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Chapter Text

The one thing Bucky Barnes did with his freedom was read. He caught up on all the classics he’d missed in the decades he’d been with HYDRA. He started in the genre he liked, like The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit. After a while, he began to read more books from this century. One day, he picked up a modern fantasy and started to wonder why there was a turn of all these “morally grey” characters. 

You’d said, “Because no one is perfect, Bucky. The concept of a hero is flawed in today’s society. People want to relate more to a character who struggles with choices and doing what’s good for them, not necessarily the world.” 

You hadn’t even glanced up from your book when you’d said it, sitting across from him on the couch. He’d just stared at you, maybe dumbfounded, and then went back to his own book. 

One afternoon, you had Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Bucky over for dinner for your night to cook. Everyone was chatting and drinking, and you were in the middle of getting everything together. 

You went to grab your phone, but then realized you had left it in the bedroom. When you got in there, you almost screamed, cupping a hand over your mouth. Bucky was inside and looking at your bookshelf.

“What’re you doing?” You asked, grabbing your phone and tucking it into your pocket. 

“Just… it seemed like we gravitate towards the same books. I saw the bookshelf and couldn’t help myself.”

You hummed softly until your eye caught on the book he held in his hands. Panic flared in your chest, heat rising in your cheeks before you quickly schooled your features. You couldn’t have Bucky reading that book, but you couldn’t exactly explain why, because that would be embarrassing. 

When it was clear he intended to flip open the book and skim, “Hey—can I use your help in the kitchen, actually?”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to you. “Me?”

You nodded, hoping your cheeks didn’t give anything away. “Yeah.”

“Of everyone here?”

“It’s just prep work, not the actual cooking part,” you said quickly, fidgeting as he didn’t make any move to put the book down. 

Your gaze dropped down, and when it came back up, he was already looking at you. 

Fuck.

“There something wrong?” He asked.

“No. No, nothing.” 

His gaze fell to the book in his hands. “There something special about the book?”

“Uh, no. Not really.”

He stepped closer, tilting his head. “So then you have no problem with me reading it?”

“Well, um. Only if you like aliens, it’s a little out there.”

Bucky laughed. “Well, I figured that out from the cover.” He held it up. “You know, the big blue alien right there.”

You swallowed nervously. “It’s not a very… good story if that’s what you want. Pretty basic.”

Bucky shrugged, a crooked smile on his lips. “Think I’ll still give it a try.”

Bucky moved to step past you, but you stepped in front. “No—not that one. Any other one.”

His eyes burned into you with something oddly playful for the reserved, serious man you’d come to know. “What’s in the book?”

You shook your head, cheeks heating up again. “It’s—“

“It’s what?”

“It’s not for guys…”

He laughed again. “Not for guys? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a romance.”

“I’ve read books with romance in them. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Graphic—“ you blurted out before you could stop, covering your mouth with your hand. “It’s very graphic.”

Bucky took a few long seconds to look between you and the book. “You do know my past was—”

“Alien sex.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wished you could crawl into a hole and die.

You said it out loud. To Bucky Barnes.

The super soldier’s brows arched in something dangerously close to amusement, though his lips pressed like he was trying very, very hard not to laugh. His fingers tapped once against the spine of the book, a little rhythm, and then he tilted his head at you like he was sizing you up on the sparring mat.

“Guess I had the wrong graphic in mind,” he said.

Your hand slid off your mouth to your cheek, which was scalding hot. “Forget I said that.”

“I don’t think I can,” Bucky murmured, eyes narrowing in mock concentration as if he were turning the revelation over in his mind. “You’ve got a whole shelf of perfectly normal books out there. War stories, epics, fantasy adventures. But this one—” he held it up, a taunt in his eyes—“this one you hide in your bedroom. Why’s that?”

“I don’t hide it. It just… lives here.”

“Uh huh,” he said slowly.

You wanted to shove him out the door, back to the safety of the kitchen where Sam was probably cracking jokes, Steve was politely ignoring his antics, and Natasha was rolling her eyes with a glass of wine. Instead, you were trapped under Bucky’s steady gaze and the fact that he was holding that book.

“Barnes,” you warned, pointing at him. “Do not read that book.”

He smirked. It was rare enough that you had to look away just to steady yourself. “Now you’re making me curious.”

“It’s not—it’s not even that good,” you said quickly, wishing your voice didn’t sound so strangled. “The writing is bad. The plot is thin. The characters are—”

“Hot aliens?” He interrupted, lips twitching again.

You groaned. “I hate you.”

“I don’t think you do.”

His presence filled the room in a way that made your chest tight, like you couldn’t get enough air. He wasn’t teasing anymore—his eyes had gone thoughtful, almost soft, and the crooked smile had faded into something quieter.

“You read this stuff,” Bucky said finally, his voice low. “You read it because you like it.”

Your heart thudded. “So what if I do?”

He shrugged, but the movement was controlled, his eyes never leaving yours. “Means you’ve got more of a taste for stories than you let on. Doesn’t seem embarrassing to me.”

You blinked at him. “You’re not going to make fun of me?”

Bucky tilted the book once, considering, then stepped close enough that you had to tip your chin up to meet his gaze. He shook his head and murmured, “After some of the things I’ve done, you think I’ve got the right to judge what you read for fun?”

You froze, heat crawling up your throat for an entirely new reason. It was the unguarded way he said it, like the past wasn’t weighing on him for once, like he was here—now—teasing you, seeing you.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

Before you could figure out what you were going to say next, Natasha’s voice called from the kitchen, sharp and dry, “If you two are making out, at least bring more wine back with you!”

Your mortification returned in full force. “We’re not—”

Bucky chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he slipped the book back onto your shelf. “Guess I better go help before they think we’re doing something scandalous.”

You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because what could you even say?

Bucky brushed past you, his metal shoulder grazing yours in a way that felt far too intentional. He didn’t look back as he walked out, but you stayed rooted in place, hand pressed over your pounding heart, staring at the shelf like the offending book might burst into flames just to save you the trouble.

The hum of voices reached you before you even stepped back into the kitchen. You lingered in the hallway for a second, trying to smooth out your expression, regulate your pulse, pretend you weren’t rattled to your core. Alien sex. You had said that out loud. To Bucky Barnes, of all people.

You pressed your palms flat against your thighs, exhaled hard, and walked in like nothing had happened.

Natasha was perched on the counter, a wineglass in hand, smirking at something Sam said. Steve was leaning against the far wall, listening with that faint, patient smile of his. And Bucky was already there, standing close enough to your prep space that you had to blink at him.

“Need that hand still?” He asked casually.

You opened your mouth, closed it again, and finally managed a weak, “Uh—sure. You can chop the peppers.”

He slid a cutting board toward himself, picked up a knife, and started with the kind of careful precision that made you wonder if he’d once been trained to handle kitchen knives as weapons. The image was absurd enough that you almost laughed. 

He shifted, stepping sideways, and his arm brushed against yours as he reached for another pepper. You froze. He didn’t look up or didn’t say anything.

Okay. Fine. You could ignore that.

You reached for the olive oil just as he reached out to grab a bowl. His hand—metal, cool even through the faint brush of contact—skimmed over yours before you both pulled back. He gave you that crooked half-smile again.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“Mmhm,” you said, far too high-pitched, and quickly dumped the oil into the pan.

Sam cracked another joke and Steve laughed softly in the background. You looked up to catch Natasha taking another sip of wine while she rolled her eyes at the two men. The kitchen was lively, but somehow all the air you had access to existed only in the inches of space between you and Bucky.

Every time you turned, he was there: sliding past you to grab the salt, reaching over your shoulder for a different knife, brushing his knuckles against your arm when he handed you the cutting board. It should have been accidental—hell, maybe it was accidental—but it didn’t feel that way.

You noticed everything: the subtle shift of his weight when he leaned closer, the warmth of his flesh arm, the cool edge of his metal one, the way he smelled faintly of clean soap and something darker, something just him.

Your pulse wouldn’t settle.

“You’re crowding me,” you muttered under your breath, not looking up from the sauce you were stirring.

Bucky leaned in just enough that you felt the whisper of his breath against your ear. “Don’t hear you telling me to move.”

Your hand tightened around the spoon. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe,” he said, tone maddeningly soft.

Natasha called for more wine, breaking the spell. You jerked back, grabbed a fresh bottle, and busied yourself with pouring like your life depended on it.

But he stayed close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that your body registered every little shift, every brush, every phantom touch.

No one else seemed to notice. Or maybe they did, and they were too polite—or too amused—to say anything.

Either way, dinner felt like the longest meal of your life.

You told yourself you could handle it, but every time you tried to settle into the rhythm of cooking, there he was again—close enough to skim past your shoulder, close enough that his arm brushed yours when he reached for the spoon, close enough that you could feel the faintest shift of his body heat even when you weren’t looking at him.

It wasn’t loud or obvious, it was subtle. Infuriatingly subtle.

“Pass me the garlic.”

Bucky reached across you and his chest brushed your back as he set minced cloves just beside you. He lingered a beat too long before stepping back.

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard it hurt.

When the food was finally on the table, you collapsed into your seat with relief. Maybe if you kept your head down and focused on eating, your heart would remember how to beat like a normal human being.

Natasha and Steve took their usual seats next to each other, calm and unflappable. Sam immediately started in on a story about his neighbor’s kid who’d declared him “too old to be cool.” Everyone laughed, the tension slipped away, and for a blessed few moments you thought maybe, maybe you were safe.

Then Bucky sat next to you, so close that the edge of his knee brushed yours under the table.

You stiffened. He didn’t move his leg.

Steve noticed—you saw it in the brief flick of his eyes—but he said nothing. He reached for his water and drank a sip.

Natasha’s smirk was sharper. She tipped her glass of wine, leaned back, and studied you for half a second too long before returning to her food.

Sam, oblivious, kept talking. At least, until the third time Bucky leaned close to murmur something under his breath about the seasoning. Your pulse jumped, your face heated, and Sam caught it.

“Oh, hold on.” He set his fork down and pointed between the two of you. “What’s this?”

You blinked at him. “What’s what?”

“This. Right here.” He waved a hand in the space between you and Bucky. “The… proximity. The leaning. The low-voiced comments. You two look like a middle school couple trying to pass notes in class.”

Heat roared up your neck. “Sam—”

Bucky didn’t flinch at the comments, just forked another bite of food and chewed slowly, like Sam hadn’t said a damn thing.

“Oh, don’t you go stoic on me, Barnes,” Sam pressed. “You’re sitting so close you might as well be in her chair.”

Natasha’s smile turned predatory. “He’s not wrong.”

You gaped at her. “Not helping.”

“I wasn’t trying to.” She sipped her wine, unbothered.

Steve set his fork down with a sigh, looking between you, Bucky, and Sam with weary patience. “Maybe let it go, Sam.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, still grinning. “Nah, no way man. I’m just saying, I call it like I see it. And what I see? Barnes is finally making moves.”

Bucky finally spoke, voice even, eyes fixed on his plate. “Eat your food, Wilson.”

Sam laughed. “Oh, that’s confirmation right there. Deflection means I hit the target.”

Your hand tightened around your fork. “Sam, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to find something sharp.”

He raised both hands in surrender, still smirking. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop. For now.”

The table shifted back to lighter conversation, but your face was hot the rest of the meal. Bucky didn’t acknowledge any of it. He didn’t defend himself, didn’t tease back, he just stayed there, close enough that every brush of his arm against yours felt like a deliberate reminder.

And no one else said a word.

Sam thankfully kept to his promise and only nudged you with his knee once before going back to his food.

By the time dessert was finished and everyone started saying their goodbyes, you were convinced you’d made it through a battlefield. Natasha hugged you with a whisper of ‘you’ll have to tell me everything later,’ Steve gave you that steady, quiet smile, and Sam promised to ‘harass you both equally next time.’

The click of the door closing behind Natasha and Steve should have been a relief. Sam’s laughter still seemed to echo faintly down the hall, and finally—finally—you were alone.

You exhaled hard, leaning against the counter. Just you, the mess of dishes, and maybe five minutes to cool down before collapsing into bed and pretending none of this ever happened.

You looked up to find Bucky leaning against the counter opposite of you, arms folded, eyes fixed.

“You—you didn’t leave,” you said stupidly.

His mouth twitched. “Didn’t think you wanted to be stuck cleaning all this by yourself.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“Yeah,” he said easily. “But I helped cook, so I’ll help clean.”

Your protest died before it left your lips. He was already rolling up his sleeves, moving toward the sink like he belonged there. You fumbled for plates, stacking them up too quickly, nearly sending one crashing to the floor. Bucky plucked it from your hands before it slipped, setting it carefully in the sink.

“Relax,” he murmured. “Not gonna break anything.”

Your pulse jumped. The worst part? You were starting to think he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

The two of you worked in silence for a few minutes—him washing, you drying. You were just starting to convince yourself it wasn’t unbearable when his voice came, soft and deliberate.

“So.”

You braced. “So what?”

“The book.”

You nearly dropped the plate in your hands. “Not this again.”

“Oh, it’s definitely this again.” His smirk was almost audible beside you. “You got red as a tomato when I picked it up. Then you practically threw yourself in front of me to stop me reading it.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Maybe not.” He shrugged one shoulder. “But you made it very interesting when you told me it was graphic. And aliens.”

You slammed the dish towel down. “Bucky—”

“What’s so good about aliens?” He asked innocently, passing you a dripping glass. “They got… extra arms? Glowing eyes? Tails?”

“Stop talking.”

“Or is it the height thing?” He tilted his head, lips curving. “All the covers, those guys are huge. Eight feet, easy. You got a type?”

Your face was on fire. “I hate you.”

He chuckled low, shaking his head. “You keep saying that, but you don’t sound convincing.”

You couldn’t even look at him. Every time his metal fingers brushed yours handing off a dish, every time his voice dipped into that low, lazy drawl, your heart stuttered.

By the time the last plate was done, you were trembling with frustration, embarrassment, and something you didn’t want to name. You turned to shove the dish towel back on the counter—only to find Bucky already there, closer than he’d been all night.

You froze.

He hadn’t touched you, but his body angled toward yours, his flesh hand braced casually on the counter beside you, his metal one dangling at his side. Trapping you.

You swallowed hard. “Bucky—”

His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes. That damned crooked smile returned, softer this time, more dangerous.

“You never answered me,” he said, voice low. “What’s so good about aliens?”

You tried to summon words, any words, but they caught in your throat.

“You blush every time I bring it up,” he continued, leaning just enough that you felt the warmth of his chest. “You can’t even look at me. Makes me wonder if it’s actually the aliens you like or if it’s just the idea of something… different.”

Your breath hitched.

He tilted his head, eyes burning into yours. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. Not with me.”

You couldn’t breathe. Cornered. You were completely cornered and you weren’t sure you even wanted to escape.

His gaze didn’t waver. The weight of it feathered against your skin, every nerve screaming that something was about to happen—that if you shifted an inch closer, if you dared to tilt your chin up, he would be right there.

The thought was dizzying. Terrifying.

You felt your hand twitch toward him before you could stop it, and then Bucky stepped back.

The air rushed back into your lungs like you’d been underwater. He straightened, casual as ever, pulling the towel from your grip and tossing it on the counter.

“All done,” he said lightly, like he hadn’t just had you cornered, flushed and trembling. “I’ll head out.”

You stared at him, heat still roaring through your veins, but he was already moving toward the door. He paused long enough to glance over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting in that infuriatingly crooked smile.

“Goodnight.”

And then he was gone.

You sagged against the counter, pressing your hands over your face. If you lived to be a hundred, you weren’t sure you’d ever recover from this.

Chapter Text

The week crawled despite everyone’s busy schedules and missions pulling people in every direction. You hardly saw anyone. Natasha texted you once in the middle of the week, Steve left a voicemail about something mundane when you had missed his call, and Sam dropped a meme every night in the group chat. Bucky normally didn’t say more than he needed to, but you felt his silence more than usual.

Thursday morning, your phone chimed. You glanced to see that it was the group thread, but did a double-take when you saw the name. 

Bucky Barnes: Dinner’s at mine this week. Got something I wanna try.

Your stomach dropped. Sam replied first, as usual.

Sam: Hope it’s not just protein powder and toast, man.

Natasha: If I get food poisoning, I’m blaming you.

Steve: We’ll be there.

You typed and deleted your response three times before settling on a simple: Fine. 6?

Bucky’s reply came fast. 6.

By the time you showed up at his place, the smell of food already filled the hallway. Warm, rich, hearty—something savory and sweet.

You knocked.

The door opened, and there he was. Hair knotted back on his head, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour.

You forgot how to breathe for a second.

“Hey,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. “You’re early.”

“I—uh—thought you might need help.”

His smile flickered, softer this time. “Kitchen’s all set. But I’ll take the company.”

You slipped inside to find the table set, candles already burning low. There were pots simmering on the stove, and something golden was roasting in the oven. It looked… cozy. Like a home.

Like his home.

You moved automatically toward the counter. “So what are we having?”

“Chicken paprikash,” he said, stirring the pot. “And an apple strudel for dessert.”

You blinked at him. “You made strudel?”

He shrugged, a faint smile tugging his lips. “Thought I’d try.”

The domesticity of it—the apron, the quiet pride—was almost too much. You busied yourself with adjusting the napkins, getting glasses out from the cupboards, anything to keep from staring.

Bucky moved around the kitchen with a quiet purpose. When he reached past you for the serving spoons, his arm brushed your side, intentional or not, and the breath caught in your throat.

Déjà vu.

“Need me to do anything?” You asked, hating how your voice wavered.

He shook his head. “Just keep me company. Unless you want to talk about your favorite part of that alien book.”

Your entire body went rigid. “You promised you wouldn’t—”

“I never promised,” he cut in smoothly, eyes glinting as he slid the spoon into the pot. “I asked and you never answered.”

You snatched the nearest dish towel and flung it at his chest. He caught it easily, laughing, and tossed it back.

“Barnes—”

“Fine, fine. I’ll drop it for now.”

The “for now” lingered, curling through your chest.

The knock at the door saved you. Natasha and Steve arrived first, followed by Sam a few minutes later, and the room quickly filled with chatter. But even with everyone there, with Sam cracking jokes and Natasha cutting him down, with Steve asking calm questions about the recipe, you felt it again—Bucky’s presence.

The way his arm brushed yours as he reached to refill the wine for you and Natasha. The way his knee brushed yours under the table once you sat down. The way his gaze slid to you, once, then twice, when he thought no one else was watching.

Sam, of course, noticed again.

Halfway through dessert, he leaned back in his chair, eyeing you and Bucky with exaggerated suspicion. “You two,” he said, pointing his fork. “Something’s going on.”

You choked on your bite of strudel. “Excuse me?”

Sam grinned. “Don’t play innocent. Barnes is smiling more than usual. You’re as red as a firetruck. And I’ve seen about a dozen accidental touches in the last hour.”

Natasha raised her brows, sipping her wine. Steve’s lips twitched like he was fighting not to smile.

Bucky just cut into another bite of strudel, calm as ever. “Eat your dessert, Wilson.”

“See?” Sam leaned forward. “That right there is deflection again. Means I’m right.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Can we not?”

Natasha smirked. “Nope. I want to see how long it takes before you crack.”

Steve coughed into his glass, voice mild. “Maybe let them be.”

But the damage was done. You could feel the heat crawling up your neck, the way Bucky’s presence seemed to expand beside you, steady and unbothered.

By the time Sam finally clapped Steve on the shoulder and declared he was “rolling out before Barnes got sentimental,” your head was buzzing with wine, laughter, and far too much awareness of the man sitting next to you.

Natasha kissed your cheek with a pointed smirk that made you want to sink through the floorboards. Steve gave you a gentler smile, something steady and quiet in his eyes that made you wonder exactly how much he’d noticed. Sam winked exaggeratedly before stepping out into the hall.

And then it was just you and Bucky.

You automatically reached for the empty glasses, stacking them in your hands. “I’ll help—”

“No.” His voice was firm, no room for argument.

You blinked. “No?”

Bucky was already collecting plates, sleeves rolled up. “I cooked. I’ll clean.”

You frowned. “You cooked because you invited us here. And it’s my job as a guest—”

He turned then, leveling you with a look that rooted you in place. It wasn’t harsh, just firm. “Sit. Relax, if you’re staying. I’ve got it.”

Something in his tone left you no choice but to obey. You set the glasses next to him on the countertop, huffing quietly. “Bossy.”

“Efficient,” he corrected with the faintest grin before turning back to the sink.

For a moment, you stood awkwardly, unsure of what to do with yourself. The clink of dishes and rush of water filled the silence. Bucky’s voice drifted back, casual, like it had only just occurred to him.

“Oh, you should go check out the shelf in the corner. Picked up a few new books this week.”

You glanced over. Against the far wall, his bookshelf stood tall and neat, lined with spines that looked well-read.

“You’re shooing me away,” you accused lightly.

“Keeping you busy.” His voice was even, but you caught the quirk of his mouth when he glanced over his shoulder. “Go on. See if we’ve got more in common.”

Rolling your eyes, you wandered toward the shelf. He was impossible. Truly impossible.

When your gaze slid along the rows of titles, your chest gave a sudden, violent jolt. Nestled neatly between a dog-eared copy of The Hobbit and a newer fantasy paperback was the book. Your book.

The alien romance.

You froze, blood draining from your face even as heat rushed up your neck.

No. No, no, no.

You reached out instinctively, pulling the book free, as if holding it might make it less real, but the cover gleamed back at you, bright and mocking—the same one he’d plucked from your shelf last week.

Your pulse roared in your ears.

“Find something good?”

His voice came from behind you, closer than you’d realized. You jumped, clutching the book to your chest. “You—”

Bucky leaned against the wall, dish towel slung over his shoulder, eyes glinting with amusement. “Thought I’d give it a shot.”

“You read it?” You questioned, mortified.

“Not all of it.” His grin crooked wider. “But enough.”

“Oh my God.”

“Gotta say,” he drawled, pushing off the wall and strolling toward you, “you weren’t wrong. Pretty… graphic.”

Your face was on fire. “You’re evil.”

“Just curious.” He stopped a breath away, gaze flicking from your burning cheeks to the book clutched tight against your chest. “Wanted to know what you liked so much.”

“I don’t—It’s not—” Words tangled in your throat, useless.

Bucky leaned in, voice dropping low. “Can’t say I pictured you with a thing for aliens, but hey…” His mouth curved, wicked and soft all at once. “Not judging.”

You couldn’t breathe, rooted to the floor.

And then—like before—he stepped back just enough to leave you standing there, shaken and flushed, with the book still clasped to your chest.

He smirked, turning casually back toward the kitchen. “Strudel’s packed up if you want to take some home.”

🕮🕮🕮

It started the very next afternoon. Your phone buzzed with a notification. A link. Amazon: Science Fiction Romance.

You blinked, confused, until you saw the title highlighted at the top. “Captive to the Stars.”

Bucky: This one? Any good?

Your laugh startled even yourself. “You’re not serious.” 

You typed quickly: You don’t need to keep making fun of me.

His reply came less than a minute later. 

Bucky: Not making fun. Research.

You groaned, dropping your head into your hand. “Research.” Right.

But it didn’t stop.

Two days later—another link. A cover featuring a shirtless alien with blue skin and glowing eyes.

Bucky: This guy looks like trouble. Worth the read?

You sent back nothing but a row of exasperated emojis.

He changed tactics.

The next link wasn’t an alien at all. The cover was darker, gothic—smoke curling around the figure of a man with horns and wings. Title: Demon’s Claim.

Bucky: Now this I might be able to get behind. What do you think?

Your stomach swooped. You tried to play it off. 

I think you’re incorrigible.

But he didn’t stop.

The following morning: Fallen Angel. Tortured soul. Seems familiar, huh?

You stared at the screen, heart climbing into your throat.

This didn’t seem like just teasing anymore.

When you didn’t answer, another bubble appeared.

Bucky: Come on. You gotta tell me if I’m wasting my time here.

You finally tapped back, fingers stiff. 

You’re ridiculous. You wouldn’t even like half of these.

Bucky: Maybe not, but I’d like hearing you explain why you do.

That… was different.

Your pulse hammered as you stared at his message. The room around you blurred.

Bucky wanted to know why you liked them. He cared about what you thought.

And suddenly it wasn’t about aliens or demons or angels anymore. It was about him, poking closer to something raw and vulnerable you weren’t sure you could hand him.

Chapter Text

By Thursday night, you were starting to dread the sound of your phone buzzing. Not because of him exactly, because of what it meant.

The latest link had popped up mid-evening, right when you were settling in with a glass of wine and a half-hearted attempt at finishing paperwork.

The title this time? Marked by the Monster.

The cover wasn’t even subtle—shadows, horns, wings, and a beautiful woman plastered in the middle.

Bucky: This one looks intense. Bet you couldn’t put it down.

You nearly spilled your wine. You typed fast. 

Barnes, you’re insufferable.

The typing bubbles came up almost instantly. 

Bucky: That’s not a no.

You set your phone down and refused to answer. But you couldn’t stop checking the screen every few minutes, pulse quickening each time it stayed dark.

When he finally left it at that, you told yourself it was finally over.

But Friday morning, another buzz.

This time, no link.

Bucky: So, are you strictly an alien girl? Or do all monsters apply?

You nearly sent toothpaste foam across your bathroom mirror.

By the time you typed back—I’m going to kill you tonight—he’d already sent another.

Looking forward to it.

The evening came quickly.

Sam’s place smelled like charcoal and spice the moment you stepped into his backyard. The grill was already smoking, the sound of meat sizzling punctuated by Sam’s complaints about people always showing up late. Natasha had a beer in hand, and Steve was setting up a folding table with paper plates and cups.

Bucky was leaning against the railing of the porch, sun slanting over his shoulders, making him look a little too much like he belonged there.

Your stomach flipped the way it had every time your phone buzzed all week.

“Hey,” he said when your eyes caught his, but there was a tug at the corner of his mouth, and the slightest gleam in his eyes that told you everything.

You muttered a “hey” back and busied yourself with the cooler of drinks before anyone noticed your cheeks heating.

Sam’s backyard always felt like it had been designed for nights like this. The late summer heat was only softened by the breeze off the river. Fairy lights strung along the fence glowed gold, and the grill hissed as Sam flipped another set of skewers.

Everyone had slipped into their places as naturally as if they’d been doing this for years. Natasha perched cross-legged at the patio table, a bottle dangling from her fingers. Steve had pulled one of the lawn chairs closer to help Sam at the grill, content to fuss over charcoal.

And Bucky hadn’t needled you once. Not a single sly remark about aliens or demons. There was no smirk when you reached for your drink, no quip when he caught you checking your phone just to make sure he wasn’t about to send another outrageous link in front of everyone.

He was quiet tonight, but not withdrawn. He asked Sam how he’d managed to season the chicken just right. He exchanged dry comments with Natasha about Steve’s stubborn refusal to let anyone else add more charcoal. When you laughed too loudly at something Steve said, you felt Bucky’s eyes flick to you.

He had lingered close enough that when he leaned back in his chair, his knee brushed you. When he shifted to set his drink down onto the ground, his elbow grazed your leg. Little things that anyone else would even register, but each touch left you too aware of your own skin.

Dinner passed in waves—skewers and burgers and Sam crowing proudly when Natasha went back for seconds. Steve teased her about pretending she wasn’t impressed, and Natasha’s unimpressed glare just made him laugh harder.

You tried to lose yourself in the normalcy. The warmth of friends in the kind of evening that felt safe, but it was impossible to ignore him.

Even when Bucky wasn’t looking at you, you knew where he was.

When Sam passed around another round of drinks, Bucky didn’t make a show of reaching past you. He waited until you’d grabbed yours, then plucked his with the barest brush of his knuckles against your wrist. You flinched, not visibly—at least you hoped not—but then Natasha’s gaze slid to you, pointed and knowing, before flicking away again.

Steve, oblivious, launched into a story about one of his neighborhood kids drawing chalk superheroes on the sidewalk. Bucky smiled. It wasn’t a smirk, nor a teasing tilt of his lips, just a real, easy smile.

It was somehow worse.

Tonight, no one seemed in a hurry to leave. Plates sat abandoned on the table, Sam’s grill cooling in the dark. Natasha had stretched herself out in the chair, her beer bottle balanced on her stomach, eyes half-lidded but alert. Steve was telling some rambling story about Brooklyn in the forties, hands moving as if he could sketch out the memory in the air for everyone.

Bucky laughed once, low, at some detail you didn’t catch. You turned your head in time to see the way his face softened in the glow of the fairy lights.

By the time the evening wound down, you were a little warm from food and drink, the hum of conversation lingering in your ears like a song you didn’t want to forget. Sam pressed leftovers into your hands. Natasha hugged you without comment, though her sharp eyes skimmed your face a fraction too long. Steve clapped your shoulder with that earnest steadiness that never changed.

Bucky said goodnight, his voice quiet and steady. No brushes of hands, no teasing remarks, no corners of lips tugged into that crooked smile he wore when he thought he had you cornered. Just a simple goodnight, and then he was gone into the night with Steve at his side.

You told yourself you were grateful for it.

The way home was quiet. Your apartment was cooler than the night air, still holding the faint smell of candles you’d lit earlier today. You dropped your leftovers in the fridge, your bag on the counter, and headed straight for the bath.

The water steamed up against your skin, easing the tension from your muscles. You sank back until it lapped against your collarbones, let your eyes fall shut, and finally felt like you could exhale.

For the first time all week, no teasing, no covers of strange books flashing on your phone, no steady blue eyes watching you like they already knew your next move.

Just quiet.

You might’ve dozed off if not for the buzz of your phone sitting on the wooden stool.

Your eyes snapped open, heart kicking beneath your ribcage. You leaned, dripping, to snag your phone.

One new message from Bucky.

Didn’t ask tonight. But I still want to know.

Your wet thumb hovered over the screen, pulse hammering so hard you could feel it in your head.

You tapped the message, saw the rest unfurl.

What makes those stories so good to you? The ones you don’t want me to read.

The water swirled as you sank lower, pressing your free hand over your face. Heat spread from your chest to your ears, your whole body prickling as if he’d stood in the room with you.

You couldn’t answer him. You didn’t know how, but you didn’t put the phone down either. You stared at the message so long that the steam from the bath blurred the screen.

You could leave it, pretend you’d fallen asleep, let the night pass without answering. He’d tease you about it later, sure, but at least you’d be safe.

Safe from admitting anything.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard, then retreated. Again and again. You typed half a reply—I don’t know—then deleted it. Tried again—It’s embarrassing—deleted that too.

Finally, something in you snapped, or maybe softened, you weren’t sure which. Your fingers moved before you could stop them.

Because they’re about people who shouldn’t be loved but are anyway.

You hit send.

Your breath caught like you’d stepped off a ledge and started to free-fall. You set the phone on the edge of the tub as if it might burn you, leaned back, and tried to breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Over and over.

The water was too hot now, your skin prickling, but you couldn’t move or think. Your heart rattled against your ribs, and still—nothing.

No reply.

Every minute stretched on for what felt like hours. You counted your breaths. 

Five. Ten. Fifteen.

You almost reached for the phone to make sure it had really gone through, that you hadn’t hallucinated pressing send.

When it finally buzzed, you nearly dropped it into the water.

Bucky: And what makes you think you don’t deserve the same?

The air rushed out of you like you’d been struck.

You didn’t respond.

Not that night or the next morning, either. You read his words a dozen times, maybe more, but each attempt at a reply shriveled under the weight of what his words meant. There was no clever deflection for that. No safe ground to retreat to.

So you left it.

Two days passed.

You busied yourself with errands—groceries, laundry, the little things that kept you from thinking too hard. The afternoon sun was heavy when you trudged up the stairs to your apartment, paper bags cutting into your palms, your mind fixed on things like whether you’d remembered to buy coffee because you were pretty sure you were low.

You nearly dropped everything when you saw him.

Bucky sat outside your door, forearms resting on his knees, head tilted up at you like he’d been waiting.

The air thinned.

“You could’ve texted,” you said, because it was easier than asking why he was here.

His mouth tugged into that almost-smile. “Thought I’d try old-fashioned.”

You fumbled for your keys, juggling the bags as you went. He stood immediately, reaching out to take one from you like it was nothing. Metal fingers closed around the paper with a quiet rustle, steady and unshakable.

You unlocked the door in silence, stepping inside with him following behind. The air was cooler in your apartment, but your skin burned.

“Noticed you didn’t answer my question again,” Bucky said finally, setting the bag on your counter. His voice was even, not accusing.

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t look at him directly when those words still echoed in your head—And what makes you think you don’t deserve the same?

You managed a shrug, busying yourself with unpacking. “Didn’t know what to say.”

Bucky didn’t move closer, but you felt him like gravity itself.

“Maybe that’s the answer,” he said quietly.

The silence stretched between you, thick and charged, while you pulled out milk and bread and tried to ignore the fact that your hands were trembling.

You busied yourself with the groceries, pulling items out one at a time, as if they were more delicate than glass.

“Fridge,” you muttered, sliding a carton of eggs toward him without meeting his eyes.

He caught it easily and set it in place.

You pulled out pasta and shoved it across the counter. “Cabinet, top shelf.”

He opened the door, slid it in neatly beside two other boxes you’d forgotten were already there. The quiet between you wasn’t awkward exactly, but every word unsaid floated between you, making your apartment feel too small.

“Cereal,” you said, placing the box a little too hard on the counter.

“Middle shelf?” His voice was soft, like he’d learned the pattern of your kitchen already.

You nodded, still avoiding his gaze, shoving cans and bags toward him like if you kept moving, you wouldn’t have to stop and face the thing humming under your skin.

When the last of it was gone—milk in the fridge, bread tucked into the corner cabinet, cans stacked in neat rows—you leaned against the counter, pressing your palms flat into the cool surface. Your chest rose and fell too fast.

Bucky shut the cabinet with a soft click and turned toward you.

“Look,” he started, and your head jerked up despite yourself. His expression was caught somewhere between earnest and cautious, his eyes tracing your face like he was trying to gauge just how far to go.

“I’m sorry if it was too much,” he said finally, his voice rougher than before. “The texts. The questions. Pushing you. I’ll leave it alone.” His jaw flexed, and for a heartbeat, he looked away, like even saying it hurt. “I never meant for it to get this far.”

The words settled heavily between you.

You felt them press down into your chest, an ache that wasn’t quite relief and wasn’t quite disappointment, either. It was something else entirely.

Your fingers curled against the counter, nails biting into the surface. You swallowed hard, the silence threatening to crush you if you didn’t fill it.

“Bucky…” you started, but the rest dissolved into air.

His gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it scorched harder into you, searching, daring you to say something real.

You swallowed. Your fingers twisted into the hem of your shirt.

“It’s just—” you sighed, shoulders slumping, the fight bleeding out of you. “Everyone, especially guys, just always assumes it’s porn. Obviously, some books lean heavily into the details of the… acts. But that’s not the part that makes me want to read the books.”

His brow furrowed. He tilted his head, listening.

“It’s…” You bit your lip, hesitating. This wasn’t something you said out loud to anyone, but it had been sitting heavy in the back of your mind for months, scratching and gnawing at you in quiet moments, refusing to leave you alone. “It’s the part where someone looks at them—flawed, damaged, scarred to hell—and still says… ‘you’re worth it.’ Where someone chooses them even when it doesn’t make sense, that’s what makes me read them. That’s what I—” you cut yourself off, heat crawling up your neck. “That’s what I hold onto.”

Your chest tightened as soon as the words were out. You wanted to snatch them back, shove them somewhere safe before he could twist them, misunderstand them.

But Bucky didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

Slowly, he reached up, rubbing the back of his neck, but his eyes stayed locked on you. His voice was low, gravel worn down.

“You know what’s been sitting in the back of my mind?”

Your stomach flipped. “What?”

He took a step closer, and you could feel the heat off him now, smell the faint trace of soap still clinging to his skin.

“That I don’t deserve any of that. Not a chance in hell. But the longer I’ve been around you, the harder it’s been to keep believing it.”

The world seemed to tilt under you.

“Bucky…”

His throat worked, like he was forcing the words out, one by one. “You talk about people in those books—monsters, demons, men with too much blood on their hands. You want to know why I keep asking you about them? Why I keep showing up, even when I should’ve walked away?”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“Because I keep seeing myself in them.” His voice cracked on the last word, quiet but fierce. “And I keep hoping—God help me—that maybe one day, you’ll look at me the same way you look at them. Like I’m worth it. Like I’m… not too far gone.”

The confession landed between you like a thunderclap, rattling through the silence.

You blinked, pulse pounding in your throat. You hadn’t expected—couldn’t have expected—that. And yet… hadn’t you been circling this very thing for weeks? Months, even? Pretending it wasn’t there every time his hand brushed yours, every time his voice softened when he said your name?

Your voice was shaky when you finally managed, “You think I don’t already?”

His head jerked, startled, eyes searching yours for the lie he couldn’t find.

Your courage was thin, but it was real. “Bucky, you’re the exact reason I read those books. You keep wondering if anyone could look at someone like you—everything you’ve done, everything you carry—and still say yes. Still say you’re worth it. And the truth is, I already do.”

The air crackled. His hands flexed at his sides. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The kitchen was too small, the distance between you nonexistent, every breath a collision.

And then—slowly, carefully—Bucky exhaled, dragging his gaze away like it cost him something. He stepped back half a pace, breaking the spell before it swallowed you both.

“If you knew how close I am right now…” His jaw tightened. “But I can’t. Not like this. Not when you’re saying things that—” He shook his head, shutting it down. “Not when I might take it the wrong way.”

Your chest ached at the restraint.

He left it there, dangling, but you could feel it alive between you—the truth you’d both been too afraid to put into words until now.

Chapter Text

The following week arrived both too quickly and too slowly all at once. You’d spent the days in between caught in a strange limbo—half avoiding your phone, half waiting for it to buzz with another one of his late-night texts about angels or demons or whatever else he was pretending to ask your opinion on. 

Nothing came.

And now, here you were again. Weekly dinner. Steve’s apartment this time, though Sam manned the grill on the balcony like he owned the place. Natasha poured wine for both of you in the kitchen. The room was full of laughter, voices, warmth—everything that should’ve been familiar.

Except Bucky.

He was there, of course, but the shift was immediate. Visible the moment you’d crossed the threshold. He wasn’t hovering at your elbow anymore, wasn’t brushing past you on the way to grab another drink. He kept his distance, polite, answering when spoken to but rarely starting a conversation.

And still, you could feel him.

Across the room, his gaze landed on you often, held too long before he tore it away. His silence carried more than his words. Every laugh you gave someone else, every time you lifted the glass to your lips, you felt him watching—quiet, careful, as if waiting to see if you’d acknowledge what happened in your kitchen earlier in the week.

The others noticed.

Steve glanced between you more than once, brows pulling together like he was piecing together a puzzle. Natasha, sharp-eyed as always, leaned just a fraction closer when she handed you your next glass of wine, her gaze flicking toward Bucky before sliding back to you.

But it was Sam who said it out loud.

Midway through dinner, he set his beer down with a decisive clink, leaning back in his chair with a smirk aimed squarely at Bucky. “Man, you’re quiet tonight. What gives? Didn’t even make fun of me for burning the first burger.”

Bucky gave him a flat, unamused look. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Uh huh.” Sam’s gaze shifted between you and him, eyes narrowing. “Right. And you—” he pointed his bottle at you, “you’re not running your mouth half as much as usual. Something happen I should know about?”

The table quieted. Steve shook his head as Natasha sipped her wine without a word, avoiding eye contact.

You froze, pulse leaping, heat crawling up your neck. “What? No. Nothing happened.”

Sam’s grin widened, wolfish. “Just saying…” He raised his brows. “Y’all are acting weird.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He shifted in his seat, eyes locked firmly on his plate. You wanted to vanish into the floor.

But instead, you forced a laugh, waving Sam off like it was nothing. “You’re imagining things.”

“Mm-hmm.” Sam didn’t sound convinced, but he let it drop, launching into another story he had from earlier in the week.

The rest of dinner carried on, laughter rising again, conversation spinning in every direction, but the air between you and Bucky stayed tight, stretched too thin, humming with everything unsaid. You weren’t sure how long you could stand it.

By the time the plates were scraped clean and the laughter had dulled into the comfortable lull of full bellies and final drinks, the night wound down. Sam took over the balcony again, drawing Steve into some debate about proper seasoning techniques for each type of meat. At the same time, Bucky lingered in the corner of the living room, methodically gathering scattered stray bottles.

You helped stack dishes in the sink, grateful for something to do with your hands, when Natasha appeared at your side. She took the plate from your grip before you could rinse it and set it firmly on the counter.

“Walk with me,” she said.

You blinked. “Now?”

She raised a brow. “Unless you’re planning on hiding in here until everyone leaves.”

Her tone was casual, but the look she gave you wasn’t. That razor-sharp kind of knowing that always made you feel like glass under her gaze. She didn’t wait for an answer, pivoting toward the hall that led to Steve’s spare room.

You sighed, wiping your hands on a towel, and followed.

The door clicked shut behind you. Natasha leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, eyes cool and unblinking.

“Alright,” she said. “What’s going on with you and Barnes?”

Your stomach dropped. “What? Nothing—”

“Don’t.” The word cut you off sharply, but not unkindly. She tilted her head, studying you. “You think I don’t notice the way you tense every time he’s near? The way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the room? Come on. I’ve known you too long.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. You folded your arms, defensive. “It’s not—he’s just—”

“Just what?” Natasha pressed, voice low but steady. “Because from where I’m standing, you two are orbiting each other so hard it’s a wonder no one else has said something sooner. Even Sam noticed. And he’s about as subtle as a brick.”

You groaned, pressing your palms to your face. “God, I knew he’d say something.”

Natasha’s mouth curved faintly, though her eyes stayed sharp. “Sam’s not wrong. So tell me—what’s happening?”

You hesitated, fingers curling tight at your sides. The memory of Bucky’s voice from your kitchen flickered back—And how could anyone look at me and accept that?—and your throat tightened.

“It’s complicated,” you muttered.

Natasha shrugged one shoulder. “Most things worth it are.”

You exhaled hard, staring at the floor, at your hands, anywhere but her eyes. “I don’t even know what to call it. He… he gets under my skin in ways I wasn’t ready for. And now…” You trailed off, chewing your lip.

“And now you don’t know what to do with it,” Natasha finished softly.

You looked up at her, helpless.

She studied you for a long moment, then straightened from the dresser, her tone gentler than you expected. “Just be careful. He’s not the only one carrying scars. You’re both walking minefields. But if you’re going to dance around each other like this? Eventually, one of you is going to step on something that explodes.”

The words lodged in your chest, equal parts warning and permission.

Natasha reached out, squeezing your arm briefly before heading for the door. “Think about what you want, not what you’re afraid of. The rest will sort itself out.”

And then she was gone, leaving you alone with your racing pulse and the truth you weren’t ready for.

You trailed behind her, finally stepping back into the main room.

“See you next week!” Sam called, tossing a bottle into the recycling bin. Steve waved, his grin a little crooked. Natasha gave you a slight nod before she said her own goodbyes, slipping into the night without ceremony.

Bucky stood by the door, coat in hand, glancing at the group but not speaking. He caught your eye for the briefest second as Steve lingered over a handshake with Sam in the hallway, and the weight of that look made your chest tighten.

You didn’t dare linger.

By the time you made it home and closed the door behind you, you were alone in the quiet of your apartment, the faint echo of Natasha’s voice still spinning in your ears. 

Think about what you want, not what you’re afraid of.

The words gnawed at you relentlessly.

You sank onto the edge of your couch, phone in hand, thumbs hovering over the screen. Should you text him? Your chest tightened just thinking about it. You could feel the sting of your words from the kitchen, and the memory of his—Thought I’d try the old-fashioned way—slid through your mind.

You sat up straight, heart hammering. The phone hovered above your lap, indecision clawing at you. And then you pushed it down.

If you wanted to find out, if you wanted him to see you—really see you—there was only one way to do it.

You grabbed your coat. Rain had begun to fall by the time you stepped outside, fat drops drumming against the sidewalk, soaking through the thin jacket you’d pulled on. Your shoes squelched in puddles as you walked faster than you probably should have, weaving through the city streets, drenched but determined.

By the time you reached his building, your hair plastered to your face, your clothes clinging to your skin, you were soaked to the bone. You didn’t care. Every step had been worth it to see him, to confront the tension you’d been carrying.

Bucky’s door was still unlocked for the night when you knocked, as if he’d been expecting you. He opened it immediately, his hair damp from the rain, coat thrown carelessly on a chair behind him. His eyes flicked over you, taking in the soaked jacket clinging to your shoulders, the wild strands of hair plastered to your cheeks.

“You’re here,” he said, voice low, almost a whisper.

You swallowed hard, shivering from more than just the rain. “I—I thought I should.”

The apartment smelled faintly of cedarwood, warm and earthy. The hum of the heater kicked on in the background as you stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure whether to take another step forward or retreat into the night you’d just fought through.

Bucky’s eyes followed you, soft but intense. He didn’t reach for you immediately, but he took a small step toward you, just enough that the air between you pulsed differently.

“I… I wasn’t sure you’d…” he trailed off, voice low and rough.

You swallowed, pushing wet strands of hair plastered across your forehead back. “I needed to. I… I can’t stop thinking about it.”

He nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, and that tiny motion felt like permission. A bridge between all the unspoken words, all the longing and fear neither of you had dared to voice.

Then he took another step, and your pulse jumped. You realized you were trembling—not from the rain, not from the cold—but from the raw intensity of finally being seen.

“I don’t want to hide,” you whispered.

His lips twitched, just a fraction, and he moved closer again. The space between you was no longer measured in feet but in heartbeats. He stopped just short of your reach, letting you decide whether to close that final fraction of distance.

Your hand lifted almost of its own accord, brushing against his forearm. The contact was electric. Startling. Bucky’s own hand twitched, hovering near yours, hesitant yet open, like he was giving you space but silently begging you to close it.

“Ever since that night in the kitchen…” You began, voice barely audible, “I’ve been thinking… maybe I could—maybe we could…”

His gaze softened, unwavering. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and took a small step forward. Your arm brushed his, and then your hand finally found his, your fingers lacing into his, warm and solid.

Bucky exhaled slowly, a shudder in his chest you felt through your own. He didn’t move to pull away. Instead, he shifted closer, letting your heads nearly touch, breath mingling, heartbeats colliding.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, just above a whisper. “You’re not too much. You never have been.”

Your chest tightened, eyes stinging as you let yourself believe it. “And you’re… not too far gone,” you breathed, words trembling in the charged space between you.

He smiled softly—a small, genuine smile—and pressed his forehead to yours. “Guess we’re both exactly who we’re supposed to be, then.”

And right there, you let yourself relax completely, the tension of longing, fear, and restraint folding into the quiet warmth of his presence. You didn’t know what would come next, and you didn’t need to.

Because right now, this—his hand in yours, your bodies close but not pressed, the rain washing the world clean outside—was everything.

And that first step, tentative but deliberate, was just the beginning.

Chapter Text

The next few days passed in a blur. You’d thought the rain-soaked walk to his apartment had been the crescendo. The point where everything snapped into clarity. But life had a way of stretching out the moments that mattered, making them linger.

Bucky hadn’t said anything more about that night, but you hadn’t either, yet the air between you had shifted permanently. It was there in the way he lingered at the door when you arrived, the faint brush of his fingers against yours when you handed him a book to borrow, the way he always seemed just a step too close in the kitchen when he came over for coffee or help with groceries.

One evening, a few days after your walk in the rain, you found yourself in his living room, sprawled across the couch with a book in hand. Bucky was in the armchair across from you, sprawled in a way that seemed impossibly casual, a hardcover balanced on his knees. You hadn’t even meant to stay long, let alone read in his apartment, but he’d offered you a seat while he straightened up. It had felt natural.

You’d never thought just sitting in the same room with someone could feel so… charged.

The rain pattered gently against the window, the only sound beyond the occasional creak of the chair as he shifted his weight. Neither of you spoke, letting the quiet fill the space.

You glanced up from your page, catching the soft arch of his brow, the way the lamplight traced the line of his jaw. He looked absorbed in his book, but you felt him watching you from the corner of his eye when you looked away.

“You’re reading the same author I started this week,” he said finally, voice low, almost hesitant. “I see why you liked them.”

You felt a rush of warmth, not embarrassment, but a deep, fluttering ache that hit your chest and your stomach at once. “Yeah,” you murmured. “They get the gray, you know? The part between right and wrong, where everything is… messy.”

His lips twitched just slightly, like a half-smile he didn’t want to commit to. “Sounds familiar.”

You swallowed, looking down at your page. You didn’t dare say it, though you felt it, buzzing between you. 

Exactly familiar.

The room slipped into quiet again, but the silence was different this time. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was simmering, thick with anticipation, with the awareness that neither of you wanted to leave, even though you weren’t doing anything but reading.

A few days later, after Natasha had to cancel the dinner, you were both in your kitchen, making dinner in silence. The air smelled of garlic and sautéed onions as they sizzled on the stove. You reached for the same spice bottle at the same time, and your fingers brushed against each other.

Bucky froze, looked at your hand, then up at you, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. You felt it too—the heat that bloomed in the small connection, the pulse that made your stomach flip.

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

“You’re fine,” you replied, voice a little breathless, though you tried to mask it.

And somehow, even though it was just a brief touch, it lingered. Both of you caught yourselves in glances a fraction too long, movements that mirrored each other unconsciously.

Later that week, you found him sprawled on the couch with a book. You sat on the floor, legs curled beneath you, and started reading your own. Occasionally, your knees bumped against the couch edge where he sat. Sometimes your arms brushed. Neither of you said anything, but each small contact felt like a promise, like electricity waiting to ignite.

“You’ve really gotten into this author,” he murmured one evening, nodding toward your book.

You looked up, cheeks warm, heart hammering. “I… yeah. They write so beautifully. It’s hard to look away.”

His gaze softened. “I know that feeling,” he said, quiet but resolute. 

Those moments stretched out for days—weeks, even. You didn’t need words. The air in every shared space—the kitchen, the couch, the hallway was charged—heated, quiet, simmering.

And each night, when you left his apartment or closed your door behind him, you carried that heat with you. A reminder that this wasn’t just friendship. That something was growing, small and uncertain, but powerful. Something neither of you were quite ready to name, but both of you felt.

🕮🕮🕮

It rolled back around with your turn to host dinner, and the little apartment felt warmer than usual—not just from the food in the oven—but because Bucky had been there early, helping you with everything like it was the most natural thing in the world.

By the time everyone else arrived—Steve with his steady grin, Sam already cracking jokes, Natasha leaning against the counter like she owned the room—the rhythm between you and Bucky was already set. You found yourself standing near him without thinking, handing him things before he asked, catching his small half-smile when you made small conversation with everyone else.

Dinner went smoothly, the table buzzing with conversation. Sam and Steve were locked in their usual debate about some sports team neither of you cared much about, and Natasha had cut in sharply and dryly, keeping the two of them in line.

That left you and Bucky. Somehow, without planning it, the two of you had drifted into your own little orbit, voices low but easy.

“I just can’t put it down,” you said, holding your fork loosely, leaning toward him like the others weren’t even there. “Never thought I was a stand-alone reader. I always liked series, but she just writes them so well.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours, and his mouth tugged upward into that quiet smile that was just for you. “You’re on the fourth one already?”

“Almost done,” you admitted, stabbing at the food on your plate but not really paying attention. “I’m trying to pace myself, but it’s impossible. Every page, I think I’ll stop, and then she hooks me again.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re the fastest reader I’ve ever seen. I’m still working through the second one.”

“Working?” You teased, raising a brow. “You’re savoring.”

“Maybe,” he said, tone almost thoughtful, the faintest edge of something heavier under it. “Some things you don’t want to rush.”

Your chest fluttered, and you had to look away for a moment, afraid the heat in your face would give you away. When you glanced back, his gaze was still on you, steady, like he wasn’t scared to let it linger.

At the other end of the table, Sam was laughing loud enough to shake the walls. Steve clapped him on the back, and Natasha rolled her eyes, but none of it reached you. The sound dulled, and the background noise faded, while your world narrowed to the quiet warmth between you and Bucky, bent over plates, speaking in low tones like conspirators.

Natasha’s eyes slid between you two, sharp and knowing, and you felt the flicker of her smirk before she turned back to Steve’s story. There was no denying it now: something was happening. And it was visible enough that even you, so determined to keep it buried, could feel the shift in the air.

You’d slipped away with your glass, topping it off for the fourth time, the wine warming your bloodstream.

You didn’t even hear her approach. Natasha had a way of doing that—of just appearing at your side like she’d been there all along. One moment, it was just you and the steady glug of the bottle, the next she was leaning against the counter, her glass dangling lazily between two fingers.

“Four,” she said simply, a brow arched.

You blinked, the pour stuttering as you set the bottle down. “What?”

Her smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. “That’s your fourth. And judging by the way you’re swaying ever so slightly, you’re feeling it.”

You scoffed, taking a sip that did nothing to hide the heat climbing your cheeks. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t argue. 

You shifted, pretending to be very interested in the glass in your hand. Finally, she tilted her head, eyes flicking toward the doorway where Steve and Bucky had disappeared a few minutes ago. “So… you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

Your stomach dipped. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on,” she said, her voice low but sharp enough to cut through the wine haze. “You two. Whispering like nobody else exists. The way you lean in, like you’re afraid to miss a word he says. And him—” she paused, lips curling. “—the way he looks at you like he’s got the whole damn night to memorize your face.”

You froze, the wine glass suddenly too heavy in your hand.

Natasha pushed off the counter, stepping closer until her shoulder brushed yours, her voice dropping. “I know you. And I know him. And I’ve never seen either of you… like this.”

The heat that had been creeping through you all evening now blazed in full force, fueled by the alcohol and the sharp truth of her words. You tried to laugh it off, but it cracked, thin and unconvincing.

“There’s nothing to tell,” you said, but even to your own ears it sounded weak.

Natasha just gave you that look—the one that stripped you bare without even trying. She lifted her glass in a small, mocking toast before taking a sip. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

And then she left you there, heart pounding, glass trembling in your hand, the denial tasting bitter on your tongue.

The goodbyes stretched on longer than they needed to, like always. Steve lingering at the door with a story he couldn’t quite finish, Sam tossing one more joke over his shoulder, Natasha giving you a look that said she wasn’t done with you yet. Bucky was last, and he gave you a small, hidden smile before leaving.

And then—silence.

The apartment was still. You cleaned a little more than you needed to, letting the movements burn off the buzz of wine until the place looked decent again. Then you showered, pulled on an old shirt, and collapsed into bed.

You told yourself you’d go right to sleep. That was the plan.

Instead, you lay there in the dark, twenty minutes slipping by as Natasha’s words replayed, threading themselves tighter each time. The way she said the way he looks at you. The way she’d seen right through you like you hadn’t even bothered to hide any of it.

And the thing was—she wasn’t wrong.

You sighed, dragging a hand over your face. Finally, you reached for your phone on the nightstand. Your thumb hovered over his name for longer than you’d like to admit. You told yourself you wouldn’t say anything important, when the wine still muddled your thoughts.

Something light. Something easy.

After scrolling for a few minutes, you found the link—a book you’d stumbled on earlier in the week. Your heart thudded in your chest as you pasted it into the message box.

I think this is tame enough for you to start with.

You hit send before you could overthink it. The screen lit up with the sent notification, and then nothing. You exhaled shakily and flopped onto your back, staring at the ceiling.

It wasn’t much. Just a book. Just a joke.

But it felt like a line crossed all the same.

🕮🕮🕮

You must’ve dozed off.

It was the sharp buzz of your phone vibrating against the nightstand that jolted you back, your heart skipping as you scrambled to grab it. The room was dark, shadows stretching across the floor, the sounds midnight traffic muffled outside your window.

Your screen glowed, his name sitting there. One message. You tapped it open, your throat tight, and read.

Bucky: Already bought it. Guess I’ve got homework now.

A short laugh escaped you—quiet, nervous. Relief. Something else knotted tight in your chest. You pressed the phone to your chest, eyes closing, because of course he did. He didn’t hesitate.

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, and then reappeared. You stared at it like it held the weight of the world.

Finally, another message came through.

Bucky: You know you’re gonna have to tell me what parts you like most, right?

Heat crawled up your neck to your cheeks. It was just words on a screen, but it was him. He pressed again, not with teasing this time, but with quiet insistence and that blunt curiosity he only seemed to show around you.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard. You typed shut up and erased it. Typed you’re impossible and erased that too.

Instead, you locked your phone and dropped it beside you on the bed, flopping onto your side with a groan.

He wanted an answer. He’d wait for one.

But for tonight—you’d let him wonder.