Work Text:
You had promised yourself you would not spiral today. That promise sits thin as you step out of the library, the familiar pressure of deadlines stacking one on top of the other until breathing feels like a chore instead of a reflex that keeps you alive.
There is a quiet pride in having stayed back this late, in choosing tables and notes over distractions, in being the kind of second year who does not get noticed for the wrong reasons.
You’re someone who slides through corridors without anyone remembering her name but still remembers every page she read, every line she underlined, every small victory that does not need witnesses.
It should have been a clean exit. Library to hostel. Bed. Maybe a shower if energy allows. A voice cuts through that careful plan.
“Hey. Hey, wait.”
Your name follows, said with the kind of casual certainty that makes your stomach drop because you do not remember giving it to him. You slow before you mean to, hate yourself for it immediately, then stop fully because pretending not to hear it is useless now.
He is leaning against the wall near the steps, fourth year scrubs on, bag slung carelessly over one shoulder like rules never applied to him in the first place.
Bucky Barnes.
The name exists in your head long before this moment, passed around in whispers and rolled eyes. The kind of senior everyone knows without knowing, the kind who never seems stressed, the kind who smiles like he expects the world to bend for him because it usually does.
He looks at you like this is normal. Like calling you over has not just rearranged your internal organs.
“Yeah… You. From second year, right?”
The nod comes before you can stop it. Your mouth opens, and closes. Something about air refusing to cooperate. He does not seem to notice, or maybe he does and just enjoys it, because his smile tips slightly.
“Good. I was hoping it was you.”
Hoping implies intention. Intention implies choice. Your brain scrambles to keep up.
He reaches into his bag and pulls out a record book, thick and familiar and immediately ominous. Oh no. He holds it out like a peace offering.
It’s not.
“I need this filled. Clinical entries. You know how it goes.”
Of course you know. Seniors handing down record books like curses, juniors swallowing irritation because no one ever says no. It is tradition dressed up as mentorship, exploitation wrapped in smiles. You have watched others do it, complained quietly about it, sworn you would find a way out if it ever landed on you.
It has landed on you.
“Uh,” your voice finally shows up. “I… I have my own, uhmm records. To finish.”
He hums, just acknowledging a fact that does not change anything. The book does not move. His hand stays steady between you, patient in a way that feels practiced.
“I know. Everyone does. You’re good at it though. Got neat handwriting. I’ve seen your stuff.”
Being seen has never felt like a gift. It feels like exposure, like someone has pulled back a curtain you forgot was there. You wonder who told him. You wonder when he looked. You wonder why it matters.
You take the book because not taking it feels impossible. Your fingers brush the edge of his fingers for half a second too long, heat flaring where there should be none. You hate that too.
“Thanks,” he says, like you have done him a favour already. “I’ll need it by Monday. You can just slip it under my door. Room 318.”
Monday. Your mind does the math without permission, counts hours you do not have, pages you do not want to fill, resentment blooming immediately.
Your mouth wants to say no now, wants to choke the word out before it becomes habit. Instead, what comes out is a quiet okay that feels like a betrayal.
Fuck.
“You’re a lifesaver,” his grin widens, the phrase just sticks under your skin because you know he does not mean it. It is just something he says. Something that works.
He pushes off the wall then, stretching like this conversation has taken nothing out of him, like he has not just fucked up your entire evening, possibly your entire week. “See you around, yeah?”
You nod again, nodding seems to be all you can do around him. He walks away without looking back, already pulling his phone out, already elsewhere.
The space he had left behind feels too empty and too crowded at the same time.
You stand there, blaming fate, blaming everything. Irritation simmers, edged with something that feels uncomfortably like embarrassment.
Not because he asked. Because you said yes. Why couldn’t you have said no?
The walk back to your room passes in a blur of footpaths and familiar turns, replaying the way he said your name, the way he smiled like nothing in the world could touch him.
The unfairness of it all presses heavy. Fourth years like him float through med school like it is a game. People like you count pages and hours and caffeine intake and still feel behind.
When the door clicks shut behind you, you drop your bag on the chair harder than necessary, the record book landing on your desk with a dull thud that feels deeply satisfying.
“Oh my God,” you mutter, then louder, “Oh my God.”
Your friend looks up from her bed. She has known you long enough to recognize the particular tension in your shoulders, the way your hands shake when you are trying not to scream.
“What happened?”
You hold up the book like evidence. “Bucky Barnes happened.”
Her face shifts instantly, recognition blooming into something between amusement and sympathy. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Yes,” your voice rises despite yourself. “He just handed it to me. Like I’m his personal assistant. Like I don’t have my own shit to do.”
“Did you say no?”
The silence answers for you.
A dramatic groan leaves her mouth. “You cannot do this. Seniors will see you coming from a mile away.”
“I didn’t mean to,” you snap, then immediately soften because she is not wrong and that makes it worse. “He just… called me. And he smiled. And then suddenly I had the book in my hands and it was done.”
You pace now, words spilling out faster, frustration finally finding a mouth. “Monday. He wants it by Monday. Do you know how much I have to finish by Monday? I barely sleep as it is.”
Her expression becomes gentler now. “Why you though? He has friends. Groupies. People who would do it without complaining.”
“Apparently my handwriting is neat,” the bitterness in your tone is obvious. “Apparently he’s seen my stuff. Which is creepy, by the way.”
“That man has no boundaries. Also he’s hot, so no one calls him on it.”
You stop pacing to glare at her. “Do not.”
“I’m just stating facts,” she puts her hands up. “He’s a menace.”
“He’s a fuckboy,” you correct, the word slipping out with venom, satisfying in its accuracy. “And I do not have time for this.”
The innocent book still sits on your desk, infuriating you. Pages waiting to be filled with cases you did not attend, observations you did not make. Your jaw tightens.
“I should just give it back,” you say, more to yourself than to her. “Tell him I can’t. Tell him I have my own work.”
She watches you for a moment, then smiles in a way that is all understanding and zero judgment. “And will you?”
The answer tastes bitter before it even forms. You sink onto your chair, stare at the book like it has personally wronged you.
“No. Because I’m weak and stupid and I said okay.”
“You’re just too nice.”
A humourless laugh echoes. “That’s not a compliment in med school.”
She gets up then to cross the room, and peers over your shoulder at the offending book. “Look. We’ll bitch about him while you write.”
That helps. The bitching.
“He smiled at me,” the confession slips out before you can stop it. “Like I was already going to say yes.”
“Because he knows people do.”
“I hate that it worked.”
She bumps your shoulder lightly. “Welcome to being human.”
You pick up the pen, flip the book open, anger and resolve tangling together in your chest. If you are going to do this, you will do it right. Not for him. For yourself. Because that is what you do. Because walking away has never come easily.
Still, as the first page fills under your hand, one thought forms inside your head.
Bucky Barnes is going to owe you for this.
Finishing this stupid record book on time might actually be the most irritating miracle you have ever pulled off.
Two nights of cramped handwriting and squinting at borrowed case sheets, all for a senior who probably has not worried about a deadline since orientation week.
There is a strange mix of pride and annoyance together in your chest. Pride because the pages look perfect, neat lines and careful diagrams, everything organized the way your brain likes it. Annoyance because none of it is even yours.
Your roommate watches from her bed while you pack the book into your bag.
“You actually finished it,” her voice is impressed and a little horrified.
“I had no choice,” you zip the bag with more force than necessary. “If I didn’t, he would find me in some corridor and smile at me again and I would say yes to something worse.”
She laughs like she understands exactly what you mean. “Go give it to him and be free.”
Free is a strong word, but you take it anyway.
The walk across campus feels lighter without the weight of guilt hanging over you. You rehearse what you are going to say in your head, something polite and quick and efficient. Here is your record book, thank you, goodbye. Nothing more. Definitely no unnecessary conversation.
You spot him near the canteen. Of course he is surrounded by people. Bucky always seems to exist in the middle of laughter, like he attracts it without trying. A couple of fourth years, one or two juniors, faces you vaguely recognize. He looks relaxed leaning back on the bench.
Your steps slow on their own. It would be so easy to turn around, to come back later, to avoid this tiny social nightmare entirely. But the book is in your bag and Monday is too close and courage, apparently, is a muscle you are forcing yourself to use.
He notices you before you can talk yourself out of it.
“Hey,” he calls out, like you are an old friend and absolutely not a nervous junior.
Every pair of eyes turns in your direction at once. Wonderful. Exactly what you wanted.
Trying to ignore the sudden heat crawling up your neck, you walk closer. “Um, I finished it.”
You hold the book out to him the way a student offers homework to a teacher. Careful, a little formal, maybe even a little scared. His eyebrows lift when he flips through a few pages.
“Damn,” he does not bother to hide the surprise. “This is perfect.”
Praise should not matter this much from someone like him, but apparently your brain did not get that memo.
One of his friends leans forward, curiosity written all over his face. You remember his name after a second. Sam.
“So, this is the famous second year with the magic handwriting,” Sam says, looking at you like you are a rare species. “Hey, listen, any chance you want to do mine next? I will pay you in coffee and eternal gratitude.”
Your mouth opens, ready to spit out a polite refusal you have been practicing since last week, but Bucky moves before you can speak. His arm slides around your shoulders, pulling you a fraction closer to his side.
“Nah,” he says easily, “she’s mine.”
The words echo in your ears long after he says them.
She’s mine. You know it’s not serious. It’s just a joke tossed out between friends. Still, your entire body reacts like it is not a joke at all.
Your heart jumps. Your face heats. You suddenly understand why half the campus melts over him.
Sam raises both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, territorial much. I see how it is.”
“Find your own hardworking junior,” Bucky grins, finally letting his arm drop from your shoulders. Though the ghost of the touch stays behind.
You stand there feeling ridiculous, trying to remember how to breathe normally, trying to figure out how to actually survive.
“Thanks for doing this,” Bucky’s voice is softer now, like the rest of them are not even there. “Seriously, you saved me.”
“It’s fine,” you manage, which is not true but sounds polite enough. “Just… don’t give me another one.”
“Cross my heart,” he promises, two fingers over his chest in mock solemnity.
The group drifts back into their conversation and you prepare to make a quick escape, mission accomplished, when Bucky stands up and grabs his bag.
“I’ll drop you off,” he says, like it is the most natural sentence in the world.
Did you hear it right? Your brain stutters. “What, no, it’s okay, I can walk.”
“I know you can walk,” he sounds amused. “But I’ve got my bike and you’ve done me a huge favor and I’m not letting you disappear like that.”
People are watching again. You hate that people are watching. Refusing in front of everyone feels impossible, so you nod before you can overthink it.
The bike is parked near the gate. It’s black, shiny and slightly intimidating. Okay, very intimidating.
You have never actually sat on one before. He hands you the spare helmet without making it a big deal, and somehow that small kindness settles your nerves more than anything else.
“Just hold on to me, yeah,” he says while you climb on behind him.
Holding on to him sounds like a terrible idea for your already fragile composure, but the engine roars to life and instinct wins over dignity. Your hands settle lightly on his sides, trying to keep a respectful distance that disappears the second the bike moves.
It feels strange and a little unreal, like you have stepped into someone else’s life for a moment. Bucky drives smoothly, confidently, like he does literally everything else.
You tell yourself not to enjoy it. You enjoy it anyway.
When the familiar outline of your dorm comes into view, you’re surprised at the disappointment that blooms. The ride had ended too quickly.
Sudden quiet wraps around the both of you as he cuts the engine. You climb off carefully, handing the helmet back, already rehearsing another quick thank you and goodbye.
Bucky does not move to leave. He stays seated, one foot on the ground, looking at you with that same unreadable half smile.
“So,” he stretches the word out, “what do you want?”
“What do I want… for what?”
“For writing my record,” he clarifies. “Don’t say nothing because I know how much time that took.”
The question catches you off guard. You had not even considered the possibility of getting anything in return. In your head, this whole thing was just an annoying duty, a favor extracted through seniority and social pressure.
“I really don’t need anything… it’s fine.”
He studies you for a moment, like he is trying to figure out if you are serious. Apparently the idea of someone not wanting something from him is a new concept.
“Okay… but I’m not accepting that answer.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” you insist, as you feel awkward all over again. “I just did it because you asked.”
“Exactly. Which is why I’m doing something because you helped me.”
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how close he is, how easily he holds your attention without even trying.
“Look… let me at least buy you dinner. As a thank you.”
Dinner. Your brain immediately supplies a hundred reasons why that is a bad idea.
He is a senior. He is Bucky Barnes. People talk. You do not do dinners with boys on bikes who call you theirs in front of their friends. You definitely don’t do dinners with Bucky Barnes.
“You really don’t have to,” your voice is weaker this time.
“I want to.”
He says it like it’s simple, like it doesn’t carry any hidden traps. You try to find a polite way out and come up empty.
“It’s just dinner,” he adds, reading your hesitation with annoying accuracy. “No weirdness, I promise.”
The easy confidence, the genuine gratitude and the tiny hopeful tilt to his expression, makes your resolve wobble.
“Okay,” you hear yourself say, surprising both of you. “But only dinner.”
His grin widens. “Only dinner. Scout’s honor.”
You have no idea if he was ever even a scout, but the image makes you smile despite yourself.
“Same time tomorrow,” he starts the bike again. “Be ready.”
Before you can overthink or change your mind or list all the reasons this is probably a terrible decision, he gives you a small wave and rides off.
You stand there for long after he is gone, heart doing strange unpredictable things, trying to understand how a simple favor turned into this.
Deep inside your chest, excitement and nervousness argue back and forth.
Dinner with Bucky Barnes. Tomorrow.
Maybe this is a bad idea.
Tiredness is sitting heavy in your shoulders, the kind that feels stitched into your bones after a long day of lectures and wards and pretending to understand things you only half understand. The sensible version of you knows exactly what tonight should look like.
Pajamas. Leftover notes. An early night. Peace.
Instead you are standing in front of your tiny mirror with a dress spread across the bed behind you, trying to decide if it looks normal enough to pass for casual and nice enough to pass for dinner.
This is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
You keep telling yourself that while you brush your hair, while you check your phone for the tenth time even though you know there is nothing new there, while you dig through your drawer looking for the one pair of earrings that make you feel a little less invisible.
Getting ready for dinner with Bucky Barnes feels like preparing for an exam you never signed up for.
Your roommate is out, probably somewhere with her own life that does not involve spiralling over a senior who asked for a favour and then offered dinner in return.
He probably didn’t even mean it like that.
That thought pops up while you smooth the front of the dress over your stomach, trying to ignore how nervous your hands feel. He said it casually, like he says everything, like inviting someone to eat is the most normal thing in the world.
He did not ask for your number. He did not give his number. People who plan real dinners usually do those things, right? They exchange details and make proper plans and act like adults instead of just throwing out a time and disappearing on a bike like you see in movies.
What if he forgot?
What if he only said it because he needed to look cool and effortless like he always does? What if he says things like that to everyone and never follows through because he is Bucky Barnes and the world follows him around instead of the other way?
The more you think about it, the more stupid you feel for taking it seriously.
You imagine him right now somewhere across campus, laughing too loud with people who are not you, maybe already at a party, maybe already making other plans that have nothing to do with a shy second year who writes neat record books.
A small ache starts low in your chest and you hate it instantly.
Why did you even get ready?
You stand in front of the mirror, turning slightly from side to side, trying to see yourself the way he might see you if he ever actually showed up. The dress is simple and soft and maybe a little nicer than what you normally wear to class, and suddenly it looks silly. Like you tried too hard for something that might not even happen.
Oh God, the thought of sitting here all dressed up for no reason, waiting for a message that never comes.
This is embarrassing.
You start to take the earrings off, fingers fumbling more than they should. It feels safer to assume nothing is happening. It feels safer to crawl back into your comfortable routine and pretend none of this ever existed. You reach behind you and tug at the zipper, already planning how quickly you can change and wash your face and bury yourself under a blanket.
He did not even ask for your number. That sentence loops in your head like a stubborn song you cannot turn off. If he really wanted to take you out, he would have made sure he could contact you. That is basic logic. That is common sense.
You pull the dress down over your shoulders, halfway committed to the idea of forgetting the whole thing.
But then your phone lights up on the desk.
The sound is small but it freezes you completely.
For a second you just stare at it, heart suddenly beating in a way that feels unfair. Notifications come from lots of people. Groups and apps and random spam messages. It does not have to be him. There is no reason to assume it is him.
Still, you walk over to the desk like you are being pulled by an invisible string.
One new message.
Unknown number: I’m here. Come down.
That is all it says. Your face heats so fast it almost hurts.
It’s him. He remembered. He actually remembered.
The room suddenly feels too warm and too small, making your earlier embarrassment shift shape into something lighter and terrifying in a completely different way.
He is downstairs. Right now. Waiting for you. And you are standing here with your dress half off like an idiot.
You scramble back into it with clumsy fingers, tugging the zipper up again, checking your reflection in a rush of nervous energy. The girl in the mirror looks flustered and a little wide eyed, and there is no time to fix that.
Of course he remembered. Why would he not remember? He literally told you to be ready at this time and you convinced yourself he was lying because apparently your brain enjoys drama.
Maybe this is not such a bad idea after all.
You do not want to read too much into it. You really do not. But the feeling is there anyway, impossible for you to ignore.
It is only dinner. Just a thank you dinner between a senior and a junior. Nothing dramatic. Absolutely nothing life changing.
Still, you catch yourself smiling at your phone like it personally delivered good news.
This is how it starts, isn’t it? Tiny things that mean nothing on their own slowly adding up into something heavier. A hand on your shoulder in front of his friends. A ride on his bike with the wind in your face. A message saying he is here when you were sure he would never come.
Do not get carried away. Do not turn this into a story in your head. You barely know the guy. He barely knows you. Getting attached to the idea of someone is a dangerous hobby and you have exams and responsibilities and a life that already feels full without adding complicated feelings into the mix.
What if this is all in your head? What if he is just being polite and you are turning it into something bigger because you are not used to attention from boys like him? What if tonight is normal and friendly and you walk back to your room later feeling silly for letting yourself hope for anything more?
You don’t remember getting down. When you push open the hostel door and step outside, the evening air hits your face gently. For a second all you can hear is your own heartbeat being louder than it has any right to be.
But that’s when you see him.
Bucky is leaning against his bike exactly the way you imagined he would be, like he belongs there, like waiting for people outside dorms is just another ordinary part of his day.
He looks up the moment you appear, and the second his eyes land on you, something in his expression changes.
A playful whistle slips out before you can even take three steps toward him. “Okay, wow… yeah, hi. You look… really pretty.”
Nobody ever just says things like that to you so casually. Nobody ever looks at you like that either, like you are something worth pausing for. You have no idea what to do with it.
“I… um… thank you,” you manage. This is as flustered as you can get and it’s not even two minutes in.
He smiles at the reaction instead of pretending not to notice it. “No, seriously. I’m glad you didn’t bail on me.”
“I almost did,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “I mean… not because of you… God, no. Just because I thought maybe you forgot.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Forgot?”
“Yeah,” you are suddenly aware of how silly it sounds out loud. “You didn’t ask for my number and I didn’t have yours and I just… I don’t know, I figured maybe you say things like that to people all the time.”
He studies you for a moment.
“Hey… no. I don’t do that. If I say I’ll show up, I show up.”
He says it like he actually means it, and you hate how much relief that gives you.
“Good to know,” you mumble, suddenly very interested in the ground.
He reaches for the helmet hanging on the handlebar. “C’mere.”
Before you can process what is happening, you’re stepping closer. His hands gently lift the helmet over your head. He adjusts it carefully, fingers brushing your hair back so it sits properly, tugging the strap under your chin with an ease that makes your stomach flip.
“Hold still for a second,” he murmurs.
“I am holding still,” you answer, trying very hard not to focus on how close he is.
“Yeah, but you’re holding still like you’re nervous.”
“I am nervous.”
He chuckles softly. “That’s kind of cute, you know.”
The buckle clicks into place and he gives the top of the helmet a small affectionate tap. “There. Perfect.”
You genuinely have to remind yourself to breathe.
Climbing onto the bike feels a little easier this time, but not by much. Your hands settle on his sides again and you wonder if he can feel how tense you are through the thin fabric of his shirt.
“You good back there?”
“Uh-huh, yeah,” even though your heart is doing ridiculous things.
The ride to the restaurant passes in a blur of lights. It feels different tonight, less awkward and more intimate, like you are sharing a small secret with him that the rest of the world does not get to see.
When he finally pulls up in front of the place, he turns back slightly. “Hope you like Italian. If not, pretend you do for my ego.”
“I like Italian,” you answer quickly. “I mean… pasta is good. Pizza is good. Food in general is good.”
“That might be the most honest review I’ve ever heard,” he laughs.
Everything inside feels new and a little intimidating in the way unfamiliar restaurants always do. Bucky opens the door for you without making it feel like a grand gesture, just a simple natural thing, and you slip inside with a quiet thank you.
He pulls out the chair for you at the table.
Nobody has ever done that for you before.
“You don’t have to do all this,” you say, sitting down carefully.
“I like doing it.”
The menu becomes a safe distraction for a few minutes, something to focus on so you do not have to keep wondering what to do with your hands or your face or your nerves.
“Order whatever you want,” he tells you. “Don’t do that thing where you pick the cheapest thing to be polite.”
“I was not going to do that,” you lie.
“You absolutely were.”
“Okay, maybe a little,” you admit, smiling despite yourself.
The waiter arrives and Bucky waits for you to speak first, like your choice matters more than his. You stumble through your order with a little too much hesitation, suddenly hyper aware of how ordinary your preferences sound out loud.
“That’s a solid choice,” he says once the waiter leaves.
“I don’t do adventurous very well,” you confess. “I like safe food.”
“Nothing wrong with safe. Safe is good sometimes.”
Conversation should feel awkward. It usually does for you. Sitting with new people always involves long pauses and overthinking and trying to figure out when to talk and when to stay quiet. But with him, words seem to find their way out more easily than expected.
“So,” he leans back in his chair, “tell me something about you that isn’t related to med school.”
Your brain blanks immediately. What’s there not related to notes, day-old scrubs and stethoscopes?
“That’s… a hard question.”
“Come on, there has to be something. Hobbies, embarrassing talents, secret dreams.”
“I can touch my nose with my tongue,” you blurt out, then immediately want to sink into the floor.
Bucky stares at you for a second and then bursts out laughing, real and completely unfiltered. “That is not what I expected.”
“You said embarrassing,” you defend yourself, your voice small like that of a child, cheeks burning a little too much.
“No, that’s perfect. I’m genuinely impressed.”
The way he laughs makes it easier to relax. It makes you feel less like a nervous junior and more like an actual person sitting across from another actual person.
He tells you stories while you wait for the food, small funny things about his friends and the chaos of fourth year. You learn that he drinks too much coffee and hates morning rounds and once fell asleep standing up during a lecture.
None of it sounds like the larger-than-life version of him people whisper about. It just sounds human.
“So you really did all that work just because I asked?” he asks at one point.
“Yeah… I complain a lot but I’m bad at saying no.”
“I’m sorry about that, by the way.”
“About what?”
“Putting it on you like that. I should have asked properly instead of… whatever that was.”
The apology catches you off guard. You had not expected that from him at all.
“It’s okay. I survived.”
“Still… thank you. Really.”
Food arrives and fills the table with warm, comforting smells, and for a while the conversation slows into easy quiet. He asks if you like it and you nod with your mouth full, making him grin.
He pays attention in a way that surprises you. Notices when your glass is empty. Notices when you hesitate over the dessert menu. Notices little things you are not used to anyone noticing.
“You don’t talk much,” he says suddenly.
“I know.”
“Is it because you’re shy or because you think everyone else is dumb?”
A small laugh escapes you. “Definitely the first one.”
“That’s a shame. I think you probably have smart things to say.”
Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “You don’t even know me that well.”
“I know enough… and I’d like to know more.”
Somewhere between the main course and dessert, the nervous knot inside you loosens. You start answering more without overthinking every word. You ask him questions too, and he answers without making you feel like a kid for asking.
This feels entirely new but safe. Things that usually don’t belong together for you.
By the time the plates are empty and the bill arrives, you realize with a tiny jolt that you do not actually want the evening to end yet.
“Ready?” he asks.
You’re not. “Yeah.”
“So,” he says as you reach the bike, “dinner was okay.”
“Dinner was really nice,” you correct.
“Thank God. Because I was low key worried you’d hate my choice and never talk to me again.”
“I would have at least finished the food before ignoring you.”
“You definitely know how to humble a guy,” he laughs.
You stand there just looking at him, helmet in your hands, trying to hold on to the feeling of the evening before it slips away into ordinary life again.
He looks at you with that same easy smile he had when you first came downstairs, but now it feels different.
“Thanks for coming out with me.”
“Thanks for actually showing up,” you reply before you can stop yourself.
His grin widens. “Told you I would.”
As you hand him the helmet so he can help you put it on again, a small undeniable truth settles into your chest.
Maybe you are not as immune to Bucky Barnes as you thought you were.
That night he drops you off like nothing extraordinary has happened.
Until you reach the dorm steps, he stands there and makes sure you get inside safely the way he said he would. Just a small wave and a lazy smile.
“Sleep well, okay?”
There’s nothing cinematic about it, but it feels like a movie anyway.
You were on your bed for a long time afterward, staring at the ceiling fan and replaying the whole evening in your head from beginning to end, trying to understand how something so normal could feel so important.
You tell yourself not to overthink it. You tell yourself it was only dinner. You tell yourself a lot of sensible things that did absolutely nothing to stop the tiny hopeful flutter still moving around inside your chest.
The first text came later that night.
Bucky: Hey. Did you make it in without tripping over anything?
You laugh out loud because it’s such a ridiculous thing to ask. It felt like he texted because he just had to text.
You: Yes, thank you very much. No accidents reported.
Bucky: Thank god. I was prepared to feel personally responsible.
That’s how it started. Small messages here and there that slowly turned into longer ones without either of you noticing.
Bucky: How was class today?
You: Boring. You?
Bucky: Don’t even ask. Surgery rounds are trying to kill me.
He started to slip into your routine in little almost invisible ways. A text in the morning asking if you were awake. Another one in the evening asking if you ate. Sometimes just a random picture of something stupid he saw on campus with a line of commentary that made you smile harder than it should have.
One morning, when you mention that you had skipped breakfast, he shows up outside your lecture hall holding a small paper bag and a cup of coffee.
“You said you didn’t eat,” he hands it over before you could even react.
“I didn’t mean for you to… you know… bring me food.”
“Yeah but I just didn’t want you to starve yourself, so here we are.”
Inside the bag is a sandwich cut neatly in half and a chocolate bar tucked beside it. You do not know what to do except mumble a shy thank you while trying not to look too affected.
You’re not used to people paying attention to small things like that. You’re not used to someone remembering. But here he is, with food, like you’d actually starve if you don’t eat.
Days begin to feel a little brighter with him in them. He waits for you near the library sometimes, pretends it’s a coincidence. You pretend to believe him. He walks you back to your hostel after late study sessions even when it’s slightly out of his way.
“It’s dark, okay. Just let me be dramatic and protective.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said.”
“I prefer heroic but sure, we can go with ridiculous.”
He always teases you easily, gently, never in a way that makes you feel small. It always feels like he is trying to pull you out of your shell inch by inch, like he enjoys watching you relax around him.
One afternoon though, he does something that makes your entire week.
You had been whining to him about how second years never get to see anything interesting in the operating rooms, how you were always stuck observing minor procedures while the exciting cases went to seniors.
The next day he texts you out of nowhere.
Bucky: Wear clean scrubs and meet me near the main OT at two.
You spend the entire morning confused and curious and a little nervous, and when you show up at the time he asked, he’s already there waiting.
“I pulled some strings... c’mon.”
“Pulled strings for what?”
“For you to watch something actually cool for once.”
He gets you inside an operating room you have no business being in.
You stand against the cool tiled wall with your hands folded awkwardly in front of you, trying very hard to look like you belong.
Bucky leans slightly toward you, voice soft enough that only you can hear. “This is a suspected small bowel perforation.”
Throughout the surgery, he explains before you can even ask anything.
“First perforation ever?” Bucky glances at you with a small smile.
“First case ever.”
He doesn’t seem to miss the awe in your voice. “Not bad, huh?”
Not bad at all.
Afterward you cannot stop thanking him.
“You really didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
That sentence becomes a pattern between the two of you. Small thoughtful things wrapped in the same simple logic. I wanted to. I want to.
He learns your coffee order without asking. You learn that he hates pineapple on pizza with an unreasonable passion. You start looking for his face first whenever you enter a room.
Slowly, without any formal decision, you become part of each other’s days.
Evenings often find the two of you sitting on the library steps pretending to study while mostly talking about everything else instead. You tell him about your family and how nervous you were on your first day of med school. He tells you about his ridiculous group of friends and how he still sometimes feels like he is faking his way through life.
“Everyone is faking it a little.”
“Even you?”
“Have you seen me?”
“Nah,” he chuckles. “You actually know what you’re doing.”
The faith he seems to have in you feels strange but warm and a little dangerous.
Sometimes you catch yourself thinking about him at odd hours, wondering what he might be doing, wondering if he is thinking about you too. The thought embarrasses you immediately afterward, but it never stops coming back.
You try to stay sensible about it. Really.
But he is Bucky Barnes. Charming and confident and surrounded by people all the time.
You are just you, always a little out of place in big social circles. There is no logical reason for him to keep choosing your company, yet he keeps doing it anyway.
One evening he calls instead of texting.
The sound of his voice in your ear makes you realize you had missed it more than you expected.
“Hey… are you busy right now?”
“Not really. Just pretending to study.”
“Perfect. Come downstairs for a bit.”
“Right now?”
In your two years of college life, there hasn’t been a day where you didn’t dream of a moment like this. But there’s never been a day like this so far.
“Yeah, right now. I’m outside.”
You go down in your pajamas and messy hair and he still looks at you like you were worth showing up for.
“I was out with friends, saw this juice you like,” he hands you a juice pouch like it’s no big deal.
He just got you something just because you liked it. You don’t remember the last time someone did that for you.
This shouldn’t make you feel special. But it does anyway.
These little moments pile up quietly. Late night conversations about nothing important. Shared snacks in the canteen. Him saving you from your seniors — who are his juniors, by the way — during clinical postings. You helping him organize his notes even though he pretends to not need help.
One day he asks you to help him study for an upcoming exam. Pediatrics. You end up sitting together in an empty classroom for hours, your notebook spread between you while you explain topics he claimed to be terrible at.
“You’re really good at teaching,” he tells you. It’s a simple compliment. But when has there ever been anything simple about him?
“I’m just repeating what the book says.”
“No you’re not. You make it make sense.”
He looks at you with such easy admiration that you have to glance away to hide how much it affects you.
There are days when you wonder how this even happened. How a simple record book favor had turned into shared lunches and inside jokes and a growing comfort that feels suspiciously like happiness.
Your friends start noticing too.
“So are you two like… a thing?” your roommate asks one night while you were smiling at your phone again.
“No. We’re just friends.”
“Friends who text constantly and see each other every day.”
“That is literally what friends do.”
She gives you a look that says she absolutely does not believe you.
The truth is you don’t know what you are to him. He never defined it. Never said anything that crossed an obvious line. He is just there, steady, present and kind in ways that keep sneaking past your defenses.
You find yourself getting used to it. To him.
That scares you a little.
Because somewhere along the way you stopped thinking of him as just a nice distraction and started thinking of him as part of your life. You started noticing how your mood shifted depending on whether you had seen him that day. You started caring a little too much about how you looked when you knew he would be around.
You are not supposed to get attached. You know that. But knowing something and feeling something are two very different battles.
You spend a lot of time pretending that the little things don’t matter. That you are normal about him. That the way his name lights up on your phone does not rearrange something fragile inside your chest every single time.
It’s been easy mostly. Easier than it should be. You tell yourself it is just convenience, just proximity, just two people whose schedules keep overlapping like stubborn lines on a calendar. You are busy, he is busy, and somewhere in the middle of all that busyness you keep finding each other.
But tonight feels different in a way you can’t explain without sounding ridiculous even to yourself.
Maybe it is because he texted you at three in the afternoon asking if you wanted to grab something after your class, and you typed back a yes before you could think about it too hard. Maybe it is because you are sitting beside him now on the couch in his apartment with the television in the background like a polite third person trying not to interrupt.
Whatever it is, this is different.
You have been here before. Not like this, but close. Close enough that you know he keeps his spare blanket folded over the arm of the couch, close enough that you know he taps his fingers against his knee when he is trying to decide what to say next.
He is doing that now.
Tap tap tap.
“You look tired,” he’s always observant in that annoyingly careful way he has.
“I am tired.”
“Long day?”
“Long week. Long month. Long life, honestly.”
He laughs at that, pulling a smile out of you too.
“You wanna head home?”
The question catches you off guard because it is gentle and easy and leaves room for you to say yes without pressure. And for some reason that makes you want to say no.
“Not really.”
“Okay.”
Just okay. He stretches one arm across the back of the couch behind you. You think it might touch your shoulder. But it doesn’t, at least not yet.
The silence makes you aware of the small things, like the way his knee is angled toward yours, like the way your foot is almost brushing his on the rug.
You start talking to fill it because you always do.
About a patient who made you laugh today. About the vending machine that ate your last twenty. About how you might actually be developing a caffeine dependency that deserves medical attention.
He listens to you like he always does, mouth twitching at the corners when you get animated.
Somewhere in the middle of your story you realize he is watching you a little too closely. The realization makes the words wobble in your throat.
“What?” you ask finally, because you’re self conscious and him watching you isn’t helping at all.
“Nothing.”
“No, you are doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you look at me like you know something I don't.”
His mouth curves. “I do know something you don’t.”
“And what’s that?” At this point, you’re wondering if you have clown makeup on because that’s how intense his look is.
“I know that we’re alone because Sam is out with his girlfriend.”
“That is incredibly unhelpful right now. And for the record, I know it too.” You roll your eyes, but you are smiling.
The movie he put on earlier plays forgotten in front of you. Some action thing you stopped following twenty minutes ago. You can hear it more than you can see it, explosions and dramatic music bleeding into the background of the room.
He shifts beside you, turning a little more toward you on the couch. The movement is small but it changes everything. Suddenly his leg is closer. Suddenly his shoulder is closer. Suddenly everything is closer.
He lifts his arm in an invitation, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Absolutely no words and yet you understand.
It shouldn’t feel like such a big decision to lean over a few inches. It shouldn’t make your heart start thudding. But it does.
You tell yourself not to be weird about it. You tell yourself this is nothing.
When you shift closer, his arm settles around your shoulders without ceremony. “Much better.”
You huff out a laugh and let your head rest back against the couch, trying very hard not to think about the way his thumb is brushing idly against your upper arm through your sleeve.
Minutes pass like that. Or maybe it is seconds. Time feels like a traitor you cannot trust.
You can feel the rise and fall of his chest beside you. You can smell the faint clean scent of him. You can hear the movie and the city outside.
All of it feels louder than usual.
“You cold?” he asks after a while.
“A little.”
He reaches for the spare blanket without letting go of you, drapes it over your legs with unnecessary care, tucking it around your knees. The gesture is so domestic it makes your throat tighten for reasons you refuse to unpack.
“Better?”
“Better.” Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.
His hand doesn’t leave your arm. If anything, it drifts lower, resting just above your elbow, fingers tracing lazy patterns that make it hard to breathe normally.
You should probably say something. Make a joke. Lighten the moment. But every sentence you think of feels like a landmine you’d be stepping on.
You just sit there and let it happen.
“You know,” he says eventually, “you are very easy to be around.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah.”
“Most people would disagree.”
“Most people are wrong.”
Your chest does that stupid flutter again. “You just… say that to everyone?”
He turns his head to look at you properly then, and the teasing drops out of his face.
“No.” Just one word.
You become aware, all at once, of how close your faces are. Of how if you turned your head a few inches your nose would brush his. Of how his mouth is right fucking there.
Your brain scrambles for something normal to say.
“It is getting late.”
“Yeah.” Neither of you move to do anything about it.
His eyes drop to your lips and then back up again so quickly you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Almost.
“I should probably go,” you say, even though your body makes no attempt to follow through.
“You could.”
“You are not making a very strong argument for it.”
“I am not trying to.”
Your pulse kicks up, so loud you doubt if he could hear it too, but then you remember it’s inside your body and he will be unaware of it unless his hand makes contact with that point of you.
“Bucky.”
“Yeah?”
“What are we doing?”
He takes a breath slowly, like he is choosing his words carefully.
“Right now? Sitting on my couch.”
“You know what I mean.”
A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I think we are figuring it out.”
It’s a fucking line. He’s probably bluffing. He probably says that to all his flings. That answer should annoy you. Somehow it doesn’t.
His hand slides a fraction lower, resting at your forearm now, thumb warm against your skin. You can feel the calluses on his fingers.
The distance between you feels thinner with every breath. You can see the faint flecks of color in his eyes, the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the way his lashes cast shadows against his cheeks.
He tilts his head a little, searching your face like he is waiting for permission he does not want to assume. “Tell me to stop.”
Your heart trips over itself. “Stop what?” your voice is barely a whisper.
“Whatever this is about to be.”
You should say it. You know you should. This is complicated and messy and you promised yourself you would be sensible.
But sensible feels very far away right now.
“I don’t… I don't want you to stop.”
The words come out like a breath, almost worrying you that you imagined saying them.
He hears you though. You can tell by the way his shoulders relax, by the way his hand finally moves from your arm to your jaw, cupping it gently like something precious.
Your body moves towards him before your brain can catch up.
It’s hard to think.
The first brush of his lips against yours is careful. Like he is still expecting you to change your mind. It is soft and warm and nothing like the dramatic movie kisses you have built up in your head.
It feels real.
You lean in without thinking, closing the tiny space between you, and he makes a sound that you feel more than hear.
The kiss deepens slowly, two people learning the shape of each other in real time. His fingers slide into your hair, and you find yourself gripping the front of his shirt like you need something to anchor you.
It is unplanned and honestly a little clumsy in the best way.
“Is this okay?” he asks against your mouth.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Bucky, please stop asking before I lose my nerve.”
A quiet laugh escapes him. He is kissing you again, a little more confident this time, a little less restrained.
Your brain goes pleasantly fuzzy. Every worry you walked in with dissolves into the simple fact of him and you and the warmth building between you.
His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you let yourself melt into him because pretending you do not want to feels impossible now.
You are very aware that this is a line. A big one. A bold neon line you are stepping over with both feet.
But right now you cannot find it in yourself to care.
The world narrows to the feeling of his mouth on yours, to the way he says your name like it means something important, to the way your heart pounds with a mixture of excitement and fear and something dangerously close to hope.
The kiss lingers like a question neither of you wants to answer just yet, his mouth moving against yours in a rhythm that feels both new and inevitable, pulling you deeper into a haze where everything else fades out.
You can taste the faint bitterness of coffee on his tongue, which he drank before you got here, and it mixes with the sweetness of the gum you'd chewed nervously on the way over, creating this odd, intimate flavor that's just yours and his right now.
His hand stays tangled in your hair, your fingers clutch at his shirt tighter, feeling the fabric bunch under your palms, the heat of his chest seeping through, and suddenly it's not enough.
You need more. You need to feel skin instead of cotton, need to know if his heart is racing as much as yours is.
Without breaking the kiss, you tug at the hem, pulling it up inch by inch, your knuckles grazing the smooth plane of his stomach. He gets the hint immediately, leaning back just enough to help you yank it over his head in one fluid motion that leaves his hair a little messy, falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look less put-together than the confident senior everyone sees.
"You sure about this?" he murmurs against your lips, you can feel that he's holding back but needs to check anyway, his breath warm on your cheek as his eyes search yours in the dim light.
There's no pressure in it, just genuine care mixed with that quiet intensity he always carries, the kind that makes you feel seen without feeling exposed.
And god, you are sure… surer than you've been about anything in weeks, even though your mind is a whirlwind of half-formed questions tumbling over each other: what if this changes everything, what if it's too fast, what if you mess it up somehow.
But none of that stops the yes from spilling out, because the way he's looking at you right now, like you're the only thing in his world, drowns out the doubts.
A small smile tugs at his mouth before he kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding under your shirt to trace the curve of your back, fingers splaying wide against your skin, sending sparks everywhere they touch.
The contact makes your breath hitch, you arch into him. He takes that as his cue, lifting the fabric slowly, giving you every chance to pull away if you want.
You don't. Lifting your arms instead, you let him peel it off, the cool air of the room hitting your bare shoulders and making you shiver, though it is definitely not from the cold.
It's from the way his gaze drops, taking you in with awe that feels almost unfair, like he's memorizing every inch.
Left in your bra and the simple jeans you'd thrown on earlier, you feel heat creep up your neck, but he doesn't give you time to overthink it.
His mouth finds the spot just below your ear, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw that make your eyes flutter shut.
"God, you're beautiful," he whispers, and it's not said like a line. It's mumbled, almost to himself, like he couldn't help it, that makes your hands reach for him again, tracing the lines of his shoulders.
He's solid and warm, the kind of presence that fills the space without overwhelming it, and you wonder briefly how many times he's done this, how easy it seems for him, but the thought evaporates when his lips find yours once more, pulling you back into the moment.
Your fingers fumble with his belt, nerves making them clumsy, warranting his help, as he undoes it with a quiet chuckle that breaks the tension just enough to make you smile against his mouth.
"No rush," he says, his voice steady even as his hands work at the button of your jeans, popping it open with a gentleness that contrasts the heat building between you. "We got time."
Maybe. Yes.
Sam's out, there’s no one here except you two. But the muffled sounds of neighbors through the thin dorm walls remind you that this is real life, not some polished fantasy, making this somehow urgent.
As he slides your jeans down your hips, he helps you kick them off without any awkward tangles.
The cotton of your bra and panties feel suddenly too thin under his gaze. You would’ve have worn something sexier if you knew this would happen.
Sitting back on his heels to look at you properly, he pauses. His eyes have gone dark but soft, his hands resting lightly on your thighs.
"Still good?" His thumb rubs small circles on your skin, the simple touch sending a jolt straight through you, making it hard to think straight.
You want more, but you’re also scared of wanting more, excited and overwhelmed all at once. But your body knows, nodding before you can form words, "Yeah, don't stop.” Stopping now would feel like cutting off a breath you didn't know you needed.
With that, he scoops you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you bridal style. You let out a surprised gasp that turns into a laugh, your arms looping around his neck as he carries you the short distance to his bedroom.
The door's half-open already, and he nudges it wider with his foot, the room spilling into view: unmade bed with sheets twisted from whatever sleep he got last night, a desk piled with notes and a near empty water bottle, posters on the wall from bands you vaguely recognize.
It's lived-in, personal.
He lowers you onto the mattress, the springs creaking softly under your weight.
He follows you down, bracing himself above you on one elbow, his free hand trailing up your side as he kisses you again, slower now, like he's savoring it.
The bed dips under him, the pillow sinking a bit as your head rests back. You can feel the warmth of his body hovering just over yours, close enough to tease but not quite pressing down.
His fingers dance along your ribs, light, exploratory, absolutely maddening.
You need more, you need him to touch you properly. There’s the ache building low in your belly making you shift restlessly beneath him.
Without thinking, you reach for his hand, guiding it up to your chest, pressing it against your bra.
Surprised, he pulls back, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he looks down at you. "That eager, huh?" he teases, his voice laced with amusement.
"Tell me what you want.”
It’s absolutely impossible to word it, word what you want, as his thumb circles your nipple over the fabric. It's so close to what you need but not quite, making you whine softly in frustration.
"Just... touch me," you finally manage, the words coming out breathier than you intended,
He's already moving, his fingers deftly reaching behind you to unhook your bra with a single flick that speaks volumes about how many times he's done this before.
How many girls has he brought here, made feel like this? A spike of insecurity flickers, but it vanishes the second his mouth descends, warmth closing over one nipple while his hand cups the other, thumb circling in a way that makes your back arch off the bed.
Pleasure shoots through you, pulling a moan from your throat that surprises even you. It’s loud in the quiet room, echoing off the walls.
You're not usually like this, not vocal, always holding back out of some ingrained habit of keeping things contained, but here it spills out unfiltered.
He seems to notice it because frankly, it’s hard to miss. "That's it, lemme hear you… don't hold back if it feels good." His encouragement is gentle, making the next moan come easier, louder, as his tongue flicks and sucks, alternating sides until you're squirming beneath him, hands threading through his hair to hold him there.
Bucky takes his time, drawing it out, lips and teeth grazing just enough to tease the line between pleasure and ache, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip, fingers digging in slightly as if to steady you, or maybe himself. You’re not sure.
The sane part of your brain slips away with every pass of his mouth.
With spit shine and swollen lips, he eventually pulls back, his eyes meeting yours with a heat that mirrors the fire building in you.
"You're so responsive.” He's marveling at it, at you, his hand trailing down from your breast to hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging gently.
"Lift up for me, baby," the word baby slips out casually and affectionate, like he's said it a hundred times, making you obey without hesitation.
The fabric is peeled down your legs, and tossed over onto the floor, forgotten.
Now fully exposed, the vulnerability hits you for a split second. You feel the cool air on bare skin, but more than that, you feel his gaze.
When you break eye contact, he shifts down the bed with a purposeful grace, settling between your thighs. His hands part them gently, thumbs stroking the sensitive inner skin.
Anticipation tightens your core, making it impossible not to squirm under his touch. "Relax," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, his breath hot against you, making you tremble. "I got you."
The gasp you let out is stifled by your bitten lips, as his own brushes over your core gently.
"No, let it out— wanna hear how good it feels." The encouragement works, pulling another moan from you as his tongue finally presses flat, licking a slow stripe that makes your hips buck involuntarily.
He holds them down with firm hands, keeping you in place as he works, alternating between long, languid strokes and focused circles around that spot that has your vision blurring.
The room narrows to just the wet sounds of his mouth, the way his hair tickles your thighs, and the occasional groan from him like he's enjoying it as much as you are.
The sheets are rumpled from your fists, now they reach for him again, fingers tangling in his hair as the pressure builds, coiling tighter with every flick and suck.
Moans spill freer and louder now, spurred by his murmured approvals like "that's perfect" and "just like that" between breaths.
He's thorough, attentive, reading every reaction and adjusting, drawing it out until you're teetering on the edge, body taut and trembling under his touch.
His tongue keeps that relentless rhythm, dipping and swirling in ways that make your toes curl against the sheets.
The pressure coils tighter and tighter in your belly, a hot insistent build that has you gasping his name in broken syllables, "B-Bucky, oh God.”
Your hips grind up toward his mouth without any real control, chasing that peak.
A sudden and overwhelming wave crashes over you, your whole body tensing and shuddering as pleasure ripples out in waves that leave you trembling. Your muscles quiver in the aftermath, breaths coming in short ragged bursts that echo in the quiet space.
He eases you through it with softer licks that draw out the aftershocks, making your legs twitch and your hands clutch at his hair a little harder before you finally go limp.
You sink back into the pillows with a sigh that feels like it's been pulled from deep in your chest. Pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then your hip, your stomach, he works his way up until his mouth finds yours again, tasting faintly of you in a way that's intimate and a bit dizzying.
"Hey," he murmurs against your lips, and you can feel the smile in it even with your eyes half-closed.
The trembling hasn't stopped entirely, little shivers running through you like echoes of the orgasm. Bucky notices that right away, brow furrowing, like he can't help but worry a little.
"hold on, let me get you some water," you hear him say, watching him through heavy lids as he twists the cap off of the bottle, sitting up a bit to hand it to you, his other hand steadying your back. "Drink this.”
The water hits your throat, the coolness of it washing something in you. He stays close while you drink, and when you hand the bottle back, he sets it aside before stretching out beside you on the bed.
His lips find your jaw first, trail up to your temple, brushing over your hairline in a way that feels almost too tender for what just happened, his breath warm against your skin as he presses another kiss there, then into your hair, like he's content to just lie here and hold you while your body settles.
The closeness wraps around you, his arm draped over your waist, fingers tracing idle patterns on your back that send lazy sparks along your spine.
As the trembling fades, you glance up at him, catching the way his eyes are half-lidded, watching you with that satisfied curve to his mouth.
There’s a confusion in you now. He's still half-dressed, jeans hugging his hips, and the unfairness of it hits you all at once, making you prop yourself up on one elbow, your hand trailing down his chest tentatively, fingers brushing the trail of hair leading lower.
"Wait, what about you?" because this feels lopsided, like he's given everything and taken nothing, and the thought lingers.
He shakes his head as his hand catches yours, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss on your knuckles. "We don't have to rush the rest… there's always tomorrow, or the day after, whenever you're ready.”
That doesn't sit right, the idea of stopping here, of letting him walk away from this without feeling the same unraveling you just did.
Before you can second-guess it, your mouth forms a pout, lips pressing together in that way you know looks a bit childish but can't help. "But... I need you," you say, the words slipping out bolder than expected, shocking yourself even more, "I need your cock."
Whoa, where did that come from? It's not like you, this blunt courage bubbling up uninvited, heat flushing your face immediately after.
His eyes darken, a slow smile spreading across his face like you've just said something he didn't expect but absolutely likes.
"Say that again?" He slides his hand up your arm to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip as if to coax the words out.
A mix of embarrassment and frustration blooms, and you playfully swat at his chest with the flat of your hand, before your fingers drift lower again, fumbling with his belt buckle.
Avoiding his gaze, you tug at it clumsily. "You heard me."
His larger hand covers yours to undo the buckle with a quiet click, zipper rasping down as he lifts his hips to shove them off along with his boxers in one go, kicking them to the floor where they land in a heap.
He's hard and obviously so, cock springing free and curving up against his stomach, thick and flushed at the tip, veins standing out in a way that makes your mouth go a little dry.
He reaches over to the nightstand drawer, rummaging for a second before pulling out a condom packet, tearing it open with his teeth in that casual, practiced move that speaks to experience without flaunting it.
But before he can roll it on, your hand reaches out, "Wait—I've never, um, put one on before. Can I try?"
A surprised laugh bubbles up from his chest as he hands it over, eyebrows raised in amusement. "You wanna practice on me right now? Like I'm your training dummy or something?"
Lips jutting out again, "Teach me, Bucky… please?" drawing out the please.
He relents with a grin, guiding your hand to him, showing you without turning it into a lecture, "Pinch the tip here, yeah, like that."
His voice hitches when your fingers wrap around him, rolling the latex down slowly, carefully, the warmth of him pulsing under your touch making your breath catch.
Once it's on, he positions himself between your legs again, the weight of him settling over you comfortably, close enough that you feel enveloped, his forearms bracketing your head as he leans down to kiss you.
“You ready?" he murmurs against your mouth. You whisper a yes that's more breath than sound, your hands sliding up his back to pull him closer.
Inch by inch, he pushes in, stretching you in a way that's full and a little overwhelming at first, making you gasp into his shoulder, nails digging into his skin as your body adjusts.
The sensation builds from pressure to pleasure as he bottoms out, holding still for a moment to let you breathe.
"Fuck, you feel good.” The words are muffled against your neck.
The first thrust is steady and unhurried, making you wrap your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the flesh of his ass to urge him deeper.
The headboard taps the wall with each rock of his hips, he finds that angle that makes stars burst behind your eyelids, drawing moans from you that he swallows with kisses.
His own breaths come faster, mirroring yours. "That's it… fuck. Tell me — tell me if it’s too much—"
But it's not. It's perfect, the friction coiling that tension again until you're clinging to him, whispering "harder, please" in his ear.
Immediately he obliges, pace quickening until the room fills with the sounds of skin on skin, your shared gasps.
It builds faster this time, him inside you amplifying everything. You cum with his name on your lips, body clenching around him in waves that pull a deep groan from his throat.
His thrusts stutter as he follows right after, burying his face in your hair while he rides it out, hips pressing flush against yours one last time before he stills.
Somewhere between sleep and waking, you register the sensation of lips moving over your skin, the brush of his mouth along your shoulder, down the curve of your neck. That’s how you know it’s morning.
You stay still and let yourself exist in it.
His lips are softer now than they were in the dark. Curious in a way that feels less like hunger and more like quiet appreciation.
You are aware of your body before you are fully aware of the room. Aware of bare skin against bare skin. Aware of the way the sheets have slipped somewhere near your hips. Aware that you are not wearing anything at all.
There is a quiet exhale against your chest that makes you stir, eyelids fluttering open to a blur of morning light and dark hair bent over you.
“Morning,” he murmurs, sleep still clinging to his voice.
Your brain takes a second to catch up to the situation. To the fact that you are in his bed. That you fell asleep with your legs tangled with his.
You are naked.
He is naked.
You are in his bed.
Oh, also, this is Bucky Barnes.
There is no distance left to pretend this is casual.
“Hey.” His lips trail lower, until they take one nipple into its warmth, until it pebbles.
You open your eyes.
The ceiling above you looks different in daylight. More real. The warmth that had felt so comforting seconds ago now feels dangerously close to exposing something fragile inside you.
This is not something you do.
Not like this.
Not with a senior. Not with someone who walks into rooms and owns them without even trying. Not with someone like Bucky Barnes, who has a reputation that precedes him and a smile that has probably undone half the city.
And definitely not without talking about it first.
He lifts his head slightly when he feels the shift in you, eyes heavy but focused, mouth curving in a lazy smile that looks devastating this close.
“What’s that face for? Did I do something wrong already? Because that would be impressive.”
“No… no, it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
You do not have an answer that feels safe enough to say out loud. Instead, you trace a line across his shoulder with your fingers just to have something to do, to anchor yourself in something physical.
Last night was not reckless.
It was soft. It was slow. It felt like something building rather than something exploding. There were moments where he had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room, and the memory of it makes your throat ache in a way you do not know how to handle.
But that was night.
Night is easy. Morning is not.
“I’ve just never…” you start, then stop because the sentence feels childish before you even finish it.
“Never what?” he asks gently.
You let out a breath and force yourself to look at him properly. “Never done this with someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“Yeah. You know. Someone… above me. Senior. Someone who has a whole… history.” The last word slips out before you can soften it.
There is a pause. Long enough for you to realize what you have implied.
He studies you for a second, expression unreadable in a way that makes your stomach drop. “A history,” he repeats.
“I didn’t mean it like—”
“It’s fine.” His voice stays even, but something in it shifts just a fraction. “I know what people say.”
You want to take it back immediately. Not because it is untrue, but because it feels unfair in this moment. Because the man in front of you is not the whispered stories or rumors. He is human and still half wrapped around you like he belongs there.
“I just mean,” you try again, “I don’t usually wake up like this. I don’t usually… not talk about things first.”
He searches your face like he is trying to see the shape of what you are really asking. “Are you asking what this is?”
There it is. The question you have been circling since you opened your eyes.
“I don’t know,” you admit. “I don’t want to assume.”
His thumb traces a slow line along your hip. “I didn’t think last night felt like an assumption.”
“It didn’t.”
“Did it feel like a mistake?”
The word mistake is a mistake. Because last night felt like the opposite of a mistake. “No,” you say immediately. “No. It didn’t.”
It really didn’t. It felt intentional. It felt chosen. It felt like something that had been building and finally tipped over.
So why does your chest feel tight?
Why does your brain keep whispering that this is exactly how one-night stands begin? Intense, unexpected, and sweet in the morning until reality sets in.
Before you can say anything else, a sharp vibration cuts through the quiet.
His phone.
The sound is coming from somewhere on the floor, probably from his jeans. He groans softly and leans over to grab it, the movement pulling away the warmth that had been pressed against you.
You lie there watching the shift in him as his eyes scan the screen. “Shit, I have to take this,” he says. “Give me two seconds.”
The faint voice from the other side asks him numerous questions about where the hell he is and tells him he will lose his attendance if he isn’t there in ten minutes.
“Fuck — I’m late.” The words are simple. Practical. Normal. But they land like something heavier.
“Late?” you echo, absolutely dreading that you’re stalling him.
“Yeah. I was supposed to be in half an hour ago.” He runs a hand through his hair, already mentally moving into the day ahead. “I didn’t set an alarm.”
Last night definitely didn’t feel like a time where alarms existed.
But mornings come, and they wait for no one.
As he swings his legs off the bed, the sudden absence of him beside you feels enormous. You pull the sheet up instinctively, even though he has already seen every inch of you.
He is moving quickly now, scanning the room for clothes, checking his phone again. “I can drop you off on the way,” he says, distracted but not unkind. “I don’t want you getting a cab this early.”
“It’s fine, I can manage.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He pulls on his jeans, glances back at you. “I’m not just leaving you.”
The reassurance should help. Instead, it tangles with the fear already building in your chest.
As you sit up, the sheet slips down to your waist. The room feels colder without the cocoon of the night around it. You watch him move around the room with practiced ease, like mornings here are routine.
It probably is routine for him.
You hope to God that only covers the ‘waking late’ part and not the ‘because of a one-night stand’ part.
You hate that your brain goes there, but it does. It does because there was no conversation.
It was just skin and warmth and whispered names in the dark.
“Hey,” he says, softer now, noticing the way you have gone quiet. “You okay?”
You nod because that is easier than explaining the way your stomach feels like it is sinking through the mattress.
“Yeah. Just waking up.”
He walks back over, bends slightly so you are eye level. There is something searching in his expression again, something that almost looks like he wants to say more.
“Last night…” he starts, then gives up as his phone buzzes again in his hand.
You take that as a cue to get ready and get the hell out of here.
You tell yourself that is normal. That adults have jobs and responsibilities. That this is not some dramatic movie where the world pauses because two people slept together.
But the fear creeps in anyway. What if it meant more to you than it did to him? What if the softness was just part of who he is?
What if you have stepped into something you cannot handle?
You slide out of bed, gathering your clothes from where they lie scattered. Each piece feels like evidence of something fragile and undefined.
He is already by the door by the time you finish dressing.
You search his face for something. A sign. A clue. A hint that he is about to say, stay. Or this is not nothing. Or we need to talk.
He does not.
He just checks the time again and sighs. “We should go.”
And just like that, you are left with more questions than answers.
It is ridiculous how much power one casual text can have over your entire nervous system.
The pharmacology class becomes ten times harder to sit in when you know it’s Bucky that’s texting you. You wait a full thirty seconds before checking because you refuse to look eager, even if no one can see you.
When you finally glance down, it is exactly what you expected.
Bucky: survived the morning. you alive over there?
That is it. No mention of last night. No shift in tone that would confirm or deny anything that happened between the sheets and the soft early light.
You stare at the screen, rereading the words as if they might rearrange themselves into something more revealing if you look hard enough.
Survived the morning could mean anything. It could mean he is thinking about you. It could mean he is not. It could mean the night was a pleasant distraction before reality resumed its normal rhythm.
Honestly, it was stupid of you to expect that he’d say something over text. At least he doesn’t ghost.
At least he texted.
You tell yourself that if it had meant nothing to him, he would not have bothered. He would have let the day swallow it. He would have gone back to being Bucky Barnes, charming and untouchable, moving from one thing to the next without looking back.
But he texted.
Your thumbs hover over the keyboard. Every possible reply feels wrong.
Too warm and you look clingy. Too cool and you risk sounding detached. Too flirty and you might seem like you are assuming something. Too flat and you might seem like you regret it.
Why is this so hard?
Finally, you decide on something light.
You: barely. Caffeine is the reason I’m alive.
You stare at it. Delete it. Type it again with a different emoji. Delete the emoji because that feels like too much. Send it before you can edit it a third time.
The three dots appear almost immediately.
Bucky: that’s concerning. eat something.
Your chest tightens at the simplicity of it. It’s the same tone he uses when he shows up with food because you mentioned skipping breakfast.
You want to read more into it than is there.
You force yourself not to.
You: yes dad.
You cringe as soon as you send it. Now why did you say that? Why are you like this?
His reply comes a few seconds later.
Bucky: don’t start.
You can almost hear the amused warning in his voice. Heat creeps up your neck even though NSAIDs are being discussed right now.
The conversation fades into small exchanges after that. Nothing deep. Nothing that addresses the thing sitting heavily between you like an unspoken question. He tells you medicine rounds ran long. You tell him a patient tried to bribe you with chocolate. He tells you to accept the chocolate next time. You tell him that is unethical. He tells you you are no fun.
It feels almost normal.
Almost.
But beneath every word is a current you cannot ignore.
By the time your class ends and the sky outside has turned that deep dusky blue that makes everything feel a little more fragile, you have replayed every message at least ten times in your head. You have analyzed the speed of his replies, the punctuation, the absence of certain words.
He did not call you baby.
He did not say he missed you.
He did not bring it up.
You tell yourself that maybe he is giving you space. That maybe he is trying not to rush you. That maybe this is what maturity looks like.
But another voice whispers that maybe it did not mean the same thing to him.
That maybe you were one of many mornings.
You hate that thought immediately. It feels unfair. He was soft. He was careful. He had asked you if you were sure. He had not treated you like something disposable.
And yet.
You have heard stories. You have seen the way girls look at him. The way they orbit him like he carries his own gravity.
What if you had stepped into something that was always going to feel bigger to you than it did to him?
By the time you reach the campus courtyard that evening, your chest feels tight with thoughts you cannot shut off.
You had not planned on seeing him, but you know he usually lingers here. A part of you hopes he will not be there so you do not have to figure out how to act. Another part of you hopes he is because not seeing him would feel worse.
He is there.
Of course.
He stands in the middle of a loose circle of friends, laughter carrying easily across the space. Sam is beside him, animated as always, gesturing wildly as he talks about something you cannot hear. A couple of others hover nearby, one of them leaning against Bucky’s shoulder in a way that looks effortless and familiar.
The sight of it makes something twist low in your stomach.
He looks the same as he always does. Relaxed. Confident. At home in his own skin. There is no visible shift that marks him as someone who woke up with you wrapped around him this morning.
Why would there be…
You slow your steps without meaning to. You consider turning around. Disappearing before he notices you. Pretending you are busy.
But then his eyes lift and land on you.
The change is subtle but unmistakable. His body angles slightly in your direction even before he excuses himself. He says something to Sam that makes Sam glance over at you with a knowing grin that immediately makes your face heat.
Bucky makes his way toward you. “Hey.”
You force yourself to meet his eyes without letting the storm inside you show. “Hey.”
“How was your day?”
The question is simple. Ordinary. You search his face for anything that hints at last night, but there is nothing but genuine curiosity.
“It was fine,” you reply, and then immediately hate how flat that sounds. You clear your throat and try again. “Busy. But fine. Yours?”
“Rounds were brutal,” he admits with a small shake of his head. “Chief decided I haven’t stood for 24 hours today.”
His comment makes you laugh despite yourself. “That seems illegal.”
“I’m considering filing a complaint.”
His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary. There is a softness there that makes your pulse stumble, but it is fleeting. You cannot tell if you imagined it.
“You look tired.” He tilts his head slightly like he’s trying to figure something out. “Did you eat?”
The familiarity of the question makes your chest ache. “Yes,” you lie, because admitting you forgot feels too intimate somehow.
His eyes narrow just a fraction like he does not entirely believe you, but he lets it go.
There is a pause, not awkward but not entirely comfortable either. You are hyperaware of the group behind him, of the way laughter erupts suddenly, of the fact that this is his world and you are standing on the edge of it.
“I’ve got a game tonight,” he says after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s gonna run late.”
“Oh,” you say, and hope it does not sound like disappointment. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” He studies your face again, like he is trying to read something you are not saying. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
The question is casual on the surface, but something about the way he says it makes your heart trip.
“Yeah… tomorrow.”
“Okay.” He smiles, that familiar crooked thing that used to make your stomach flip in a lighter way. Now it makes it drop.
He hesitates for half a second, like he might say more. Like he might bridge the gap you are too afraid to cross. Instead, he steps back slightly, already half turning toward his friends.
“Don’t stay up too late,” he adds, almost teasing.
You want to laugh. Instead, you nod.
“Go win your game.”
“Always do.”
He walks back to the group, slipping seamlessly into the rhythm of their conversation. Someone claps him on the back. Someone else throws an arm around his shoulders. He laughs at something Steve says, head tipping back slightly, unbothered.
You stand there like a statue.
Nothing about that interaction confirms your worst fears.
Nothing about it reassures them either.
He did not avoid you. He did not treat you like a stranger. He asked about your day. He said he would see you tomorrow.
And yet the space where a conversation should have been feels cavernous.
You tell yourself you are overthinking. That this is what normal looks like. That not every connection needs a dramatic declaration to validate it.
But as you turn away and start walking, the questions follow you anyway.
Did you move too fast?
Did you blur something that was supposed to stay light?
Are you already more attached than you meant to be?
The next time you see Bucky, he’s waiting for you outside your class. He is just there, eyes scanning the crowd until they land on you, and the way his face shifts when he spots you makes something hopeful spark before you can smother it.
For a split second, everything inside you softens.
He waited. He is physically here.
“Hey.”
You try to keep your expression neutral, like you did not spend half the lecture imagining this exact moment. “Hey. How long have you been standing here?”
“Long enough to hear the professor inside mispronounce drugs. I was tempted to go correct him.”
A quiet laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It feels good. Too good.
“That would’ve gone well.”
“I know. I’m very charming.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Debatable.”
“Ouch.”
You feel easy talking to him like this. Like nothing else is on your mind. But your heart does tighten occasionally, ruining everything.
“Walk with me?” he asks, nodding toward the parking lot.
You hesitate for a fraction of a second, not enough for him to notice, but long enough for you to feel the weight of the decision. You nod anyway.
When your shoulder brushes his, you are hyperaware of it. He does not comment. He just matches your pace.
“You okay?” he asks after a moment, glancing sideways at you. “You’ve been… somewhere else all day.”
“I’ve been in class.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
You force a small shrug. “I’m fine.”
He studies you like he does not entirely believe that, but he does not push further.
When you reach his place, he unlocks the door and steps aside to let you in first. That tiny gesture, that small courtesy, feels more intimate than it should.
The apartment looks the same but also not the same. The familiarity of it hits you harder today. You have been here before, but today it feels different because you woke up in his bed yesterday and left with no answers.
He closes the door behind you and tosses his keys onto the counter.
“Sam’s out,” he says casually, shrugging out of his jacket. “Date night again. I think he’s trying to set a record.”
You nod, even though your stomach flips at the information.
Sam is out. Which means you are alone.
The implication settles between you almost instantly.
“Oh,” you aim for neutral and land somewhere uncertain.
He steps closer without making it dramatic. He always does that, moves into your space like it is the most natural thing in the world. His hand finds your waist, fingers warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.
“I missed you.” The words send a rush of heat through you that you hate for how quickly it responds.
“It’s been one day.”
“Still.”
Before you can think about it, he leans.
The kiss is familiar already, like your mouths have memorized each other. His hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, and your body reacts on instinct, melting into him before your brain catches up.
You let yourself sink into it. Into the warmth and the steady pressure of him. Into the way his hand trails lower to your hip. Into the sound he makes when you kiss him back harder.
But then your brain wakes up again.
Sam is out. You are alone.
He waited for you after class.
Is this because he wanted you, or because he wanted this?
The grip on his shirt loosens slightly, but he picks up on it somehow.
“Hey,” he murmurs against your mouth, not pulling away entirely. “Where’d you just go?”
Nowhere safe.
You step back just enough to create space. “I’m just… tired.” You hate how weak of a lie it is.
You can clearly see him battling confusion. “Tired?”
“Yeah. I didn’t sleep much.”
That part is true. You did not sleep much because your brain just would not shut up.
His hands remain on your waist, not letting go. Almost not wanting to.
“We don’t have to do anything,” he says, searching your face. “I’m not dragging you in here for that.”
The defensiveness in you flares up immediately even though he has not accused you of anything.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I know. I just—” he exhales slowly. “You feel different right now.”
Because you are spiraling.
Because you cannot tell if you are standing at the beginning of something real or in the middle of something casual that you are already too invested in.
Because you keep imagining him bringing other girls here with the same ease.
“I’m fine,” you repeat, which sounds less convincing each time.
He studies you in that steady way that makes it hard to hide. “Talk to me.”
The words are gentle. That almost makes it worse.
What are you supposed to say?
That you are scared you moved too fast. That you are scared he does not see this the way you do. That you are already picturing him getting bored in a week and drifting away like this was just another phase.
You cannot say any of that without sounding dramatic or fucking stupid.
The only sane option feels like distance.
You shift away from him just enough to create it, even though every part of you wants to stay where you are. “I think I’m coming down with something,” you say, reaching for the first excuse that sounds remotely believable. “I’ve felt weird all day.”
The concern on his face is immediate. It wipes away the warmth from a second ago and replaces it with something sharper, focused. “What kind of weird?”
You shrug like it’s nothing. “Just… off. Headache. Maybe.” The lie comes very easily.
He closes the small gap you tried to make, instinct overriding whatever confusion he’s feeling. His hand lifts toward your forehead before you can think of a reason to stop him. His palm settles there, clinical in a way that almost makes you flinch.
“You don’t feel warm,” he says.
Of course you don’t. You’d know if you were febrile. You both would.
“I don’t know.” You pull back a fraction. “I just—” The rest tangles in your throat. “I think I should go.”
He studies you like you’re a case that isn’t lining up with the symptoms. Brows pulling together, jaw tightening slightly as he runs through possibilities that don’t fit.
“You just got here.”
You can feel him trying to reconcile it. Sudden onset vague malaise. Absolutely no convincing clinical picture.
You know he knows.
“I didn’t want to say anything earlier,” you add quickly, filling the silence before he can dissect it. “Didn’t want to make it a thing.”
His gaze doesn’t soften. But there’s less confusion now. More searching.
“You were fine five minutes ago.”
You hate how true that sounds.
“I wasn’t… I just didn’t think about it.”
That part isn’t even a lie. You hadn’t been thinking. Not about consequences. Not about tomorrow. Not about anything but him.
“Don’t be like that,” he says. “If something’s wrong, tell me.”
Something is wrong. It is inside your own head and you do not know how to untangle it without making a mess.
“Nothing’s wrong,” you insist, even though your chest feels tight. “I just need to rest.”
There is a flicker of something in his eyes now. Hurt. Frustration. Maybe both.
“Did I do something?” You hate that you made him think that.
“No,” you answer quickly. “No, you didn’t.”
But you cannot elaborate because the truth is messy and unformed and terrifying.
Reaching for your bag, “I’m gonna go,” you say, keeping your tone as steady as you can manage.
He stands there for a second like he is debating whether to argue. Then he exhales and grabs his keys from the counter.
“I’ll drop you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. I want to.”
I want to.
The firmness in his voice makes it clear he is not letting you leave alone, and a small part of you is grateful for that even as the rest of you feels like you are sabotaging something you cannot define.
You walk toward the door with him a step behind, the tension between you thick and unspoken.
This is not how you imagined today going.
He had waited for you after class. He had kissed you like he meant it. He had said he missed you.
Yet you are the one walking away.
As he opens the door and gestures for you to step out first, the weight of it settles deeper in your chest.
You are building a wall in real time, brick by careful brick, and you are not even sure what you are protecting yourself from.
Behind you, he locks the door and follows, close enough that you can feel his presence but not touching.
The silence is heavier than any argument that could have happened.
Your phone buzzes halfway through the afternoon. You consider ignoring it just to prove to yourself that you can. That you are not waiting around for him, that your entire mood does not hinge on whatever words appear on your screen next.
You still look immediately.
Bucky: heyy
Bucky: i wanna see you. if you’re feeling up for it. will be near your block after your last class. maybe wait by the entrance? no pressure.
He did not say come over. He did not ask if you are free. He said he wants to see you.
Your brain — traitor that it is — immediately begins its spiral. Maybe he just feels bad about yesterday. Maybe he thinks you were actually sick. Maybe he is trying to smooth something over. Maybe he is bored.
Fuck.
Maybe he just wants you.
You force yourself to be normal.
You: yeah. i’ll be there.
He reacts with a simple thumbs up.
By the time your last class ends, your nerves feel stretched thin. You tell yourself this is stupid. You are not walking into a confession. You are not walking into a breakup. You are walking outside your own building to meet someone who asked to see you.
Still, your palms feel slightly damp.
The doors swing open and voices spill across the courtyard in overlapping bursts of laughter and conversation. You scan automatically for him, heart already climbing into your throat.
It takes less than five seconds to find him.
Not alone.
A small group surrounds him, the kind of cluster that forms around someone people gravitate toward without even meaning to.
Steve Rogers stands on his left, animated as always, gesturing with both hands while he talks. Sam Wilson leans back against the wall with that amused, observant look he wears when he is about to make a comment no one asked for.
And then there is a flash of red.
She is standing close to him. Close enough that her shoulder nearly brushes his chest.
Natasha Romanoff.
You have seen her before, of course. It would be impossible not to. Red hair that catches light like it knows it is being watched, sharp eyes that miss nothing, posture that suggests she does not need to raise her voice to command attention.
Right now, her fingers are at his collar. Adjusting.
She smooths the fabric down, straightens it slightly, then taps his chest like she is approving her own work.
There is familiarity in it that feels intimate even from a distance.
Your stomach drops so fast it almost feels physical.
That is not a friendly distance. That is not casual. That is close enough to touch without thinking about it.
Your brain does not wait for logic. It does not ask questions. It fills in blanks you never agreed to.
She fixes his clothes because she has done it before.
She stands that close because she is allowed to.
You are just another girl who showed up for a week.
You take an unconscious step back, already calculating the fastest way to turn around without being obvious. You could say you forgot something. You could pretend you never saw his text, even though you’ve replied to it. You could avoid the humiliation of walking over there like you belong.
Before you can pivot fully, his head lifts and eyes find you immediately.
There is no hesitation in the recognition. The moment he sees you, his expression shifts in a way that feels unmistakable. Something bright flickers there. Relief, maybe. Something softer than the grin he wears with the rest of them.
“There you are.”
Your body freezes mid-retreat.
He steps away from the group without thinking twice, closing the space between you in a few long strides. You have no choice but to stay where you are unless you want to make it obvious you were about to flee.
“Thought you were gonna ditch me.”
“I was literally just walking out.”
“Sure.” There’s just that faint teasing curve of his mouth.
Over his shoulder, you can feel the group’s attention shift.
“Come here.” He reaches for your hand. There’s no time for you to overthink or even think for that matter.
The contact is warm and familiar and it sends a rush of conflicting emotions through you. You let him guide you toward them even though every insecure thought in your head is screaming that you do not belong in this circle.
He says your name easily. Naturally. Not as an afterthought.
Shit, he’s introducing you to them.
But it’s just your name. There’s no label that follows.
Of course there is nothing to add. What would he even say?
This is the girl I slept with.
This is the girl I’m seeing.
This is the girl I don’t know what to call yet.
You force a polite smile as he gestures around.
“You know Sam,” he continues. “That’s Steve. And this menace is Nat.”
Nat’s gaze shifts to you fully now. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you reply, hoping your voice does not betray the way your stomach is still tangled.
Sam offers you an easy grin. “So this is who he ditched us for the other night.”
Heat floods your face instantly.
Bucky shoots him a look. “Shut up.”
“What? I’m just saying.” Sam shrugs.
Steve, ever diplomatic, steps in smoothly. “Nice to finally meet you.”
Finally.
The word echoes in your head.
Finally suggests there has been discussion. Anticipation. Awareness.
You glance at Bucky instinctively, searching his expression for any hint that he is uncomfortable, embarrassed, anything.
He does not look embarrassed.
If anything, he looks almost… pleased.
His hand rests lightly at your lower back now. The gesture is subtle but grounding, and it only confuses you further.
If Nat meant something more, would he touch you like this in front of her?
If you meant something more, would he have said it out loud?
Conversation resumes around you, overlapping. You answer when spoken to. You nod. You laugh at the right moments. But your thoughts keep circling back to the image of Nat’s fingers at his collar, smoothing, straightening, touching.
He does not pull away from you once. If anything, he shifts closer as the minutes pass, angling his body slightly so you are not on the edge of the circle but tucked nearer to him.
Sometime later, he leans down slightly toward your ear. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
His eyes linger on your face for half a second, like he is trying to read what you are not saying.
“Walk with me?”
You nod before you can second guess it.
His hand slides more firmly around your waist this time as he guides you away from the group.
You can feel Nat’s gaze on your back as you leave, or maybe that is just your imagination refusing to calm down.
The motorcycle waits a few steps away, gleaming faintly in the lowering light. He stops beside it but does not let go of you immediately.
“What’s going on in that head?” His voice is softer now that you are alone.
“Nothing.” Nothing feels like the only safe answer.
He huffs out a quiet breath. “You’re terrible at lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Okay.” You can tell he’s still not convinced.
The closeness of him is distracting. His hand is still at your waist, resting just above your pelvis. You can feel the warmth of it through the fabric and it makes your thoughts even more tangled.
“Where are we going?” You want to change the subject.
“It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is when they involve you.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Wow. I feel attacked.”
“Just tell me.”
He hesitates for dramatic effect, then leans in slightly, voice dropping. “Where else?”
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
“Bucky.”
“My place,” he finishes, like it is obvious.
Of course it is.
The words hit differently now, layered with everything your mind has been chewing on for the past twenty-four hours.
My place.
Is that all this is?
Your heart thuds against your ribs, too loud, too fast. You tell yourself you are being unfair. You tell yourself he invited you to meet his friends. He introduced you. He did not hide you. He did not flinch.
And yet the image of Nat’s fingers at his collar refuses to fade.
“Okay.” You hope he cannot hear the storm building behind the single word.
His hand squeezes your waist lightly before he finally lets go to grab his helmet, and the absence of his touch feels colder than it should.
Bucky’s place feels too quiet for the amount of noise in your head. He drops his keys into the bowl by the counter and turns toward you. There is no visible tension in him, no sign that he feels the way you’ve been feeling.
“You’ve been kinda weird lately… you mad?”
The softness in his voice makes it worse. It would be easier if he were careless.
He reaches for you when you don’t answer, hands sliding to your waist with an easy familiarity. Sitting back onto the couch, he pulls you with him, guiding you until you are straddling his lap, knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his thighs.
It happens naturally, like your bodies already know the choreography.
His mouth finds yours before you can think too hard about it. The kiss is warm. You can feel your breathing get uneven as his fingers resume their path on your body.
His lips trail from yours to your jaw, then lower, pressing unhurried kisses along your neck. Heat spreads beneath your skin where he lingers.
Your hands rest on his shoulders, and for a moment you almost let yourself fall into it.
Almost.
Because the image of Nat leaning in, adjusting his collar with that quiet confidence, flashes again. At the worst possible moment. Because you do not know what you are to him.
“Bucky…”
He hums against your skin. “Mhmm?”
“What is this?”
His mouth stills. “What is what?”
“This,” you repeat, gesturing helplessly between your bodies while still sitting in his lap. “Us coming here. Sam conveniently being out. You kissing me like nothing’s complicated.”
His confusion deepens, and he looks genuinely lost. “I’m kissing you because I want to.”
“That doesn’t answer anything.”
“It kind of does.”
A sharp exhale leaves you in frustration. “No, it doesn’t, Bucky.”
With his hands steady at your waist now, he shifts in his place. “Okay. Then tell me what you’re asking.”
“Am I just… part of something casual to you?” The words finally come, absolutely rushed. “Because that’s what it feels like sometimes.”
His expression changes in a way you cannot immediately name. You know it’s not anger. Probably something closer to disbelief.
“Casual?” he repeats carefully.
“I saw her,” you blurt it out. “Nat. Fixing your collar like she’s done it a hundred times. And Steve said finally, like I’m the last to know something. And you didn’t say anything when you introduced me, you just said my name. Like that’s all there is.”
“There is more.”
“Then what is it? Because from where I’m sitting it feels like I’m the only one trying to figure it out.”
The irony isn’t lost on you, and you don’t give him space or time to respond.
“I don’t do this… I don’t sleep with someone and then just pretend it’s fine without knowing what it means. I don’t wake up next to someone and spend the whole day wondering if I just made myself convenient.”
His hands tighten slightly at your hips at the mention of convenience.
“And before you say I’m overthinking… I know your thing. Everyone knows. You don’t exactly have a reputation for… consistency.”
“That’s a polite way to put it.” He exhales, trying to look as unbothered as possible.
“I’m serious,” you insist. “I don’t wanna be another girl you had fun with until something better came along. I don’t want to be someone in your rotation. I don’t want to feel stupid for catching feelings when you’re just—” you stop at that because the next words just wouldn’t come.
“Just what?”
“Just being you.”
He doesn’t respond. You hate that he doesn’t respond. That’s when you realise you’re still straddling him, still close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, still close enough to feel the unmistakable press of his length against you. Even in the middle of this.
How can someone be turned on in such a situation, you genuinely do not know.
“And don’t laugh,” you add, because his mouth twitches. “If you laugh I will actually leave.”
“I’m not laughing at you… I’m just trying to figure out how you managed to build an entire alternate reality without asking me a single question.”
“I’m asking now.”
“Yeah. After deciding all the answers.”
“Because you never said anything.”
Bucky studies your face, eyes searching in a way that makes your pulse pound. “You want me to say it?”
“Say what?”
“That I haven’t always been great at this.” He nods slowly, almost to himself. “Fine. I haven’t. I’ve dated around. I’ve kept things light. I liked that it was easy. There weren’t any expectations. People knew the deal.”
The honesty stings more than you expect.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
“But that’s not what this is.”
The firmness in his voice makes you want to hide yourself, but still you look at him. “Then what is it?”
He looks back at you like he’s choosing his words carefully. Or you think that’s what he’s doing. “Do you remember the first time we talked?”
“Of course I do.”
“I was an ass. I handed you my record book like it was nothing.”
“You were,” you mutter.
A faint smile touches his mouth. “Yeah. I was used to people just… going along with whatever I asked. And then you looked at me like I had personally offended your entire bloodline.”
Despite everything, a reluctant breath of laughter leaves you.
“I — I noticed you before that… I’d heard your answers in rounds. Seen your handwriting in the logbooks. You don’t try to stand out, but you do anyway. I kept waiting for a reason to talk to you that didn’t sound stupid.”
Your heartbeat stutters.
“The record book was the only excuse I had,” he admits. “And then you said yes even though you clearly didn’t want to, and I felt like a jerk the entire walk back to my room.”
That catches you off guard. “You did not.”
“I did.” His gaze does not waver. “Because I knew you weren’t like the others. You weren’t trying to impress me. You weren’t flirting. You were annoyed. And I still kept thinking about you… I’ve liked you since then. Not in a casual way. Definitely not in a ‘let’s see what happens’ way.”
“I kissed you because I wanted you. I slept with you because I thought we both wanted it. And it was never convenient. It was anything but convenient… because every time you look at me like you’re trying to decide whether I’m worth the trouble, it drives me insane.”
Heat rises to your face.
“Nat fixing my collar means nothing,” he adds as an afterthought. “She’s been doing that since first year. Also she’s dating some girl. And Steve said ‘finally’ because he’s tired of listening to me talk about you and not doing anything about it.”
“You talk about me?” The question feels fragile, but absolutely unnecessary and useless from what you’ve been hearing so far.
“Constantly,” he says without hesitation. “To the point where Sam told me to either ask you out properly or shut up… apparently it’s hard being my roommate.”
Your mind struggles to reconcile that with the version of him you built in self defense.
“I have been a guy who keeps things surface level,” he goes on, not flinching from it. “I liked not having to care too much. But with you it hasn’t been surface level. At all. I just… didn’t know how to shift gears without scaring you… so no,” he says, more quietly now. “You’re not part of a rotation. There isn’t one. Not anymore.”
The words make you feel absolutely stupid and make you smile at the same time.
“And if you think I brought you around my friends because you’re temporary… then you really don’t know me as well as I hoped you did.”
Now guilt seeps in because you just built this whole picture in your head that couldn’t be the farthest from reality.
You start to slide off his lap, embarrassment flooding in, but his hands hold you there gently.
“Don’t,” he murmurs.
“I just— I made a fool of myself.”
The corner of his mouth tilts in a smile. “Yeah… a little.”
“Bucky!”
“I’m not making fun of you.” His grip on your waist tightens, reassuring you. “I like that you cared enough about this to spiral a little.”
Your eyes sting again, but for a different reason.
He shifts subtly beneath you, and the movement reminds you once more of the hard length pressing against you.
“Also,” he adds, voice dropping, “for someone who thinks this is casual, you’ve been sitting on my lap for ten minutes while I’m very obviously not neutral about you.”
Your mouth opens in a soft ‘O’ at the attention he just called to himself.
His grin spreads slowly now. “You get so worked up… and it’s distracting.”
“Distracting how?”
“Yeah.” His thumbs trace idle patterns at your waist. “You’re so hot when you’re mad. I’ve been trying to focus on what you’re saying and all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss you again.”
The sincerity in his voice cuts through the last of your doubt.
“I like you,” there’s a finality in his voice. “I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding like every other guy who says it and doesn’t mean it. So I just… didn’t say it.”
“But I’m saying it now. Clearly. I want no room for interpretation. I want this. With you. Not because it’s convenient. Because it’s you.”
The story you built in your head never included this version of him at all, but that’s okay, you get to have first hand experience.