front yard.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, you’re not in any state at all, you’re just here, standing at the edge of the cemetery, staring at a mound of fresh dirt.

The dirt covering your husband.

Orion hugs your legs, trying to force his way between your knees. You’ve long tuned out the sound of his wails, unable to give him more, give him anything except your relentless grief.

You should be stronger, for them. Should handle this better.

There are a lot of things you should have done. Should have told him you loved him more. Should have been the one to hold his hand as he died. Should have made sure he wasn’t scared and alone at the end.

The gaping wound in your heart tears wider, and your knees buckle.

John wraps his arm around your shoulders, steadying you, shifting your weight into him, keeping you upright. Cami watches, gaze glossed over with tears, baby in her arms. Your baby. You and Simon’s baby. Orion cries louder.

“I can’t do this.” You whisper, to no one, to the wind-

But it’s John who answers. “You can.”

There are voices in the kitchen.

It’s late now, long after sunset, the day you buried your husband almost over. More and more of him slips away. You get farther and farther away from the last time you saw him, spoke to him, heard his voice with every second.

It aches, so you close your eyes instead and tuck the blanket under your chin, curled up with your nose in the couch cushion.

The kids are asleep. You’re hoping you’ll follow. Soon.

“-want us to stay?” It’s Kyle. He’s trying to keep his voice down but you’re only in the other room, on the couch, staring at the wall.

“No,” John assures him. “You guys go home. I’ll be here.”

“You sure? The kids… if she’s not feeling up to it, or needs help…” Cami’s voice is wet, still heavy with sadness.

“I’m here. I promised him.” There’s a long pause, and he clears his throat. “I’ve got her.”

You can’t dwell on them for too long, exhaustion of the day finally dragging you down, slowing your breathing and cutting off your consciousness, giving you a reprieve from the grief by sealing you away from it in your sleep.

“Mama?” Orion’s little voice calls for you in the dark, and you jerk awake. The baby is crying. Someone is knocking on the door.

“Hey little man,” your throat is raw, your voice not your own. His little eyebrows crease together.

He looks so much like him.

You glance around. You’re no longer on the couch but tucked away in bed, slippers placed neatly on the carpet, phone plugged into the charger. Odd, considering you fell asleep on the couch.

“You hungry?” He nods as you sit up and wipe the sleep from your eyes. “Alright, let’s have breakfast then. What do you think sounds good?”

“Waffles?” “Okay. Go wash up while I go get Nix.” And figure out who’s at the door.

“John.” His hands are in his pockets, beanie folded up on his forehead, and you don’t miss the way he evaluates you, crying, wriggling baby in your arms, still in your pajamas, Orion hollering about breakfast in the background.

“I wanted to come by and check on you guys.” Right. Of course. Come check on the widow. What if she can’t get herself out of bed? What if she’s too sad to take care of her kids? He grimaces and clears his throat. “You’re uh… you’re wet.” He inclines his head towards Nix, who is mouthing at your chest over your t-shirt. Shit.

“Oh, crap. Uh, come in. We were about to have breakfast. Well, not just about. Ry wanted waffles and I was about to start them,” you’re babbling down the hall, glancing at Orion in his booster seat at the counter, banging around a bowl and spoon like a little king waiting impatiently for his meal.

“’cle John!” He claps, and John smiles.

“I’ll start them for you while…” He trails off and you smile awkwardly.

“Thanks.”

Phoenix is an easy baby. She latches easily, eats easily, goes down to sleep easily. She’s a breeze compared to Orion at this age.

Small blessings, you guess.

Simon said it was you earned it, after Ry. You deserved it.

What did you do to deserve this?

“Mama sad.” Orion whispers, his mournful little voice the first thing you hear when you shuffle out of your room. Nix went down after a change and a burp. Easy.

“She misses your daddy,” John answers, “like us.”

“Yeah.” You bite your lip so hard it stings at the sound of his voice, dejected, depressed, palm finding the wall to stay upright.

The world tilts, falling out beneath you. For a second, you can see him. Standing on the other side of the counter, black sweatpants low on his hips, pouring some milk in Orion’s little orange cup, Nix cradled against him, stretched across his forearm. Simon laughs, licks his finger, and rubs something off the corner of Orion’s mouth.

You want to scream.

It’s a memory. Nothing else.

“.. okay?” John’s standing in front of you, head tilted, cupping your elbow. “You alright?” You raise your eyebrows, and he rolls his lips inward. “Sorry, course. You just… you looked a little sickly there for a minute.”

“Mama!” Orion yells, rocking back and forth to see you on either side of where John blocks the hallway. “Waffles!” You slide your hands down your shirt, Simon’s shirt.

“You made waffles?”

“Pre-mixed batter isn’t so hard. The lad was hungry.” Guilt simmers in the pit of your stomach, pinches your cheeks inward. “Hey, it’s okay. He was fine, jus’ a little impatient.” You nod, and he jerks his head back to the kitchen. “C’mon, I made you some too. And there’s fresh coffee.”

“Did you put me in bed last night?” You’re wiping down the countertop, some movie enrapturing your toddler in the background. He hesitates, and then nods.

“You were falling off the couch. Didn’t want you to brain yourself on the coffee table.” Your fingers curl around the mug, still warm to the touch, shoulders bunching beneath your ears before you forcibly relax them.

“Well, thanks.” I guess. An uncomfortable silence settles between you, questions evaporating on the tip of your tongue.

“I was going to head into town today for some groceries, can I get you anything?”

“Formula.” You blurt. “I can’t… we’ll need formula.” You don’t want to explain to him how it’s too much now, to breastfeed. How you won’t be able to handle it on top of everything else. How you think your milk will probably dry up anyway, bowing and breaking with the waves of your despair.

“What are you thinking about for dinner?” He scratches at the underside of his chin. The beard is overgrown, something you haven’t seen on him in a while, and there are dark circles under his eyes.

He’s grieving too. You know it.

You just can’t find it in you to care.

Something is weighing on John. Something is tied around his ankles, tethered to the sea floor, waiting to drag him beneath the surface. You see it. There’s guilt in the lines of his face, tension between his brows.

You wonder if there is blood on his hands.

“Why are you here, John?” You don’t intend to ask, but the words have a mind of their own and slip free.

“Wanted to stop by.” His voice is tight, rough like yours this morning. “Check in, see if you needed anything.” There are a million things you want to say, but words fail you. You don’t know how to tell him he should just leave, because nothing will ever be okay. You’ll always need something.

Simon.

Your husband.

The father of your kids. The man whose shirts are hung up in the closet. His paperback book still sitting open on his nightstand. His toothbrush still in the cup by the sink.

The agony you’ve managed to lock away for a few brief moments breaks free again, and you clap your hand over your mouth to muffle the heaving sob. John looks past you to where Orion still sits in front of the screen, mesmerized, and then takes you by the elbow to the bathroom.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, settling on the closed lid of the toilet, still choking on the lump in the back of your throat. “I told you, I can’t do this, I can’t. I can’t be without him, I don’t know how to be without him, I can’t-“

“Hey,” He’s crouched down, evening the height difference, looking at you with an expression so serious it quells your spiral for a fleeting moment. “You can do this. You have two beautiful kids who need you to do it for ‘em.” He hands you a square of toilet paper, and you wipe your nose.

“I want him back, John, I- I need him back.” You tuck your hands between your thighs, suddenly freezing, cold from the inside out.

“I know,” he murmurs gently, “I know you do.”

“There’s a lasagna in the fridge. Cami left it last night.” He’s tugging on his jacket, your handwritten grocery list from the fridge tucked in his pocket.

“Oh.” She’s texted you multiple times today, and all have gone unanswered. You don’t know what to say. “That was nice of her.”

“I’ll be back in a few hours after I take care of a few things and do the grocery run. You’ll be alright?” He’s treating you like glass. Like you’re a bomb primed to explode, big red letters counting down to an inevitable explosion. You manage to nod.

“Yeah.” The smile you give him is painfully fake, and you know he clocks it. “I’m going to hang out with the kids. Cuddle on the couch.” His smile is more genuine, but small.

“I’ll help you with dinner later.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t mind.” He turns to leave, but you call his name before he hits the door.

“John?” His eyes meet yours. Blue. Crystalline like the sapphire on your finger. You clear your throat. “Thank you.”

He nods.

John finds you catatonic on the couch one morning. Nix in her day crib, the one that’s a permanent fixture in the living room, and Orion perched in front of an old Disney movie for the hundredth time this week.

You’re failing. Failing your kids, failing as a mother, failing to keep yourself patched together.

You thought you’d be stronger if it ever happened. You promised him you would be, but the promises have turned meaningless, your integrity torn to pieces.

You can’t remember the last time you showered or brushed your teeth. You’re sure you smell.

At least the kids are clean. Dressed. Fed. You’re not a complete disaster, you guess.

Still, when John appears in your line of sight, brows knitted together with worry, you’re caught off guard.

“Oh.” You blink, his frown deepens.

“I was calling your name. Were you somewhere else sweet?” Sweet.

“Sorry, I was… lost in thought.” He takes you in from head to toe, you in all your grimy glory.

“How about you take a break?” Irritation ignites, and you grit your teeth.

“I’m fine,” you snap. “I don’t need help.” His arms cross his chest.

“It’s not a request. You’ve been wearing those sweatpants for four days. Get up, and get in the shower, or I’ll put you in myself.”

“Fuck off.” You hiss, and his eyes widen, surprised. How many people have surprised John Price? Close to none, you imagine.

“That’s enough.” He hauls you off the couch by your forearms just as Orion glances your way, little brain no doubt trying to understand the situation. “Be right back, bud.” John soothes him, and you seethe at how easily your son, Simon’s, nods and returns to his movie.

He’s gentle somehow, dragging you to the bathroom, but still forceful as he holds you by the elbow and reaches into the shower to turn the tap on.

The little fight that was inside you is gone. You wilt. “I’m sorry,” you whisper to the floor, fingers knotted together.

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not.” You’re sniffling, crying for the hundredth time in the last few days, and he rubs your upper arm.

“Nothing is going to be okay for a while,” he murmurs, “forever, even. But you’re not alone, okay?”

“Okay.”

The rest of the week goes too fast. You’re getting farther and farther away from it, from the moments when Simon was still alive in this world, when he still existed.

Desperate to slow it down, you don’t sleep. You sit in the kitchen and scroll through your phone, replaying the same videos over and over again, tears dripping down your cheeks. Grief is an emotion, but it’s a physical ailment too. It rots in your stomach and starves you. It aches between your ribs, so viscerally it’s like there is a knife twisted there, scraping against your bones, sawing between your muscle.

You take care of the kids in a daze. Feed and change Nix on autopilot. You give in to Orion’s every wish without a second thought, and he has waffles every morning. Chicken nuggets every night. Ice cream sundaes with too much chocolate syrup and a mountain of whipped cream. As much screen time as his little heart desires. You let him sleep in your bed, curled up in your arms, his little fist clinging to the neck of whichever shirt of Simon’s you’re wearing.

He can’t sleep in his own. He wakes up crying.

Cami comes over and stocks your fridge and freezer. She refills your tea canister. She vacuums the entire house. She feeds and changes the baby. You watch, listlessly, and when she’s finished, she squeezes your hand with a promise to be over again in a few days. You don’t have the words to thank her, so you don’t try. You want to believe she knows anyway.

John is the steady presence. He’s here, doing the dishes, making sure the three of you are eating, helping with the kids. He watches you shrewdly, careful.

A ticking time bomb.

One he’s afraid to set off.

It doesn’t matter how much they try to lessen the burden of living. How much they try to support you. They can’t change anything. They can’t stem the bleeding of your broken heart.

Seven days after Simon’s funeral, you crack the bottle, the one you had shipped from the states, stupid expensive Kentucky bourbon, caramel colored gasoline.

The baby is asleep. Orion is exhausted from his day with Gaz and Cami.

You’re alone on the front porch, curled up in a blanket, the hood of Simon’s sweatshirt pulled over your head. The only light you have is the green glow of the baby monitor. Otherwise, it’s just you, the moon, and the stars.

The hoodie still smells like him. So do the pillows. His t-shirts. His side of the closet. It’s a blessing. It’s agony.

You drink directly from the bottle, though you should use a glass. Simon would chastise you for not using a glass. He would tell you to sniff it from the rim of a tumbler, and then laugh when your nose wrinkled.

You should use a glass, but you don’t. It’s easier to take big sips this way.

Truck tires crunch on gravel, and then the broad figure of John Price stands at the foot of the porch. “Hey.” You raise the bottle, expecting him to laugh. He doesn’t. The stairs creak beneath his feet.

“What do you have there?”

“Bourbon.”

“Kentucky?”

“The one and only.” You take another swig, baring your teeth when it burns. You shake it. “Want some?”

“Think you’ve had enough for both of us.” Ass. You bristle, anger boiling in your blood, but you’re too drunk to stay on track and unleash it.

“Why are you here?” It’s the same question you asked earlier this week, but you still don’t understand. He holds your gaze for a long time. The only thing you find there is devastation.

“I promised him.”

“You promised him what?” He rubs the back of his neck.

“This isn’t a good time for this conversation, let’s go inside-“ You don’t budge. You can’t.

“You promised him what, John.”

“I was there,” his voice is hoarse, and there’s a heaviness to it, an agony the two of you share. “And he knew. He knew we wouldn’t get him back in time, no matter how fast we landed a bird.” You can’t see, vision blotted out by your tears. You want to put your hands over your ears. You want to know everything single thing. The two sides battle, and your cheeks grow wet like your face is upturned in a downpour. “He made me promise to take care of you. To take care of the kids. Grabbed me by the front of my vest and asked me to swear. So I did. I swore. I swore and I’m not going back on my word to him. I never will.”

“You were with him.” You’re not sure you want to know, but you have to. You have to know every piece of him, even this. Even the end.

“Yes. I was with him at the end. He wasn’t alone.” You clutch the bottle against your chest, so tight you’re afraid it might break, shatter the glass into your fingers. It would hurt less than this.

“Was he scared?”

“No. He was only thinking about you. You and the kids. He wanted to make sure you were going to be okay, that was all he cared about. He dug the pocket square out of his vest and held it over his heart.” The sob breaks free and destroys the dam holding everything together. Your body shakes with it, the ugly noises coming from within you, the pain of losing the love of your life.

“You were supposed to keep him safe.” Your voice raises, the alcohol tainting your ability to be rational or stay quiet.

“I know-“

“Mama?” You jolt, turning to ice, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes. John swears under his breath.

“Orion,” you croak. He’s stricken, holding his sippy cup, wide eyes focused on your face. “It’s okay, everything’s okay.” You try to reassure him, but his panic only increases, and you fail in the moment, unable to offer him comfort. John steps between the two of you and crouches.

“Hey bud.” He points at the sippy cup. “Need some milk in there?” Your son nods, trying to peek around him to see you. “How about,” John scoops him up, “we get you some more milk and get you back in bed okay?”

“I want mama.” His voice trembles. You feel sick and close your eyes, but the next thing you know there are little arms wrapping around your neck in a hug, your boy’s hair under your nose. You look up at John, his eyes red and his face tormented.

“Say goodnight and she’ll see you in a little bit, okay?”

“I love you, little man,” you kiss him once, twice, before rubbing his back. “Let Uncle John get you some milk and put you back to bed, okay? I’ll be in soon.” Their voices disappear down the hall, and you twist the cap on the bottle.

Down the hatch.

“He looks like him.” Orion is rolling around in the living room, playing with his magnatiles while Nix is on her back, feet in the air, kicking at the play arch. John hums, stroking a hand over his beard. He’s finally trimmed, looking more like himself and less like a mountain man.

It’s a strange feeling, to see him and notice it looks better. Good, even.

“He does.”

“Guess we’re lucky, in that way. Having these little pieces of him.” Orion has his eyes, his shoulders too. They have the same smile, even some of the same mannerisms, and it hurts so much to think about how it will fade over time, how Orion will no longer be able to mimic his father. John steers your mind away.

“Can I help you with dinner?” “No, I’m okay. But… if you want to stay, you can.” He should, but you don’t say it out loud. You don’t admit to him or even yourself that you’ve become reliant on him, his consistency, the steadfast force in your lives.  Weeks have passed, and he hasn’t given up, no matter how hard you fight and fall apart. No matter how destructive you, the maelstrom at the center of your family’s life.  

“We all lost-“

“You didn’t lose anything!” You’re screaming, finger jabbed in his chest, pushing him backward. He lets you. He doesn’t flinch. “He was mine! He was mine, not yours. He was ours. Our son’s. Our daughter’s. He belonged to us.” You’re barely breathing, suffocating underneath your grief, fingers going numb. He reaches, but you step away, swaying on your feet. You whimper. “F-fuck.”

“Come here.” It’s not a request, not the gentle coaxing you’re used to from him. It’s a command from a captain. When you don’t, he strikes, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you into his chest, hand at the back of your neck. “Breathe.” He rocks you side to side slowly, head down, rumble in his diaphragm soothing against your ear. “C’mon, you can do it. Big breaths.”

“I can’t.” It’s the same thing you’ve been saying over and over again. You can’t do it, you can’t do this, you can’t you can’t you can’t you-

“Yes, you can, you can. Try. I’m right here, I won’t let you fail. I promise.”

“John said you needed a break.”

“John doesn’t make decisions for me.” You snap, and Cami winces, triggering a tidal wave of guilt. “I’m sorry Cam. I… I’m having a hard time.” She rubs your shoulder.

“I know. It’s okay. You’re not going to offend me or push me away. I just want to help.” You sigh. “Let me take them for the night. You can catch up on some trash tv. Read a book. Take a bath.” She whittles you down, and you finally concede.

Except being alone is bad for you. It’s bad for your mind. It’s bad for your heart.

Hours later, John finds you in a pile of Simon’s clothes. You’re curled up, nose buried in cotton, skin swollen under your eyes. “Oh, sweet.”

“Go away.” You don’t even lift your head.

“No.”

“I don’t want you here.”  

“That may be but I’m not leaving you here by yourself like this.” There’s an empty bottle of wine buried in this pile somewhere, and he plucks it free by the neck. “Didn’t save any for me?” It’s supposed to be a joke. It falls flat.

“I didn’t want… I didn’t want to have to think.” “I know.” He pulls you into a sitting position, palm cupping your cheek. “It’s okay.”

“I can help,” he motions to the kitchen. “I know how good you are with rice.” His smile turns mischievous, bright blue irises sparkling in the low afternoon sun, and you glower.

“I’m not that bad.”

The sink gets clogged one afternoon.

You try to diagnose it yourself, scrolling through google results on how to DIY it, try standing on your own. You’ll have to get used to it; you guess. Being a widow and all.

The attempts last about thirty minutes. Just in time for your front door to swing open, little feet hauling down the hallway, your son breathless and excited to tell you all about his trip to the park with John and Gaz. John follows right behind, trying to remind him about Phoenix’s naptime.

He pulls up short at the sight of you next to the sink, a pile of tools in the bowl.

“I uh… it’s clogged.” His lips twitch into a half smile. “I tried to fix it; I thought I should try. You know since…” You still have a wrench in your hand, but Orion is tugging at your shirt.

“Here,” he takes the wrench, touch casual as two fingers of his wrap around yours. It’s innocent. It’s nothing. But here he is, fixing your problems. Selflessly again, helping you out.

You’re not sure where you’d be right now if he wasn’t around-

At the thought, guilt so violent almost makes you double over.

Cami and Gaz host a spaghetti dinner, and you leave the house for the first time in weeks, months even. Time is a thief.

There’s laughter coming from the living room when you open the door, Orion sprinting from your side to where his uncles and aunt are hanging out. When you cross the threshold, Nix cooing in your arms and a loaf of banana bread in your free hand, the voices screech to a stop.

“Hi.” Your enthusiasm is lacking, but you’re trying. You really are, even though this is all you can give. Cami smiles excitedly as John stands and crosses the room.

“Let me help you with that.” He grabs the bread, warm hand briefly settling in the middle of your back before it disappears, taking the baby bag off your shoulder. You breathe him in, cigar smoke and pine. It’s calming, somehow. Familiar. “You okay?” He knows how hard this is. Knows how you tossed the decision back and forth, unsure, uncomfortable. You did it for Orion, in the end. You can’t deprive him of his community, so you nod silently.

Cami pulls you into her arms, putting her finger in Nix’s fist and pressing her cheek to yours. “I’m so glad you came.” You manage a weak smile.

“Me too, I… it’s good to see you. And everyone. Ry was really excited.” You look past her to where Soap has him in his arms, moaning and groaning about how they’re nearly the same size.

You take a deep breath.

You can do this.

They tiptoe around you all night. It should bother you, but it doesn’t. You’re not ready for anything else. For stories, for meaningful conversation. Everyone keeps it light. They veer away from work. They treat you with kid gloves.

It’s fine, but it’s exhausting, trying to keep yourself under control. Trying to quiet the ringing in your ears, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

You almost manage it. But then someone slips up.

“- an’ that piece o’ shite. Simon was so pissed; I thought he was going to rearrange his face before he let him go.” Gaz laughs, you freeze. “He won in the end though, didn’t he? Always did, until-“

“Soap.” John cuts, and the table goes dead silent, as if they forgot. There’s a warm hand on your knee, but it’s not enough. Cami is shaking her head, blinking at him in horror, and Gaz glares. You stare down at a pile of peas.

“’m sorry,” Johnny whispers, stricken. “’m so sorry. I miss ‘im too, it helps… to talk about ‘im, ye know? I-“

“That’s enough.” John’s command is scathing.

You throw a quick excuse me over your shoulder as you make your way to the bathroom by the kitchen.

You try to breathe deep, but the oxygen doesn’t come as fast as you need it. You’re falling down the dern, despair filled hole that plagues your every waking hour. The reality you try to shove away, the fact that you’re here and he’s not.

Knuckles rap against the door. You undo the lock to come face to face with John, who steps inside and closes it behind him. You keep your gaze fixed on the floor, chest heaving. “Shhh,” he murmurs, pulling you close, “it’s alright.”

“I’m sorry.” He wipes the tears from your cheeks, tipping your face up.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Soap is oblivious sometimes.”

“It’s not up to me to tell people how to grieve.” He wraps you in a hug.

“It’s not, but he should treat you with respect.” You nod, drifting, trying to burn the words from your brain. You’re holding onto him. Clutching at his shirt, and he rubs a hand up and down your spine. It’s good. Warm, and comforting. You sink deeper, let him hold you, seeking solace. The strength you find in John.

You rest your cheek against his chest. “I’m so tired. I want to go home.” You whisper, and he smooths a hand over the back of your head.

“Okay. I’ll take you.” There’s another knock on the door, and you grimace.

It’s Cami. She has the baby on her hip, tears in her eyes. “I’m so-“

“It’s okay. Really. I’m just tired.” You’re lying, but you don’t have the heart to tell her the truth. She knows anyway. You never should have come. “I think I’m gonna head home.”

“I figured. I packed some food to go, and Gaz has Orion at the door.” Your best friend, always so kind, so thoughtful.

“Thanks, Cami. I love you.”

“I love you too. Text me when you get home, okay?” She passes Nix into your arms, following her with a hug, and you press your face to her shoulder before pulling away.

“I will.”

It’s been three days since the dinner, despondency settling back into your routine like it never left.

The kids help, John too. They keep you focused. They keep you alive.

“An’ cookie!” John smiles. It’s the lips quirked to the side one, the gleam in his eye one, combined with his standard issue work hair and beard, thick cable knit sweater stretched across the firm weight of his shoulders. It’s navy. Complements his eyes.

A flicker of heat burns in your stomach, between your legs, taking you by surprise.

You’re staring. You’re staring and he looks away from Orion, meeting your eyes, a question forming in them until you clear your throat and glance away, focusing on the baby in your arms and the last of her bottle before trying to get Orion prepared for the end of his night.

“Come on little man, finish your dessert so we can get your pajamas on.”

“U’cle John help me.” His arms cross against his chest, and you give him a reproachful look.

“What do we say when we want to ask someone to help?”

“Please.”

“Yes, please. Good job.”

“Please ‘cle John?” John glances your way, hesitant, and you shrug.

“Sure, bud. Once you’re finished.”

The kitchen gets the final wipe down when John slinks out of Orion’s room, clicking the door shut softly behind him.

“Nix go down?”

“Easily. She’s never fussy. Sleeps like a dream. Thanks for helping with him.” There is a glass on the coffee table, and a bottle of wine. You meant to have some earlier but got distracted. “I was going to have a glass of wine and watch something, want to stay and hang out for a bit?” You love your kids, but only having a baby and a toddler to talk to all the time can get old fast, no matter how much you love them.

His fingers brush yours when he takes the second glass from your hand, and you swallow. Your throat is suddenly dry, and you shiver.

The movie is two hours long, but forty-five minutes and two glasses of wine in, your head starts to feel heavy, and your eyelids grow lazy.

“- want to go to bed?”

“No,” you sigh. Your head is quiet, and you’re curled up against something warm, drifting in the sweet space between sleep and waking, low volume of the tv murmuring in the background. “Gonna stay here.” The blanket is tucked around your shoulders, and you snuggle deeper, sagging into the cushions. You’re almost there, just on the cusp when you jerk. “Baby monitor.” You mumble, and a whisper traces an arc from your temple to jawline, touch so featherlight it’s hard to know if it was ever there at all.

“Sleep, dove. I’ll be here.”

“We were going to have another baby you know. He wanted another one so badly. Kept trying to knock me up every time he was home.” The ice rattles in your glass, and you cast a long look at the half empty bottle between the two chairs you’re in on the porch.

“He told me.”

“He did?”

“Mmm. Kept talkin’ about how you turned him into a caveman all the time.” You laugh. It’s real. A real laugh, something unbidden, releasing from your chest. John raises his eyebrows, and smiles.

“That’s how it was. He was always like that.” The stars are really bright tonight. They have been, ever since you buried him. You’re not sure if there’s less light pollution lately or if you’re just paying attention more. Sometimes you want to believe it’s something else entirely. If it’s a piece of him making them glow for you. Lighting up your sky. Wrapping you in a blanket of midnights, little collections of constellations in his arms. “They’re named after the stars, you know. The babies.”

“I know.” He sips his whiskey. “Orion the giant hunter, son of Poseidon, and Phoenix, rising from ash to be reborn.”

“Yeah.” You’re crying, again, and you wipe the tears away as quickly as you can.

“They’re beautiful names.” You don’t answer. There’s nothing to say, so the two of you sit there, side by side on the porch in silence until you break it.

“I’m angry at him. I’m so mad, he broke his promises. He broke all his promises and left me here. He left me.”

“He didn’t do it on purpose. He loved you so much.” You twist the ring on your left finger. It’s looser now, your inability to stomach most things starting to show. You wouldn’t have even noticed, or cared, unless John said something. ‘I promised I’d take care of you. That includes not letting you turn into a beanstalk.’

“He didn’t keep his promise.” There is the crux of it. All the promises made, only one kept. ‘Til death. Except he’s gone, and you’re still here.

Turning into a ghost.

“Can you hang out with the kids for a little bit tonight?” His brow pulls together, pinching in the middle, lines of his forehead wrinkling just bit, just enough to remind you of his age.

“Sure, everything okay?” Your eyes find your feet.

“I want to go to the cemetery.” His mouth opens, and whatever was going to come out of it disappears with his nod.

“Alright.”

You’re sick.

That’s the only way you can explain this, laying here on top of the plot, bottle of Kentucky bourbon in your hand. You’ve dumped some on the ground at the base of his stone, a toast of some kind, a sad, hopeless connection sitting one sided.

This is a special kind of agony. It’s the kind that wears you down. It makes you ill. It has you wishing you could dig up his coffin and crawl inside it. Sick. Rotting from the inside out.

“John’s kept his promise to you,” you manage another large swig, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “He’s always around. Helps with the kids a lot. Keeps us afloat. I guess he takes his pledges pretty seriously.” Another swig. This one leaks from the side of your lips. “I hate you, you know that? If you weren’t dead, I’d kill you myself. You weren’t supposed to leave us here. You were always supposed to come home. You promised.” You dig into the earth, dirt and grass compacting under your fingernails.

The night is dark and starless.

Figures.

You’d do anything to change this. Anything. You can’t carry it. You can’t bear it. It’s too heavy. Too much. For one moment, you’d like to not feel it, to not know the crushing weight of your grief. It follows your every waking minute. It follows you in your dreams.

When people die, there are always these fantastical stories floating around about their loved ones seeing a bird, or a cloud, or a rainbow. Some overwhelmingly positive sign leading them to believe the deceased is at peace.

It’s all bullshit.

There are no signs. There is no peace.

There’s only you, and the dead man you love in the ground.

It’s late when you make it home.

You probably shouldn’t have driven. It’s a short ride to and from the little graveyard on the hill, but you’re ashamed to have done it.

You know better.

“Didn’t hear you come in.” Your keys clang against the counter, forgotten as you turn to face him. The lie gives you pause. He knew you had come in. Simon never missed the sing of a door hinge, the latch of a window. You know they operate. How they function.

Still, you let it go. You don’t have the mental capacity to call him out.

He’s closer than you expected. Close enough you can smell him. It’s always the same, cigars and pine. Fresh needles fallen on the forest floor. He reminds you of it too in a way. The woods. Something about him, the way he fits into his sweater, the rough heels of his hands, like he’s felled a thousand trees and could go for a thousand more.

He’s got amber gold on the rocks in his hand, more whiskey. The ice has diluted it a bit, a thin watery film sitting on the bottom of the glass. You wrap your fingers around the rim and tip it to your lips. It burns. The clock ticks, the two of you breathe in and out. In and out.

“I can’t carry this.” You blurt, setting the glass down a little too hard. “I know you think I can… but I can’t. I’m drowning.”

“No one expects you to right now…” He’s talking, reassuring, supporting you, but there’s nothing except for his eyes. They’re the color of the ocean, the one you swam in the weekend Simon put the ring on your finger.

Your ears are ringing. Your blood is hot, the alcohol rewiring your brain until it conjures wild ideas about an escape. Maybe you don’t have to carry it, for a minute. Maybe you can close your eyes and share it with someone. Share it with him. Just for a minute.

“John.” You whisper, still focused on his eyes.

“What is it?” You twist your fingers in his sweater, dirt from under your fingernails getting caught in the wool, and he tenses, confused. “Hey, maybe-“ No maybes. You swing onto your toes and drag him downward, pressing your mouth to his in a rush. He grunts, but the kiss lingers until he pulls away. “You’re drunk.”

“Yes.” You can’t place the look he gives you, mind too far gone. If you were sober, you’d say it was significant. He cups your cheek.

“Let’s sit down and-“

“No. John. Please. Help me carry it. Please.” Electricity crackles in the air, his hand sliding to your neck where he holds it firm with two fingers.

“We can’t. Shouldn’t. It’s just the grief, it’s-“

“Please.” You raise yourself back onto your toes, and though he’s dead still, he doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t stop you as you kiss the corner of his mouth, beard brushing against your chin, and he doesn’t stop you when you find his lips again, parting your own, holding onto his shoulders.

He groans, hands drifting to your hips and digging into them, gripping you so tight, a pendulum swinging, pushing you away, pulling you back, until he gives in.

You’re kissing captain Price, for fucks sake. Your husband’s boss, his friend. One of the most important men in his life.

The betrayal burns.

This is wrong. So wrong, but there’s a wild piece of you that wants it. Likes it. The pieces that have taken solace in John have now turned to something else, something stronger, more vibrant.

It’s wrong. So wrong.

But in this moment, there’s nothing else but you and him and this decision. There’s no room for the other things that plague you.

It’s rough. You’re rough. He’s rough. You pin him against the kitchen counter, fumbling with his belt and zipper, sandpapered pads of his thumbs under your shirt and rolling over your nipples. You’re clumsy, disorientated, only saved when he spins you around and folds you over the cool surface. “Alright.” He murmurs like it’s just now kicked in what you’re doing, what’s happening in this moment, this sacrilege now staining you both. He kicks your feet wide, and rips your leggings to your ankles, tracing a line back up your thigh to shove his hand inside your panties and through your folds to push his finger inside you.

“Ah, John-” You hiss, arching your back, greedy for more, desperate for something, waiting and wanting, willingly going with him as he drags you to the floor, pushes you to your knees and bends you over, too big hand between your shoulder blades.  

He fills you in a single stroke and you cry out, slapping a palm over your mouth to cover your scream, stifling the moans that follow. It’s a stretch, one that burns, too much and too soon, but this isn’t meant to be slow. It’s not a treasure, a sentimental unfolding of passion. It’s grief. It’s loss. It’s nothing like love. “Christ.” He grits, pinching your ass. “You’re bloody tight, sweet.” You can’t respond, your free hand digs against the hard wood, scrambling for something to hold onto as he shoves his cock against your cervix. You’re going to come unreasonably fast, already clamping down around him, tightening with the curl of your toes. “Be nice and quiet for me now, angel.” He pulls you up by your chest, mouth hot at your ear as he reaches for your clit, pinching the swollen nub and then smacking it with an open palm, your shriek barely muffled by your hand. He’s speaking, but you’re not quite catching it, too distracted by the blinding light on the outside of your vision, sparks blooming into fireworks. “Oh dove, you’re coming,” his mouth is on your cheek, kissing, nipping, and you turn to steel, vibrating with the strength of your orgasm, pathetic whines ghosting over his neck as your head tips back. He coos, brushes a hand over your forehead. It’s comforting, sick comfort for a sick girl. “Good girl, Shh, I know, I know it’s a lot.” The peak crashes, and you twitch, pulsing around him, fingernails digging into his forearm.

He comes all over you. Puts you back on all fours and curses under his breath, holding you steady, gripping your ass cheek so hard it will be tender tomorrow. The ocean rushes in your ears and you start to drift away, post orgasm, post fuck, sweaty and sated as he paints you.

“Fuck honey-“

I’ve got a lot of cum for you, honey

Tell daddy what you’re doing, honey

Can’t get over how good you taste, honey

Feel how bad I want to be inside you, honey?

The tip of the knife jams between your ribs. It penetrates your heart. It shreds organ and bone until the injury is so catastrophic, the only fix is death.

The noise you make is more animal than human.

Honey, honey, honey-

You flinch and crawl away panicked. He’s calling your name but you’re deaf to it, drowning in Simon’s voice.

Simon, your husband, who was the last man inside you. Simon who called you honey, and sweetheart, and mama. Simon, who’s body is cold in the ground. Who’s ring is on your finger.

Honey, honey, honey-

You stumble to your feet and make it to the sink just before the whiskey and bourbon comes shooting out of your mouth.

Sick.

“Promise me-“

“Shut up Simon. That’s an order.” He’s got her embroidered pocket square in his fingers, stained in blood, crimson dotting out the constellations. The radio crackles, but it only confirms what they both know.

Simon has minutes. They need at least twenty.

He shakes his head. John presses harder on his abdomen, pointedly ignoring the river of red spilling out beneath his palms. Sometimes it’s easy to forget how much human bodies bleed. It’s not like he’s usually sticking around to watch.

“John.” Simon’s free hand latches onto the strap of John’s vest and jerks it roughly, pulling him closer. “You swear to me, right now. Do it.”

“I won’t. There’s still time. Stop talking, you need the oxygen.” His lips crack into a smile, gaze already starting to fall away, and then snaps to, refocusing.

“Tell her I love her. And that I’m sorry.”

“You’ll tell her yourself, Lieutenant.” He shakes his head, fist tightening over that little square, dragging to his heart, the organ beneath the vest that’s beating too slowly.

“John. Swear it. Promise me you’ll take care of her. You’ll take care of them.” There’s blood trickling down his jaw now, flowing from his lips. “She’s strong, but it’s gonna be hard. She’ll need you. The kids will need you. Nix is only a baby, she can’t-“ he coughs, shudders, and then his brow furrows with determination. “They can’t grow up without a dad.” John’s stomach, already an open pit, now rips into a black hole.

“You’re their dad, Simon. You are.” His voice cracks.

“Swear.”

“No.”

“Swear to me!” Simon shouts in his face, blood spraying on his cheeks. Gaz is yelling at them from twenty-five yards away, but it doesn’t matter. There’s not enough time.

They stare at each for seconds that are really eternity. They’ve been together in this hell, in this job, for so long. Suffered and slogged and killed together for so long. Simon isn’t just his team member, he’s a part of his life.

A rabid fucking dog brutalized and beaten down, now a husband, a father, a leader in his own right.

John pushes away the memory of the day he met Orion. The pride on Simon’s face. The pure joy.

He would never deny him.

They hold on to each other’s forearms. It’s goodbye.

“I swear it, Simon. I will take care of them. I promise. On my life.”

“And you’ll tell her I love her.”

“I will.”

He should have stopped you.

Looking back, it’s hard to believe it happened, but it’s not hard to remember. Not hard to remember how you felt, scorching velvet plush around his cock, not hard to remember the sounds you make when you come, how your pussy twitches. Not hard to remember how beautiful you were in his arms, shaking and crying, holding tight to him as he fucked you as deep as he could.

And it’s hard to forget the horror on your face. The way you crawled away like a wounded animal. The hoarse sobbing that came after the vomit in the sink. The way your knees gave out. The way you told him to get the fuck out.

Help me carry it.

It’s survivor’s guilt. It must be. Or trauma bonding. He’s been here for you, for the kids. He’s held you and wiped your tears and scooped you off the floor.

Because it’s his duty.

Right?

He can’t deny there’s something wrong with him, though. There’s something wrong with the way he barked at Soap during dinner, something wrong with the way he let you curl up beside him with your head on his stomach the night you fell asleep on the couch. He just sat there, stroked your cheek, rested his hand on his shoulder.

The guilt builds. It’s compounding, and fueling the anger, the rage directed at himself.

How dare he? How dare he betray Simon like this? How dare he try to take something that’s never been his?

He walks it like a tightrope. It’s his duty. It’s a betrayal.

Duty. Deceit. Duty. Betrayal. An oath. A line crossed, again and again.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do except crush and pulverize this thing trying to bloom. He rips out it by the roots.

Though he knows as well as any, determined things always find a way.

You don’t even look at him, and it gets under his skin. It feels wrong. Everything is wrong.

“Orion is almost ready.” You say over your shoulder, already moving away from him and down the hall, running but you’re not being chased. He’s supposed to take the lad fishing today. Orion has been looking forward to it all week, and you, quite frankly, don’t have the energy.

He catches you by the elbow and you jerk away, lips pressed together and eyes down. “Look at me.” You shake your head, glisten of tears catching in the early morning light streaming through the windows. He says your name, as softly as he can manage, and you tremble.

“I can’t do this right now.”

“Do what? Talk to me?” He’s pushing, and maybe he shouldn’t.

“Yes.” You hiss, venom twisting your face into a mask he’s never seen before. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to talk about what we did.” Your voice cracks on the last word, and it hurts in a way he didn’t expect. He wants to agree. He wants to wipe your face and tug you into his chest. He wants to bury the guilt ripping through him and turn around. Walk out the door.

He’ll do none of it. He’s a man of his word, above all else.

“When you’re ready then.” He nods as if it’s nonnegotiable, and then saved from a rebuttal when Orion runs full speed from his room. You turn on your heel and storm away.

Fine.

He’s at your door the next night for dinner.

You stand in the frame, arms crossed, anger etched into your face. “I don’t need your help tonight.”

“You going to make me a liar then?” He snaps, patience thin. The anger dissipates, and it’s replaced by that same despondent, dead look in your eyes that’s been making him sick since the day he came to the door. “Make me go back on my word to him?”

“John.” You whisper his name with shaking hands.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.” There’s acid on the tip of his tongue. It’s stringent, bitter like the soap his mum washed his mouth out with. He doesn’t know why, but it stings. You look up at him, eyes so wide, so sad, so lost, he has to hold himself back from dragging you into his arms. “It didn’t mean anything, dove. It was just us. Just between us. Just grief.”

“Just grief.” You parrot, tears dripping from the corners of your eyes and down your temples. He brushes them away, and you surprise him by leaning into it. You smile weakly. “We’re having pasta bake.”

A few days later, and there are loads of laundry on your couch when he walks in. You throw him a desperate look, piles separated into toddler clothes, baby clothes and your own. They’re mountains, nearly at your chest when standing.

“Get a little behind?”

“I’ve been a little tired, I guess.”

“Can I help?” “Sure, want to fold onesies?” You laugh a little bit, enough to crack your lips into a small smile. He likes it. Likes your smile. It reminds him of the one you used to give Simon, the way it would break across your face, sunshine in a patch of clouds. He’d nuzzle your cheek, your neck, holding Orion on his hip with one arm, and you with another.

He stills, holding a small yellow piece of clothing.

Your husband. Simon was your husband.

And he’s the interloper.

Swear to me-

I swear it-

I will take care of them.

His ears ring with the bells of remorse, the song of at the beginning of a procession.

“John? You alright?” He’s been staring at you this entire time, but not seeing you, just seeing the past, seeing Simon, seeing everything that came before these moments where he’s being torn in two. He nods, not trusting his voice, his words.

“Will you be here for dinner tonight?” He usually is. It kills two birds with one stone. He makes sure you’re functioning; he makes sure you’re eating. It’s never been a question of you caring for the kids. The worry has been about you caring for yourself.

He can’t stomach sitting down for a meal with you and Orion today, so he lies. “I have to get home and get some work done.” You’re surprised, and then disappointed. He sees it so clearly and chooses not to dwell on it.

He can’t stay. He needs to work this out of his system.

You’re sad tonight.

Some days are really bad days, and then some of them are awful, like these. The ones where you move from bed to the couch, feeding and changing and dressing the kids on autopilot. He calls them your sad days, because he doesn’t want to call it what it is. Depressed days, despair days, you’ve given up days.

Some of the days are better, but these are the worst. It gets ugly at night, when the anxiety and fear becomes too much, when the loss crashes down too quickly.

The house is quiet, and you’re curled up in the middle of the bed under a heap of blankets, staring at the wall. You don’t acknowledge him when he opens the door or slips inside, you say nothing when he sits on the side of the bed. He lays a hand on your shoulder. You don’t react.

“Did you eat today?”

“A little.” He strokes your cheek, backs of his fingers gliding over soft skin, trying to rouse you a bit more, and you sigh.

“Kids go down alright?”

“Fine. Orion is upset he can’t sleep in our,” your face twists, “my bed anymore. But I placated him with too much ice cream.” You manage a smile then, and he matches it.

“That’s good. Nothing he won’t do for some chocolate yeah?”

“Yeah.” Your voice is small. “John?”

“What is it?”

“Do you think it will ever go away?” He smooths some baby hairs back from your forehead.

“I don’t know, angel. Eventually it will hurt less, I imagine. But the loss will always be there.” Your cheeks glisten in the dark, sliver of light shining through the crack in the door from the hallway.

“I’m glad you were with him.” He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he bleeds.

“I am too.” Your fingers curl around his.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.” The ache in his heart is back, doubling the beat, blood churning all the way to his toes. “Will you stay?” He shouldn’t, but he folds himself alongside where you’re under the blankets and tucks your head into his neck.

“Yes, dove. I’ll stay.”

The next time it happens is filled with rage.

You’re a wild animal, a wolf starved, teeth bared and snapping, claws out.

But you beg him for it. You plead. You demand.

It’s just us. Just grief. Take it from me. Why should I be the only one carrying this?

It’s wrong as he takes you on the bathroom floor, cold tile under his knees, warmth of your thighs bracketed at his waist. You dig your nails into his back hard enough to break skin, and he pins them back, his forehead knocked against yours, sharing breath. Sharing grief.

He breaks you down eventually, pushing his cock so deep you wail, holding you firm with a hand on your hip. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to betray him, doesn’t want to take his place in a home that could never be his.

Still. He can’t stop. He can’t help himself. He lives for your cries, the way you tighten around him when you come, how your eyes turn into bright stars at your peak.

It angers him. He’s always been a man of control.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes, fuck, t’s not… it’s just-“ He snatches your jaw, and you look away.

“Look at me sweet. Look at me and tell this is just grief.” You can’t. You don’t. Instead, he shoves his hand between your legs and rubs your clit until you come.

When it’s over, you cry.

“Is this it?”  He stares at Simon’s headstone. “Is this what you meant? Is this what I promised you?” Dead men don’t answer to anyone, ghosts don’t provide explanations. John replays those last moments in his mind, burning Simon’s face into his memory so he never forgets, so he never gets confused. He’s in another man’s place, a father and a husband’s place. 

It’s been days since he’s seen you. Cami visits in his stead, which is good for you, better. You need a friend now, not him. Not whatever this is. Not whatever he’s done to you or vice versa.

He claps a hand on top of the stone, the same way he’d do it to Simon’s shoulder.

“I promised on my life, but I didn’t promise this.”

You haven’t seen or heard from John in nearly a month.

It didn’t bother you at first since they were gone for work, but when Gaz opened the front door to greet you two weeks ago, you were surprised.

They’re back and he didn’t reach out.

Why? 

You miss him. It’s a shameful revelation, and a surprising one.

So much for the mourning widow.

“Mama, i’cream?” Orion is huddled between your legs, tugging on your jeans while you bounce Phoenix, trying to get her to settle before bed.

“No ice cream tonight baby.” His eyes well with tears, and the guilt hits you. Be strong. Don’t give in, you’re spoiling him too much.

“Let’s go get in bed and I’ll read to you, okay?”

“No! I’cream!” Your face crumples.

“Orion, please. I already said no. Now can you help mama and go get in your bed?” He flings his hands at your thighs, little face twisted up with rage.

Normally, you’re well equipped for the tantrums. It’s part of having a toddler, but tonight, it’s breaking your back. Wearing you down. You’re about to walk away, create some space, take a deep breath when the doorbell rings.

Literally saved by the bell.

Orion’s already running down the hall, bouncing on his toes as you open the door to see John on the other side. Weary. Weathered. “U’cle John!”

“Hey, bud.” He locks eyes with you, standing on the threshold, meeting your eyes unflinchingly. “Need some help?” You swallow.

“Come in, you’re letting all the heat out.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” Your mouth is on his, or his on yours, you’re not sure how it started. All you know is his arms are warm, and strong, and a safety net at the bottom of your life now, waiting outstretched for when you lose your balance on the tightrope.

“I know.” He does that thing where he cradles your face, stares into your eyes like he’s seeing an entire universe, one he’s never been to, a planet undiscovered, stars recently born and exploded across a night sky. “I know sweet, but- I can’t-“ It’s why he stayed away, he confessed earlier. Why he disappeared. It wasn’t fair, he knew that.

The guilt is crushing him. It’s crushing you.

“What’re we doing then?” It’s not right, whatever this is.

But his body pressed against yours, his arms holding you tight, it’s impossible to run from. Hard to hide.

It’s not just grief anymore. A hydra with a head cut off, two more born again from the wound. It's a flower blooming in a forest of ash, life finding a through the gash of a wildfire. A small, tiny, flame, desperate to burn.

“Just kiss me,” you breathe, mouths now millimeters away from one another. His chest heaves beneath your fingertips. “Just kiss me, John.”

“Daddy.” Orion pats his hand on the stone, little fingers digging into the engraving.

Husband. Father.

Your thumb finds the sapphire, rubbing the stone it in practiced circles, and Phoenix coos beside you, half buried beneath the wool of John’s jacket. “Ready to go home, little man?” You’re crouched behind him, holding him, kissing his cheek. This is a weekly tradition, the visit, and even in the dead of winter when it’s too cold for the kids, you never miss it.

Your commitment never wavers, your gold band a mirror to the one buried beneath your feet, an eternal tie to your husband.

‘Til Death.

You will never not be Simon’s wife, the mother of his children, his moon. You will never marry again. You will never have another child.

But that doesn’t mean there isn’t room for a sunrise, a dawn, a new promise. An oath to John, though never formal or official in the eyes of the law, but true all the same.

The sun. The stars. The moon.

“Alright, we ready?” You press another kiss to your son’s face before scooping him up, taking one last look before nuzzling Orion’s face. “See you next week, Si.”

John lingers for a moment, a hand curled over the stone, fingers flexing into a squeeze. His eyes are distant, a world away, tangled up in the past for a long moment.

“Hey,” you call softly, extending a hand. “let’s go home.”

[arctichotch]

#i was not prepared for this #and neither was gregory Abbott Elementary crossover on It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia | 17x01

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REID YOU’RE A LITTLE BITTTTCHHH leave torres and kim alone

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steel doesn't burn {mini series masterlist}

Pairing: Young Dad! Joel Miller x Firefighter! Reader

Summary: The calls keep rolling in, minor emergencies, big roaring fires. You take all of it in stride, but you begin to notice more than a few are all for the same house. A frantic father to a young girl that you calm down every time. He's so thankful and then one day, he shows up at the firehouse.

Word Count: undetermined

Warnings: canon typical language, younger joel, struggles of single parenting, accidents happen, minor fire emergencies, joel is kinda stressed, instant connection, a bit of the red strong theory in here (hehe), sarah is a little bit of a menace (with good intentions), reader is a trained firefighter / paramedic, mutual attraction, the uniform does something to joel, oral (m and f receiving), protected piv, more to be added!

A/N: this is something i had a vivid dream about last night and here we are!

little sneakie peek ->

"it's getting a little hot in here." joel murmurs with tug of his shirt over his head. his chest is just as tan as the rest of him, freckles highlighting the time he spends outside. you dip down to lick a strip from his collarbone up the column of his neck. his hips jerk up, the bulge in his jeans brushing against you in a delicious way. "well, it's a good thing there's a trained professional here then, isn't it?" you whisper in his ear before you sink your teeth below it, he groans out a beautiful sound as you work a mark into the skin there. his hands move from your hips, fingers trailing up your sides, the ticklish feeling making you giggle into his neck. his resounding chuckle is deep, vibrating through you as he cups your face. you're both smiling when you kiss.

chapter one - first call || chapter two - comes with the territory || chapter three - unexpected visitor || chapter four - strong as steel

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buttercup

a/n: ….this was really therapeutic to write. 

summary: little did you know that your new next-door neighbour, the very guy you have an embarrassingly large crush on, is the masked vigilante who saved you a little over a year ago.

warnings: matt murdock x baker!reader, neighbours to lovers, explicit sexual content, rape recovery, ptsd, adorable surrogate parents gay uncles, mostly just a lot of fluff and comforting goodness, total word count is 43k

masterlist | join my taglist | series playlist

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN [coming 11/5-25]

CHAPTER FIFTEEN [coming 15/5-25]

CHAPTER SIXTEEN [coming 18/5-25]

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

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the devil and the angel - oneshot masterlist

goodnight n go - You and Matt are childhood friends who met at the orphanage. But people always assume you two are dating.

love language - You and Matt are now dating, but you haven't told anyone. How long will it take your friends to notice?

sex concept* - You and Matt have wanted to take things to the next level, but every time you try to get intimate, something, or someone, interrupts.

nonsense - You and Matt decide to finally move in together.

morally grey

god complex

successful

peace in our time

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truly nothing about house md prepares you for wilson. he's fucking insane. he's been divorced three times. he's the only person who can scheme just as well as house. he gives a patient his own liver bc he felt bad for him - a patient who didn't even know wilson's name. btw. he noticed a patient had depression bc he never mentioned his grandkids. he starred in a porno. he dosed house with antidepressants for several weeks. he allowed his boybestie and his gf to share custody of him and didn't even try to stop it. house told him to buy a piece of furniture that represented who he was, and he bought a $4000+ organ for house. he was gonna torpedo his career to talk abt euthanasia bc one of his patients suffered longer than he had to. he let house move into his 1 bed apartment bc his therapist thought it'd be a good idea. this man would do anything for anybody if they let him. he'd fucking quit his job to save a snail off the sidewalk. bro is not normal in the slightest

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someone on twitter is trying to claim that use of an em-dash is an indication of AI-generated writing because it’s “relatively rare” for actual humans to use it. skill issue

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X-Files Happy Fic Recs

This question was pretty much impossible to answer because there are SO MANY choices of fluffy, happy fics. This is a small sampling, not even exhaustive from my own previous fic recs. These should keep you busy and distracted for a good long while!

SEASON 5

at the close of day by @foxmulders

the dream where we pulled the bodies out of the lake by @foxmulders

Wednesday Night at Slim’s by VinRouge84

SEASON 6

Dr. Popularity by haphazard method

Kroner by DM

Pillow Talk by Alelou

Serendipity by @leiascully

Tethered by @lilydalexf

SEASON 7

Dana Scully’s Guide to Dating by @lilydalexf

February 2000 by @bitshortforastormtrooper

the fervor of a first day by @a-steady-wish

Green Love by @baronessblixen

Guitar Hero by Alicia K.

Home Ec by ArtemisX5

inertia by @foxmulders

Small Lives Awake by Jesemie’s Evil Twin

Touch the Moon by Pteropod

SEASON 8

things you said with no space between us by @alldolleduppink

I WANT TO BELIEVE

Beating the Darkness Back by Anjou

in the vacant places, we will build with new bricks by @becketted

These Things Keep Us From Sinking by anythingbutgrey

GENERAL MSR

Fourth Morning by Oracle

Hardball by Missy Pennington

If the Fates Allow by @skylandmountain1013

it could be sweet by wen

Poltergeist by @all-these-ghosts

The Smell of the Person You Love by @mangokiwitropicalswirl

up (where the world won’t let us down) by @quxnce

We Wish You a Happy Holiday by @mldrgrl

VERY LONG GENERAL MSR

Hurricane Season by Beduini and Rah

Terra Firma by @malibusunset-xf-blog

[arctichotch]

soap bubble memories

msr | s2-7 | explicit | words: 5k

five times mulder and scully showered together + one time they bathed.

i have an inbox full of prompts and wrote this instead oops. tagging @today-in-fic.

— — —

i.

The first time, he’s just gotten her back. Again. After she was taken from him. Again. To say he’s on edge would be the understatement of the century.

When they get back to the motel and she says she needs a shower, he thinks of mutants and sewer monsters, things that could find their way through drainage pipes to steal her a third time. He’ll be damned if he lets it happen again. So he stands outside her bathroom door, arms folded and alert, her own personal sentinel that she neither asked for nor approved, and listens. One wrong splash, one concerning clang, and he’s going in.

He hears the shower start, and that’s fine. The rustle of fabric, fine too. What’s not fine is the silence that follows, long and drawn out. He waits for the whisk of the shower curtain, for the pitter-patter sounds of water ricochetting off of her and onto the tile, for the thump of a knocked over shampoo bottle—anything.

Silence.

And then, a sound.

Keep reading

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Charlie Cox as Matt Murdock/Daredevil Daredevil: Born Again, S01E01 - Heaven's Half Hour

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WETWIRED

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so I’m sick and binge watching criminal minds again and it’s got me thinking about BAU!Reader

nothing specific just how their job could definitely cross paths with 141 since the BAU have worked to profile war criminals and terrorists before