Archive of Our Own

The last thing she expected to find in her cousin's apartment was a young man smoking at the kitchen table, one hand curled around a coffee cup like he owned the place.

She wasn't entirely sure what she had expected to find. It had been seven years since she'd last set foot in Brooklyn, after all. Old photographs yellowed at the edges, perhaps. Bizarre knickknacks from Violet's travels. Maybe even mice, or that particular musty sweetness that seemed to cling to every surface in elderly people's homes. But a living, breathing Adonis? That hadn't made the list.

Then again, maybe it should have.

Her cousin—second cousin, really—had always been eccentric. The black sheep gleefully paraded at family Christmas dinners, each year arriving with a boyfriend younger than the last. She'd made enough money with modeling to spend most of seemingly every year traveling the world, her Brooklyn apartment she inherited from her grandmother serving as little more than a glorified storage unit. A month here, a week there, never long enough to gather dust. Plus, the inheritance from her deceased stepfather meant Violet had never worked a real day in her life, and never planned to.

The number of times she'd actually seen her cousin outside of those obligatory holiday dinners? She could count them on one hand.

Which made the offer all the more bewildering. The keys to the apartment had come to her, not to her mother, not to her other cousins. Her. Violet was going to be gone for most of the year gallivanting around Asia, and had offered up the place free of charge when she'd heard her complaining about rising rent prices in the city. She wasn't complaining. Her last year at NYU was expensive enough without rent, and the commute to any job she could get in the city would be cut in half. It was a gift. An unexpected, generous gift.

She just hadn't expected it to come with one of Violet's flings still in residence.

When she'd burst through the door with a cardboard box of kitchen appliances wedged under one arm and an overstuffed suitcase threatening to explode in the other, she'd been too busy cursing the frayed doormat that nearly sent her sprawling to notice him at first.

Then she looked up.

The man at the table didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. He simply sat there, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling, and watched her with the kind of detached curiosity you might reserve for a stray cat that had wandered in off the street.

She stood frozen in the doorway, the box cutting into her ribs, her pulse hammering so hard from initial fear she could feel it in her throat. When she finally managed to speak, her voice came out strangled, pitching higher than she would've liked. "I—what the hell are you doing in my apartment?"

He didn't move. Just arched one dark brow, slow and deliberate, like she'd asked him something vaguely amusing.

And that's when she made the mistake of really looking at him.

God help her.

He was tall. She could tell even with him sitting down. Broad-shouldered, lean, the kind of build that didn't come from a gym but from actual physical labor. His hair was dark and slicked back in a style that should've looked outdated but somehow didn't, and he wore suspenders—actual suspenders, one strap sliding carelessly off his shoulder. His dress shirt was rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms that were unfairly well-defined, and his slacks were tailored, hemmed just above the ankle in an annoyingly intentional way.

He looked like he'd stepped out of a 1940s film noir. Or a very committed mafia cosplay.

His eyes, a vivid blue, dragged over her slowly. Head to toe. Taking inventory.

She knew that look. Four years of college had taught her the difference between a man glancing your way and a man cataloging you, piece by piece, like you were something he might want to acquire. This was the latter.

Heat crawled up her neck, equal parts indignation and attraction. Not that she would give this man the satisfaction of knowing that. 

She tightened her grip on the suitcase handle and lifted her chin.

"Well?" she demanded, fighting to keep her voice steady and not show her internal panic. "Are you going to answer my question, or are you going to make me call the cops?"

The man's lips pulled up into a half-smirk, and something like a chuckle escaped him. The sound was low and entirely too confident. "Well, you got some fire in ya, don't you, doll?"

She gaped at him, stunned by his audacity. Or maybe it was obstinance. Either way, at least she knew he was definitely from Brooklyn with that accent of his. Easier for the police to track him down if she had to file a report. "Listen, buddy, this isn't funny. Breaking and entering isn't funny at all. You have five seconds to explain yourself before I call the cops and let them know that a goddamn stranger is squatting in my apartment—"

"See, it's funny you keep referring to it as your apartment," the man interrupted, grinning at her cheekily. He got up slowly, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray, "when it's actually neither of ours." 

He moved toward her with easy, unhurried steps. "That box looks heavy. Lemme get that for you."

She wished she could say she stood her ground, barked back at him, or done anything remotely impressive in that moment. Instead, she stood there rooted to the spot, watching him close the distance like she'd witnessed something catastrophic and her body had forgotten how to respond. 

When he lifted the box from her arms, she didn't resist. Didn't even twitch. Just let him take it, let him carry it to the kitchen counter like this was perfectly fine. 

He could have done anything in that moment. Absolutely anything. And she would have just stood there, wide-eyed and useless.

God, her survival instincts were pathetic.

It wasn't until he'd returned and plucked the suitcase from her grip, moving past her into the hallway where the rest of her life sat stacked in cardboard, that her brain finally lurched back into gear. He was already hoisting the box labeled "FRAGILE - DISHES" when she found her voice again.

"What—what do you mean it's neither of ours?" She thrust the keys toward his face, metal jangling. "I literally just unlocked the door in front of you!"

He paused, glanced down at the keys, then back up at her. That infuriating smirk still hadn't budged. 

She wanted to slap it off him.

"It's your cousin's place, isn't it?" He said it like it was obvious. "She left a note saying you'd be staying for a bit. I was crashing here for a bit, she said the overlap should be fine." His gaze flicked over her face, searching. "I'm guessing she didn't mention that to you?"

He leaned in slightly, studying her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. A small crease appeared between his brows. Perfect, naturally, because of course even his concern was attractive. 

His breath carried the ghost of cigarette smoke, but beneath it was something warmer. Sandalwood, maybe. And something crisp and expensive she couldn't place.

"Though, you're younger than I expected," he added, voice dropping a note. "And far too pretty. Definitely related to Violet, with that face."

He flashed her another grin, complete with a wink that suggested he thought he'd just earned himself bonus points.

Then he turned and went back to hauling in her boxes like he hadn't just upended her entire understanding of the situation.

She stood there, bewildered. Violet hadn't mentioned anyone staying here with her. And she definitely didn't do roommates. So she was just okay with an ex crashing in her place while she jet-setted around Asia?

But she didn't have the bandwidth to process it all. Not when she still needed to figure out how to get him out.

"Okay, enough with the cheese," she snapped, stalking after him. "Are you one of Violet's boyfriends or something? How did you even get in here?"

He stopped mid-step, looking almost wounded. "Boyfriend? No." He set down the box and straightened, brushing dust from his hands. "She said she'd be leaving for a while, so she let me use the place while our families are out of town. Needed someone to keep an eye on things so she could sneak off out of the country with her new beau of the month." His grin returned, warm and easy. "Feisty gal, Violet. I see where you get it from."

She stared at him, turning his words over like puzzle pieces that refused to fit. So he did know Violet. About her travels. And she was almost positive Violet had mentioned taking a boyfriend with her, whatever flavor of the month she had at the moment. And despite the fact that he had the energy of a guy who'd definitely been in a fraternity, he didn't seem dangerous. If he were some kind of Ted Bundy wannabe, she'd probably already be dead.

Still. The details were inconsistent. Why would Violet not mention this to her? Did she just forget? But clearly, this man had keys and had to have gotten in somehow. The place had been locked up for at least half a week. And the whole vintage getup was trying way too hard. But none of that was illegal.

"So," she said slowly, forcing her pulse to settle. "Violet is letting you stay here… for a bit."

"Yes ma'am." He leaned back against the counter, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. His eyes gleamed at her over the rim, playful and entirely too confident. "Said I could crash here for a week, if I wanted. Hope that's all right with you. I can take the guest bedroom. Stay out of your hair."

She let out a heavy sigh and leaned against the counter. She cursed her cousin silently. "I mean… it's not my place, so it's not my call. If Violet says you can stay here, you're more than welcome to stay for a week. What's your name again?"

He grinned and extended a hand. "James. But you can call me Bucky. And you are?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Bucky?" 

Why did that sound familiar? 

"Nickname," he said easily. "And you are?"

She introduced herself, reaching out to grip his hand without budging from her spot against the old wood. His palm was warm, his grip firm and confident. The handshake of someone who'd never doubted himself a day in his life.

Typical. 

"Well," he said, holding on just a fraction longer than necessary, his thumb brushing against the back of her hand before he let go. She fought the urge to squirm. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Really."

She felt a headache beginning to bloom behind her eyes. "Great. Yeah, a real pleasure. One week. Guest bedroom. And for the love of God, stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" His grin widened, all faux innocence.

"Like you're trying to figure out whether I'm wearing matching underwear."

He had the audacity to laugh, a sound that probably had most women blushing. Her? She was just annoyed that she'd be spending the next week avoiding this guy at all costs in her own temporary apartment.

Younger her, with a few shots of liquid courage in her system, would have melted right into that laugh. Would have leaned into whatever pretty promises a man like this could spin. But she knew better now. Experience was a brutal teacher, and if there was one thing she'd learned about devastatingly attractive men who flirted like breathing, it was this: they delivered one mediocre night and a lifetime of awkward run-ins afterward.

Besides, there was no way Violet hadn't slept with him. Given her cousin's reputation, it was practically a guarantee.

She pulled her hand back and resisted the urge to wipe it on her jeans. "Right. Okay. I'm going to start unpacking now, so if you could just…I don't know, go smoke somewhere that isn't here, that would be great."

"I can help," he offered, already moving toward the boxes stacked by the door.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." He flashed her another one of those grins, the kind that probably had a 90% success rate. "Besides, the sooner you're settled, the sooner you can relax. You look like you could use it."

She bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing bad." He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Just that you seem a little… tense."

"I wonder why," she muttered, but she didn't stop him when he picked up a box marked "KITCHEN" and carried it to the counter.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, or rather, she worked in silence while he hummed something under his breath. Some old tune she didn't recognize. He was annoyingly efficient, unpacking dishes and setting them in the cabinets without asking where anything went, like he'd already memorized the layout.

She pulled out her electric kettle and set it on the counter, muttering a few profanities under her breath. Here she had been looking forward to living entirely on her own for the first time. Some peace and quiet. Now she had to cozy up with some hipster wannabe for a whole week. At least they had separate bathrooms. 

Then again, something about this felt strange. Why had Violet not mentioned this to her? 

"What is that?"

She glanced over. "What's what?"

He nodded toward the kettle. "That… contraption."

She blinked at him. "It's a kettle."

"Doesn't look like any kettle I've ever seen."

"It's electric," she said slowly, wondering if he was messing with her. "You plug it in. Boils water."

He stared at it for a long moment, then shook his head with a soft laugh. "Huh. Fancy. They make those now? Overseas or something?"

She rolled her eyes and went back to unpacking. Definitely teasing her. Or maybe he was one of those off-the-grid types who only used cast iron and thought microwaves gave you cancer.

"Yes, Bucky. It’s a kettle from overseas." She shot him her best ‘please stop talking to me’ glare. "Are you always this annoying, or is today special?"

He grinned. "I'm just curious. You've got some…interesting things."

"They're normal things. You're just—" She stopped herself, shaking her head. "Never mind."

She moved on to the next box, refusing to engage. He was clearly trying to get a rise out of her, and she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. Either that, or he was Amish and she was being rude without even knowing it. With those clothes, she wouldn't put it past him.

"So," she said, desperate to put her mind a bit more at ease. "Where are you from?"

"Brooklyn," he said easily. "Born and raised."

"Really? Your accent isn't too strong."

He shrugged. "Guess I've been around. You?"

"Long Island. Grew up there, anyway. I'm finishing up my last year at NYU." She pulled out a stack of textbooks and set them aside. "Communications degree."

"Communications," he repeated, like he was testing the word. "What's that mean?"

She gave him a look. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I—" He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, I know what communication is. Just wondering what you do with a degree in it."

"Media, public relations, marketing. That kind of thing." She unpacked her favorite mug, the one she used every morning for her first cup of coffee. She'd gotten it on a family vacation to Hawaii years ago, and time and multiple washes had faded the bright flowers adorning the ceramic. "I'm hoping to get into publishing, maybe work for a magazine."

"A magazine," he said, nodding slowly. "That's swell."

"Swell?" She laughed despite herself. "What are you, ninety?"

His grin faltered for just a second, so brief she almost missed it. Like for a moment, he was doubting himself. Maybe he wasn't used to girls not falling for his charm. The thought made her gleeful, for some reason. 

Then it was back, easy and unbothered. "You got something against how I talk, doll?"

"Nah, it's different. Refreshing, for sure. Better than the crap kids are saying these days." She set down the box and leaned against the counter, studying him. "How old are you, anyway? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?"

"Twenty-five," he confirmed.

"And what do you do? Besides crash in women's apartments and make weird comments about coffee makers."

His jaw tightened, just for a moment. Then he looked away, busying himself with folding up an empty box. "I'm… between things right now. Figuring stuff out."

"Ah." She nodded. "So you're unemployed."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

He shot her a look—half annoyed, half amused. "I pick up jobs when I can. You always this blunt?"

"You always this evasive?"

They stared at each other for a beat, something crackling in the space between them. Then he laughed, shaking his head.

"You really are Violet's family," he said. "Sharp as a tack."

She wanted to ask what he meant. How Violet, who'd barely scraped through high school and built her entire life on looks rather than intellect, could have possibly seen through to something deeper in her. But she bit her tongue. It was probably just flattery, the kind ex-lovers traded in. Empty and meaningless.

She let it go and continued unpacking.

—-

She called Violet early the next morning, slipping out onto the balcony with coffee cradled between her palms. The humidity of late summer in New York was already pressing in, thick and sticky even as the sun barely crested the tops of the high-rises. The city was waking up around her. She could hear the sound of distant horns and the rumble of the subway somewhere in the distance.

Violet, currently somewhere in Asia, was legendary for ignoring her phone. Texts went unanswered for days. Calls went straight to voicemail. Her mother liked to joke that Violet would probably find out about her own funeral from the invitation.

So when she answered on the last ring, it took everything in her not to choke on her coffee.

"Darling!" Violet's voice burst through the speaker, bright and breathless, nearly drowned out by what sounded like a wind tunnel. "Did you make it to the apartment? How do you like it? The couch is custom leather. I had it made in Italy. Please tell me you're not eating on it."

She closed her eyes and counted to three. "Yeah, Vi. Great couch. Lovely. Very… financially irresponsible of you." She opened her mouth to continue. "Listen, when I got here yesterday—"

"Aren't you going to ask me about my trip?" Violet cut in, as if she hadn't spoken at all. "I'm in Seoul!"

She stopped mid-sentence, her jaw tightening. The urge to hurl her phone off the balcony was nearly overwhelming. Typical Violet. Vain, self-absorbed, utterly incapable of listening for more than five consecutive seconds.

"That's great, Vi. I'm sure it's amazing. Now if you could just—"

"It is amazing! The food, oh my God, you wouldn't believe it. And the people are a little strange, but they seem to love Americans. Or maybe they just love me." She laughed, that breathy, airy sound that probably had men falling over themselves when they heard it. "Oh! Do me a favor, would you? Check my closet for my Prada Caban. The one with the fur trim. I might need you to ship it."

"It's the middle of summer. Why would you—"

"I'm out here until at least spring, remember?" Violet giggled like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Asia first, then the Middle East. Do you think I could pull off one of those head things? What are they called for women? Turbans?"

"Hijab, Violet." She gripped the coffee cup so hard she was surprised it didn't crack. "Can you please just listen to me for one second? Did you tell one of your…’friends’ they could stay here? Because when I showed up yesterday, there was a guy—"

"What? Sorry, I'm in an Uber right now and the windows are open. It's so loud!"

She pulled the phone away from her ear and let out a strangled groan into the open air. When she brought it back, her voice was strained. "Could you maybe ask them to close the windows?"

"I don't speak Korean, silly! How would I even do that?"

"Okay." She exhaled sharply, her pitch climbing before she forced it back down. "Let's just—did you or did you not tell one of your friends they could crash at the apartment? Like, right now?"

A pause. Long enough that she could practically hear Violet's brain grinding through the gears.

"Oh! I think I did, actually." Violet sounded genuinely surprised, like she'd just remembered she owned a car. "I just can't remember if I told you. Did I tell you?"

"No. You did not."

"Whoops! Well, he should be stopping by soon then. Or maybe he's already there? What day is it for you?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Anyway, when he shows up, try not to sleep with him, okay? Wouldn't want you getting your cousin's leftovers."

Her blood pressure spiked. "Thanks, Violet. Super helpful. I have to go now."

"Wait, don't forget about my coat—"

She hung up before Violet could finish, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. 

A long, slow exhale escaped her, the tension draining from her shoulders now that her cousin's voice was finally, mercifully gone. She shoved her phone in her pocket a bit too aggressively. 

She slumped into one of the sad plastic chairs on the balcony, dragging a hand through her hair with a soft, disbelieving laugh. Sharp as a tack, Bucky had said. Sure. Eye of the beholder and all that.

"What's got you looking so glum, huh? Sun's barely up."

She glanced back over her shoulder at the true source of her morning irritation. Though, to be fair, it wasn't directly his fault her cousin had the attention span of a goldfish.

See, she was reasonable. 

“Heard from Violet," she said flatly. "She sends her love."

Bucky grinned at her from the doorway, leaning against the frame like he'd been posed there by a photographer. 

A cigarette dangled unlit between his teeth. His hair was slicked back again, though a few rebellious strands had escaped, curling slightly at his temples in the rising heat. He wore coveralls today—clean enough at first glance, but up close she could see that it was marked with old grease stains that had probably been there since the Truman administration. A logo for some mechanical shop she didn't recognize was stitched onto the breast pocket.

"Oh yeah?" He tilted his head, studying her. "Didn't realize your cousin got under your skin so much. What'd she do this time?"

She took a long sip of coffee, forcing herself to keep her eyes on his face and not let them wander. Annoyingly, he looked like a walking temptation in that getup. His coveralls were unzipped just enough to reveal a white undershirt clinging to a chest that had no business being that defined. But she'd be damned if she gave him the satisfaction of noticing.

Keeping her gaze on his face was the safer option. Not that it helped much. His face belonged on a billboard.

What had Violet called him? Leftovers? With a face like that, who the hell would care?

She bit down on her tongue hard, snapping herself out of it. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Just her usual grating personality." She paused, narrowing her eyes at him. "I don't know what you see in her."

Bucky snorted, his blue eyes brightening with amusement as he crossed the balcony. She couldn’t hold back her surprise when he dropped into the chair right next to her. 

Close. Too close. His knee almost brushed hers.

Bold move. But she doubted he even thought twice about it. Meanwhile, she knew for a fact the temperature outside didn’t just go up ten degrees in the span of three seconds. 

"It's not so much me," he said, pulling a lighter from his pocket. "It's my buddy. He's got it bad for her. Wants me to put in a good word and all that."

He leaned forward to light the cigarette, and a few more strands of dark hair fell loose across his forehead. He glanced up at her through his lashes as he took the first drag, smoke curling around his face like something out of an old film.

"Want one?"

She bit the inside of her cheek and forced her gaze down to his boots. Scuffed, caked in dried mud, safe and utterly uninteresting. "No thanks. I don't smoke." She cleared her throat. "Your buddy's interested in Violet?"

Bucky leaned back in his chair, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as he looked out over the railing. "Yeah, but what guy isn't? Your cousin's a knockout. I don't think Stevie's got a shot in hell, but what kind of friend would I be if I told him that?"

She raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the casual way he said it. No longing in his voice. No wistfulness. He sounded almost… indifferent.

Maybe he was just like Violet. The love-'em-and-leave-'em type. A collector of one-night stands and convenient arrangements.

"That's nice of you," she said, taking another sip of her coffee. The smell of his cigarette mingled with the city's particular brand of morning stench. Exhaust, garbage, something frying from a street cart below. "Giving up your ex for your buddy."

"Ex?" Bucky's head turned sharply, his grin widening slowly. "She's not an ex doll. Never did anything with her."

She blinked, her coffee cup pausing halfway to her lips. 

Her attention snapped back to him fully now. He was still leaned back, one arm draped over the back of his chair, looking completely at ease. Like he hadn't just upended her entire working theory about him.

"What?" She set the cup down on the small table between them. "I thought—"

"Thought I was crashing here 'cause she gave me a good time?" Bucky chuckled, low and satisfied, like he could read every confused thought racing through her head. And honestly, she was sure it was written all over her face. "Damn, sweetheart. You really think that low of me?"

"I—" She faltered, heat creeping up her neck. "You can't blame me for assuming. You're staying in her apartment, you talk about her like you know her pretty well, and she literally told me not to sleep with you because—" She stopped herself, realizing too late where that sentence was headed.

His grin turned absolutely wolfish. "Because what?"

She groaned and covered her face with one hand. "Because she didn't want me having her leftovers."

Bucky laughed. Really laughed this time, his head tipping back, shoulders shaking. It was an easy, genuine sound, and it made something in her chest do an annoying little flip.

"Well," he said, still grinning as he took another drag. "Hate to break it to your cousin, but there's nothing to leave over. She's not my type. She kissed me once, at a dance, but that was it. Happened years ago too."

Now she was even more confused. She had never met a guy who wasn’t interested in Violet. The girl oozed sex appeal. And Bucky…well, so did he.

"And what is your type?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, and she immediately wanted to kick herself.

His eyes found hers, sharp and interested, the corner of his mouth tipping up. "You really wanna know?"

"Forget I asked." She grabbed her coffee again, using it as a shield to hide the rising heat in her cheeks.

He stared at her for a moment in silence, the lazy smirk still on his lips. Something flickered in his eyes. 

"Smart," he said, ignoring her deflection entirely. "Confident. Doesn't take any shit. Especially not from me." His gaze dragged over her face, slow and deliberate. "Someone who keeps me on my toes. Pretty face doesn't hurt either."

Her pulse kicked up. She forced herself to roll her eyes. "Does that line usually work for you?"

"I don't know." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, close enough now that she could smell the sandalwood again beneath the smoke. "Is it working?"

"Not even a little bit."

"Liar."

She scoffed and stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the concrete. "You're insufferable."

"And you're dodging the question."

"There was no question."

"Sure there was." He stood too, slower, like a cat stretching. He was taller than her by a good few inches, and the way he looked down at her made her feel simultaneously annoyed and unsteady. "You wanna know if I'm interested."

She bristled immediately. "I absolutely do not."

"Then why'd you assume I slept with Violet?" His grin was infuriating, those blue eyes dancing over her face wildly. "Why'd that bother you?"

"It didn't—"

"You sure about that?"

She glared at him, jaw tight. "You're reading way too much into this."

"Maybe." He took one last drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out on the railing, his eyes never leaving hers. "Or maybe you're just bad at hiding it."

Her face burned. She wanted to throw her coffee at him. She wanted to shove him off the balcony. She wanted—

"I have to get ready for class," she said stiffly, turning on her heel.

"What time you done?" he called after her.

"Why?"

"Thought I'd make dinner. You know, since I'm crashing here and all. Least I could do."

She paused in the doorway, not turning around. Out of all the things he could have said, she didn’t expect that. "You cook?"

"Sweetheart, you gotta start having some faith in me here," she could practically hear him smirking now. "I have a lot of talents. All you gotta do is ask, and I'll start showing you just how many."

She didn't answer. Just walked inside and shut the door behind her, muttering a curse under her breath as she threw her cup into the sink a bit too aggressively. "Jackass."

He tried again, still amused, his voice carrying through the glass. "What time you gonna be home, doll?"

"Six," she grumbled, grabbing her bag from her room and stalking toward the front door, fighting the urge to depart with a middle finger aimed his way. "Don't burn down the kitchen, Barnes."

His laugh followed her all the way down the stairs, and she hated how much she liked the sound of it.

"Let me get this straight," Fiona whispered, leaning so close her curls brushed against her shoulder. Her eyes were huge behind her glasses. "You have a hot guy—older, single, living in your apartment for a whole week—and you're telling me you want absolutely nothing to do with him?"

"Keep your voice down, Fi. People are going to hear you." She shot a pointed look toward the front of the lecture hall, where their professor was mid-drone about media theory or audience engagement or something equally mind-numbing. Even from the back row, sound carried, and the last thing she needed was the entire class hearing Fiona lose her mind over something this trivial.

Fiona rolled her eyes, twirling her pen through her dark ringlets. "Oh please. No one can hear us back here. Besides, Martin's about to put on some long, boring-ass video and pass out in his chair in three... two..."

She counted down on her fingers, snapping her hand into a fist on "one" just as the lights dimmed. Right on cue, a grainy documentary flickered to life on the projector screen. Professor Martin was already slumped in his chair, eyelids drooping.

She stared at Fiona, incredulous. "How did you—"

"Please." Fiona's grin was pure smugness. "We're lucky if we make it thirty minutes before he pulls this. Now can we get back to the actually important conversation?"

Fiona had been her best friend—her only real friend, if she was being honest—since they'd been randomly assigned as roommates freshman year. They were complete opposites. Fiona was the social one, effortlessly magnetic in any given situation. Tall and willowy with warm caramel skin, she'd joined every club, attended every party, and somehow still maintained a 3.8 GPA while dating one of the guys on the swim team. She was the kind of person people gravitated toward without even trying.

Most of their friendship had consisted of Fiona dragging her to parties or orchestrating blind dates with her boyfriend's teammates. She'd even dated one of the swimmers briefly during sophomore year until he'd started pressuring her to try coke at some off-campus rager and she'd noped out of that relationship so fast she'd left skid marks.

Ever since, Fiona had made it her personal mission to find her "future husband." So far, through no fault of Fiona's, she hadn't made it past a second date with any of them.

And honestly? She didn't see the problem with that.

Why would she want someone tying her down, holding her back? Her mother had a promising career in marketing before she met her father. One pregnancy, one frantic maternity leave, and she'd never gone back. Just like that, it was over. College guys could talk all they wanted about equality and supporting their girlfriend's ambitions, but she wasn't naive. The second kids entered the picture, most of them would expect their partner to be the one to sacrifice. To stay home. To give it all up.

She wasn't interested in being that person.

"There's nothing to discuss," she murmured, keeping her eyes trained on the screen in case Martin glanced their way. "He's some random friend of Violet's. He's staying at the apartment for a week. And since he didn't murder me in my sleep last night, I'm assuming I'm safe for now."

Fiona gaped at her like she'd just announced she was dropping out to join a cult. "How is this not worth discussing? He's single, right? And not even that much older—"

"Four years is a decent gap—"

"Shut up, it is not." Fiona's whisper climbed an octave, earning them a sharp look from a guy two rows ahead. She shot him a withering glare that could've stripped paint. "And you said he's absurdly attractive, right?"

She shifted in her seat, suddenly hyperaware of the memory burning at the edges of her mind—smoke curling around Bucky's face this morning, the way his lips had wrapped around the filter of his cigarette, the lazy confidence in the way he'd looked at her.

"I never said absurdly attractive," she muttered. "He's...pretty good-looking, I guess."

Fiona looked at her like she'd just committed a felony. "You literally said you thought he was a model when you walked in."

"I mean, models can be subjectively ugly depending on personal taste—"

"No. They cannot." Fiona's voice dropped to a growl. "That is literally the entire point of being a model. To be beautiful. Don't you dare downplay this, or I swear to God I will come over there myself and see what we're working with. What does he look like? And don't tell me you don't have pictures."

"I don't have social media, Fi. You know that."

"Yeah, and you're insane for it." Fiona snorted, loud enough to earn another glare from their classmate. She returned it with twice the venom. "You're a communications major, for Christ's sake. How are you supposed to get a job without an Instagram?"

She bit back a smile. "With a resume. Maybe some references. Ever heard of those?"

"Shut up." Fiona swatted her arm. "Stop deflecting. What does he look like?"

She leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. Bucky was gorgeous. Undeniably, frustratingly so. And there was something familiar about him, too, though she couldn't place it. Maybe she'd seen him in some ad campaign once and her brain had filed it away without her realizing.

"He's... tall," she said finally. "Built. Dark hair, really intense blue eyes. Crazy jawline." She paused, searching for the right comparison. "Kind of looks like a young Mark Hamill, actually. But, like, more—"

Fiona inhaled so sharply she nearly choked. "Your temporary roommate looks like young Luke Skywalker and you're not trying to sleep with him?!"

Several heads turned in their direction. She grabbed Fiona's arm and yanked her down lower in her seat.

"Could you be any louder?" she hissed.

"Could you be any more in denial?" Fiona shot back, eyes glittering with barely contained glee. "Seriously. Young Mark Hamill. Living in your apartment. For a week. This is like a rom-com setup and you're acting like it's a hostage situation."

"It basically is a hostage situation. I didn't ask for this."

"But you're not kicking him out either."

"Because Violet said he could stay!" She threw her hands up, then quickly lowered them when Professor Martin stirred slightly in his chair. "What am I supposed to do, throw him on the street?"

"No, you're supposed to throw him on your bed."

"Fiona—"

"I'm just saying!" Fiona grinned, shameless. "You're twenty-one, single, and you have a literal model camped out in your living space. When is this opportunity ever going to present itself again?"

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're impossible."

"And you're stubborn." Fiona tapped her pen against her notebook, studying her with the kind of shrewd attention that made her squirm. "But you do think he's hot. I can tell."

"I never said—"

"You didn't have to. You got that look."

"What look?"

"That look." Fiona gestured vaguely at her face. "Like you're trying really hard not to think about something, which means you're definitely thinking about it."

She felt heat creep up her neck. Damn Fiona and her ability to read her like a children's book.

"Fine," she muttered. "He's attractive. Happy?"

"Thrilled." Fiona's grin widened. "So what's stopping you?"

"Common sense? Self-preservation? The fact that I don't even know him?"

"You have a whole week to get to know him."

"A week, and then he's gone. What's the point?"

"The point," Fiona said slowly, like she was explaining basic math to a toddler, "is that you get to have fun for once in your sad, boring life."

She rolled her eyes. "My life isn't boring."

"You spent last night organizing your bookshelf by publication date."

She frowned, affronted. "It needed to be done. I was moving my stuff in."

"You're proving my point." Fiona leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "When was the last time you did something spontaneous? Something just for you?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Frowned again.

"Exactly." Fiona looked far too pleased with herself. "Look, I'm not saying marry the guy. I'm just saying... why not enjoy the week? See what happens?"

"Because I don't need the distraction right now." She pulled out her own notebook, flipping it open to a page covered in interview notes and company research. "I'm in the middle of job interviews. That's what I should be focused on. Not some random guy with nice cheekbones."

"You can do both, you know. Have a life and a career. It's called balance."

"I'll worry about balance after I have a career to balance."

Fiona sighed dramatically. "You're going to look back on this moment and regret it. I'm calling it now."

"I'll take my chances." She tapped her pen against the notebook. "Besides, I don't even know what he does for work. He's supposed to be staying there for a week, so clearly he's not in a rush to go anywhere."

"Did you ask?"

"Sort of. He was weirdly vague about it." She frowned, remembering their conversation that morning. "He was wearing coveralls earlier. With a mechanic shop logo on them. So maybe he works on cars or something?"

"A hot mechanic?" Fiona clutched her chest. "Be still my beating heart."

"Except he dresses like he walked out of a time capsule the rest of the time. Yesterday he was wearing suspenders. And slacks that were hemmed above the ankle. Who dresses like that?"

"Hipsters?"

"He doesn't seem like a hipster." She chewed on the end of her pen, thinking. "He talks strangely too. Uses words like 'swell' and 'doll' unironically. It's like he's doing a bit, but he's not."

"Maybe he's an actor," Fiona suggested. "You said Violet knew him, right? She's into all that artsy stuff."

"Maybe." But that didn't feel right either. Bucky didn't have that performative quality actors usually had, that underlying awareness of being watched. He just...was. "I have no idea how she even met him. Or why he's friends with her in the first place."

"Does it matter?"

"I guess not." She shook her head, trying to clear it. "Either way, it's irrelevant. He's there for a week and then he's gone. End of story."

Fiona was quiet for a moment, tapping her pen against her lips. Then she leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

"Okay. Give me one good reason, one genuinely good reason, why you shouldn't just have a fling with him. He's hot, he's temporary, you'll literally never have to see him again after this week. What's the harm?"

She stared at her friend, caught off guard by the directness of the question.

"I just told you," she said finally. "Job interviews. That's where my head needs to be right now. Not on some guy who'll be out of my life in seven days."

"Right. The interviews." Fiona tilted her head. "When's your next one?"

"Friday. Some PR firm in the city." She flipped to the right page in her notebook, scanning her notes. "They've worked with a bunch of high-profile clients. Celebrities, politicians...even some of the Avengers before the Blip."

"The Avengers?" Fiona's eyebrows shot up. "Damn. That's legit."

"I know. I'm trying not to get my hopes up, but..." She allowed herself a small smile. "It would be amazing if I got it."

"You will." Fiona's voice was firm, confident. "You're going to nail that interview, get the job, and then you'll be too busy hobnobbing with superheroes to even remember Hot Mechanic Vintage Guy."

She laughed despite herself. "That's the plan."

"Speaking of superheroes," Fiona said, grin returning full force, "if you do get the job, you better get me an autograph from the new Captain America. I don't care if you have to stalk him in the break room."

"I'm not stalking Captain America for you."

"You're a terrible friend."

"I'll get you a coffee mug from the gift shop. How's that?"

Fiona stuck out her tongue. "Fine. But only because I love you. And only if it has the old Captain America's face on it. Steve Rogers was something else."

The video droned on at the front of the room. Professor Martin's soft snores were barely audible over the narration.

She turned back to her notebook, trying to refocus on her interview prep. But Fiona's words kept circling in her head, persistent and annoying.

What's the harm?

She bit the inside of her cheek and forced herself to write another note about brand strategy.

There was plenty of harm. There always was.

She just had to keep reminding herself of that.

—-

She was pleasantly surprised to arrive home that evening and find the building still standing.

No smoke pouring from the windows. No fire trucks idling at the curb. Just the usual hum of Brooklyn at dusk. Traffic, distant sirens, some kids shouting in the distance. 

She climbed the stairs slowly, keys jangling in her hand, half-expecting to open the door and find the kitchen engulfed in flames.

Instead, she found Bucky. Inferno-less.  

He was at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looked up when she walked in, and his face split into a grin that probably knocked most women out of their feet. 

"There she is!" He gestured with a wooden spoon, looking absurdly pleased with himself. "Right on time, too. I'm just about done here."

She set her bag down carefully on the counter, sneaking a glance at the stove. The smell hit her first—garlic, some basil. Actual food. She was not shy to admit that she was stunned. 

On the burner sat a pot of fettuccine, steam curling lazily into the air, and beside it, a pan of bright red sauce bubbling gently.

Simple. And somehow, miraculously, not a disaster. She had been expecting grilled cheese, at best. 

"Looks good, Barnes." She bent down to unlace her shoes, trying to hide her surprise. "I was half-expecting the fire department to be camped out front when I got back."

He scoffed, shooting her a look that was equal parts offended and amused. "Doll, ye of little faith. What kind of man doesn't know how to cook a decent plate of pasta?" He stirred the sauce with practiced ease, shaking his head. "My Ma would slap me upside the head if I screwed this up."

She shrugged off her jacket, draping it over the back of a chair. "Well, color me impressed."

"That's all I get? 'Impressed'?" He clicked his tongue, though his eyes were dancing in the light. "I was hoping for at least a standing ovation."

"Don't push your luck."

She moved closer to the stove, pretending to inspect the sauce when really, God help her, she was sneaking glances at him.

He'd changed out of the coveralls. Now he wore those same tailored trousers from before, hemmed just above the ankle, and paired with a simple white button-down left untucked. No suspenders this time. No gel in his hair either. Just loose, dark strands falling around his face in a way that was almost criminal. And when he reached for the pepper grinder, his forearms flexed beneath the rolled fabric of his sleeves, muscles shifting.

She forced herself to look away before he caught her staring.

Maybe Fiona was right.

The thought crept in unbidden, unwelcome. Maybe she was being ridiculous. Maybe she was denying herself something good, something fun, out of sheer stubbornness. One week. That's all it would be. What was the harm in—

No.

She shut the thought down hard, gripping the edge of the counter.

More harm than good. That's what it would be. A distraction. A complication. She didn't need either of those right now.

She needed to stay focused.

"You gonna stand there all night, or are you actually gonna help me out here?" Bucky's voice cut through her spiral, teasing and warm.

She blinked, realizing she'd been staring at the counter probably looking pained. 

"Help with what?" she asked, straightening.

"Plates. Silverware. You know, the basics." He nodded toward the cabinet. "Unless you're planning on eating straight out of the pan like some kind of heathen."

"I wouldn't put it past you to do exactly that most nights."

"Touché." He grinned, turning off the burner. "But I've got some class around a lady. Come on, make yourself useful."

She rolled her eyes but moved to grab plates from the cabinet, acutely aware of how small the kitchen suddenly felt with both of them in it. She reached over him to grab the dishware, indirectly brushing her arm against his. He was warm, solid. 

She hated how just a brush of her arm against his sent a shiver up her spine. 

"So," he said casually, draining the pasta with an ease that suggested he wasn’t spiraling like she was. "How was your day? Do anything exciting?"

"Sat through a two-hour lecture on media ethics," she said dryly, setting two plates on the counter. "Riveting stuff."

"Sounds like a real thrill."

"It was about as fun as it sounds." She pulled open the silverware drawer, fishing out forks. "What about you? What does a mysterious mechanic do all day when he's not cooking pasta?"

"Mysterious mechanic?" He glanced at her, eyebrow arched. "That what you think I am?"

"You were wearing coveralls this morning. With a shop logo. I'm not a detective, but I can put two and two together."

"Fair enough." He scooped a generous portion of pasta onto each plate, topping it with sauce. "And yeah, I work on cars. Engines, mostly. Fixing things that are broken."

"Is that what you were doing today?"

"Something like that." His tone was light, but there was something guarded in it. Like he was editing his words as he spoke.

She didn't push. She barely knew him. It wasn't her business. But he seemed a bit…embarrased. Like he didn’t think his job was impressive enough. 

He slid one of the plates toward her, and their fingers brushed for the briefest second. She pulled back too quickly, diverting her attention to studying the food instead of him. His mouth twitched like he'd noticed.

"Dig in," he said, leaning back against the counter with his own plate. "And try not to look so suspicious. I promise I didn't poison it."

She picked up her fork, twirling a bite of pasta. "Guess we'll find out."

The first bite was annoyingly delicious. Perfectly seasoned. The right balance of acid and sweetness in the sauce.

 She hated that it was good because she knew she would have to admit that to him now. Him and his damn ego. 

"Well?" He watched her, grin already forming.

She chewed slowly, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "It's edible."

"Edible?" He laughed, shaking his head. "You're really gonna make me work for a compliment, huh?"

"You'll survive."

"Brutal." But he was still smiling. There was something about it, something easy and genuine, that made her chest feel tight.

She looked down at her plate and took another bite, ignoring the way her pulse had picked up.

Stay focused, she reminded herself.

Seven days. That's all this was. Six now, really.

She could handle six days.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the scrape of forks against plates and the distant hum of the city filtering through the open window.

"So," Bucky said eventually, breaking the quiet. "Communications major. That mean you're good at talking, or good at making other people talk?"

She glanced up at him. "Depends on the day."

"And today?"

"Today I'm tired and hungry, so probably neither."

He chuckled, taking another bite. "Fair enough. What made you pick it? The major, I mean."

What was up with him and all the talking? He was always asking questions.

She shrugged, twirling more pasta onto her fork. "I like stories. How they're told, who tells them, why they matter. Communications felt like the best way to be part of that without having to, like, write the next great American novel or whatever."

"Not a writer, then?"

"God, no. I can barely get through an essay without wanting to scream." She paused. "What about you? You always want to be a mechanic?"

"More like that’s what I was told to do." He set his plate down on the counter, leaning back with his arms crossed. The position made his shoulders look even broader, if that was possible. "I've always been good with my hands. Fixing things, taking them apart, figuring out how they work. Seemed like a natural fit."

"Modest, too."

"Hey, I'm just being honest." His grin was unrepentant. "You want me to lie and say I'm terrible at my job?"

"I want you to not sound like you're auditioning for a cologne ad."

He laughed, giving her a good eye roll. "A cologne ad? That's a new one."

"I call it like I see it, Barnes."

"Clearly." He picked up his plate again, studying her over the rim as he took another bite. "So what's the plan after graduation? You gonna take over the world, or what?"

"Something like that." She echoed his words back at him, smirking. "Ideally, I'd like to work in PR. Maybe for a publishing house, or a bigger firm that handles entertainment clients. I want to help people tell their stories the right way."

"The right way," he repeated, like he was turning the phrase over in his mind. "That's pretty noble."

"Or naive, depending on who you ask."

"I'm asking you."

She met his gaze, caught off guard by the sincerity in it. There was no smirk this time. No playful glint. Just genuine curiosity.

"I think everyone deserves to have their story told well," she said slowly. "Even if it's messy or complicated or doesn't fit into a neat little box. That matters."

He was quiet for a moment, and something shifted in his expression. 

"Yeah," he said finally. "I think so too."

She felt something loosen in her chest. Maybe he wasn't just all charm and easy grins. Maybe there was something real underneath all that swagger. 

"What about you?" she asked, breaking the silence before it could get too heavy. "What do you want to do with your life? Besides fix cars and cook mediocre pasta."

"Mediocre—" He pressed a hand to his chest like she'd shot him. "You're killing me here, doll."

"Answer the question, Barnes."

He sighed dramatically, but his smile didn't fade. "Honestly? I don't know yet. I'm just... figuring things out as I go. Trying to make sense of where I fit in all this."

"All this?"

He gestured vaguely at the window, at the city beyond. "The world. It's a lot bigger than I thought it'd be."

There was something wistful in his voice, something that didn't quite match the confident, flirty persona he'd been wearing since she met him. She wanted to ask what he meant, but before she could, he straightened and nodded toward her plate.

"You gonna finish that, or are you just gonna keep picking at it?"

She looked down. She'd barely made a dent with all the talking they had been doing. "I'm savoring it."

"Uh-huh. Sure you are."

She rolled her eyes and took another bite, and the easy rhythm of their banter settled back into place.

"Can I ask you something?" Bucky said after a minute, his tone lighter now.

"You're going to anyway."

"True." He grinned. "What's with the outfit?"

She blinked. "What's wrong with my outfit?"

"Nothing's wrong with it, it's just..." He gestured at her vaguely. "Different. You always dress like that?"

She glanced down at herself. High-waisted jeans, cropped sweater, chunky sneakers. Perfectly normal. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Different?" He tilted his head, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. "The pants are real high. And tight. And those shoes—" He nodded at her sneakers. "They look like something a kid would wear to play ball."

She stared at him. "Are you seriously critiquing my fashion choices right now?"

"I'm not critiquing, I'm just... observing."

"Well, observe quieter." She stabbed another bite of pasta. "And for the record, these jeans cost me seventy bucks. They're supposed to look like this."

"Seventy dollars?" His eyes widened. "For pants?"

She shot him a strange look. Maybe he was Amish. "Yes, Bucky. For pants.”

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath that sounded like "highway robbery."

She bit back a smile. "You're one to talk. You dress like you're about to drink matcha at a coffee shop."

"A what?"

"A matcha. You know, like—" She stopped, realizing he looked genuinely confused. "Never mind. My point is, you've got a whole vintage thing going on. The suspenders, the slacks, the hair gel. It's very... retro."

"Retro," he repeated, like he was swallowing a lemon.

"Yeah. Like old-fashioned. In a kind of cool way," she added reluctantly.

His grin returned, slow and smug. "You think I'm cool?"

"That’s what you took from that? I think your clothes are cool. There's a difference."

"Uh-huh." He leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting. "So you've been looking at me then, huh?"

"Oh my God." She set down her fork. "You're insufferable."

"And yet, here you are. Eating my cooking. Complimenting my fashion sense because you’ve been looking at me."

"I'm starting to regret both of those things."

"No you're not."

She opened her mouth to argue, but the worst part was, he was right. She wasn't regretting it. Not really.

She stood abruptly, picking up her plate. "I'm doing the dishes."

"I'll help—"

"No." She shot him a look over her shoulder. "You cooked. I'll clean. That's the deal."

He raised his hands in surrender, but the grin didn't leave his face. "Whatever you say, doll."

She carried her plate to the sink, turning on the water and squirting soap into the basin. The sound of running water filled the kitchen, and for a moment, she thought he was going to stay where he was.

Then she felt him behind her.

Not touching. Not quite. But close enough that she could feel the heat of him through her back. Close enough that if she leaned back even slightly, she'd be pressed against his chest.

"You missed a spot," he said, his voice low. Rough in a way that made her skin prickle.

Her breath caught. She turned around, confused. "What?"

"Right here."

His hand came up slowly. She froze as his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. The touch was feather-light, barely there, but it sent a jolt of heat straight through her that pooled low in her stomach.

He held up his thumb, showing her the smudge of red sauce. "Messy eater."

Her heart was pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it. She stared at him dumbly, frozen. His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there.

"Bucky—"

"Yeah?" His voice was rough now, almost a rasp. His thumb still hovered near her lips.

She should step back. Should say something sarcastic, something to break the tension coiling tighter and tighter between them like a spring ready to snap.

"You should—" Her voice came out breathless, trembling. "You should move."

"Probably." But he didn't. He shifted even closer, and she could smell him now. Sandalwood and cigarettes. His free hand came to rest on the counter beside her, resting next to her hip 

His eyes searched hers. She didn’t remember the blue of his eyes being that dark before. "Should I?"

For a moment, she thought he was going to close the distance. Thought he was going to lean in and kiss her right there against the sink, dishes forgotten. And she was going to let him.

But she couldn’t muster up the courage to give him a response.

His eyes searched hers for another beat before he stepped back.

The air rushed back into her lungs all at once, cold and jarring. She turned quickly toward the sink, gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her knuckles were white.

"Thanks," she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. "For dinner."

"Anytime, doll."

She didn't look at him. Couldn't. Not when her face was burning and her pulse was still racing and every nerve in her body was screaming at her to turn around. To close the distance he'd just created.

Behind her, she heard him move away, heard the soft scrape of a chair as he sat back down.

She focused on the dishes. On the water. On anything other than the fact that she'd just wanted him to kiss her.

Stay focused, she told herself again.

But it was getting harder to believe it.

—-

The next morning, she sat on the balcony before class, nursing coffee that was too hot and slightly too bitter when Bucky joined her again. 

The door slid open behind her, and she didn't need to turn around to know it was him.

Bucky dropped into the chair beside her with that same easy grace, an unlit cigarette already dangling from his lips. He had his own cup of coffee in hand, which she'd brewed this morning without a single complaint from him. 

"Morning," he said, striking a match and bringing it to the cigarette. Smoke curled between them, familiar now.

"Morning."

She kept her eyes on the street below, hyperaware of him in her peripheral vision. The way he sat, relaxed and unguarded. The way the morning light caught in his hair, still damp from a shower.

Neither of them mentioned last night.

The moment at the sink. His thumb at the corner of her mouth. The way the air had felt too thick, too charged, like the split second before lightning strikes. The way he'd looked at her like he was starving for her.

He hadn't brought it up yet, and she sure as hell wasn't going to. Maybe it hadn't meant anything to him. Maybe she'd imagined the heat in his gaze, the way his voice had dropped an octave when he'd said her name. The way his hand had trembled slightly when he'd touched her face.

Or maybe, and this felt more likely, he was just like this with everyone. Effortlessly charming. Casually devastating. The kind of guy who could make you feel like the only person in the world and then forget about you the second he turned away.

If anything, he seemed more talkative this morning. More jokes, more grins, more of those infuriating winks every time she rolled her eyes at him. Like he was doubling down on the persona, making sure she didn't see past it.

And maybe that's all it was. A persona. A carefully constructed act he put on because it was easier than being real. Safer.

But last night, for just a moment, she'd seen something else. Something quieter. When he'd talked about not knowing where he fit, about the world being bigger than he'd thought—there'd been a vulnerability there. A crack in the armor.

She wanted to see it again.

And that scared her more than anything.

"You okay?" Bucky's voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

She glanced over at him. He was watching her, brow slightly furrowed, cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

"Yeah. Fine. Just thinking."

"About?"

You. "My interview on Friday."

"Ah." He took a drag, exhaling slowly. "Nervous?"

"A little." She wrapped both hands around her mug, letting the warmth seep into her palms. "I really want this job."

"You'll get it."

She raised an eyebrow. "You sound pretty confident for someone who's known me for two days."

"Two days is enough." He flashed her that grin, the one that made her stomach flip annoyingly. "You're smart. Driven. You don't take shit from anyone. Especially not me. They'd be idiots not to hire you."

Her chest tightened. It was such a simple thing to say, but the sincerity behind it caught her off guard.

"Thanks," she said quietly.

"Anytime, doll."

They fell into a comfortable silence, sipping their coffee as the city hummed to life around them. And despite everything, despite her better judgment, she felt something warm and dangerous settling in her chest again.

She liked him.

Not just his face or his body or the way he looked at her like she was something worth looking at. She liked him. The way he listened when she talked. The way he made her laugh even when she was determined not to. The way he seemed to see her in a way most people didn't bother to.

And that was a problem.

Because in half a week, he'd be gone. Back to wherever he came from, back to his life that she knew nothing about. And she'd be here, alone in Violet's apartment, wondering if any of it had been real.

She couldn't afford to get attached.

"I should get ready for class," she said abruptly, standing.

Bucky looked up at her, something unreadable flickering across his face. "Yeah. Sure."

She hesitated, then forced herself to move toward the door.

"Hey."

She stopped, glancing back.

He was still sitting there, cigarette smoke curling around him like something out of an old photograph. "Good luck today. With class and all."

"Thanks."

She slipped inside before he could say anything else.

—-

That evening, she had her notes spread across the coffee table in the living room and a half-empty mug of tea going cold beside her. She'd been at it for over an hour, reviewing talking points, researching the firm's recent campaigns, trying to anticipate every possible question they might throw at her.

She was so focused she didn't hear the front door open.

"Hey."

She jumped in her seat, nearly knocking over her tea. Bucky stood in the doorway, a tired grin on his face.

His coveralls were undone, hanging around his waist to leave him in just his pants and the wifebeater he wore underneath. Grease streaks and sweat had somehow managed to make their way onto the white material, as well as the underside of his jaw. His hair was disheveled, wet with sweat and sticking to the back of his neck.

She fought the urge to drool. Goddamn him and his stupidly attractive face. 

"Jesus, you scared me."

"Sorry." He kicked off his boots by the door, leaving them in a haphazard pile. "Didn't mean to sneak up on you. What're you working on?"

"Interview prep." She gestured at the organized chaos spread across the table. "Friday's coming up fast."

"Ah." He nodded, running a hand through his hair and leaving a smudge of grease at his temple that was somehow endearing. "Mind if I hop in the shower real quick? I'm covered in motor oil."

"Go ahead."

He disappeared down the hall, and she heard the bathroom door close, the pipes groaning as the water started.

She tried to focus on her notes. Really, she did. But her brain kept drifting, distracted by the knowledge that he was right there, just down the hall taking his clothes off, and—

Stop it.

She forced her eyes back to her notes, reading the same sentence three times without absorbing a single word.

Ten minutes later, she heard the water shut off. The bathroom door opened and she couldn’t help but glance up reflexively.

She immediately regretted it.

Bucky stepped into the hallway wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.

Her brain short-circuited.

He was — well, he was ridiculous. All lean muscle and broad shoulders, water still clinging to his chest, dripping down the defined lines of his stomach. There was a small scar on his left shoulder, faded and pale with time, and another along his ribs that looked a bit darker. His hair was wet and pushed back from his face, and he looked like—

Like every bad decision she'd ever been tempted to make.

She was so caught up in her own head that she didn’t realize until it was too late that he caught her staring.

His mouth curved into a slow, knowing grin, but he didn't say anything. Just raised an eyebrow and continued toward the guest room like this was perfectly normal. Like he walked around half-naked all the time.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

He was such a bastard. 

Her face burned. She snapped her gaze back to her notes so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.

"I'll make dinner!" she blurted, far too loud.

He paused, glancing back at her curiously. "You sure? I can—"

"Nope. My turn. You cooked last night. It's only fair." She was already on her feet, gathering her notes with shaking hands. "I'm making chicken. And potatoes. It'll be great. Totally."

He was still grinning, the bastard. "Okay. Thanks."

"Yep. No problem. Just…put on some clothes."

"Yes, ma'am."

She fled to the kitchen, cheeks still on fire, and busied herself pulling ingredients from the fridge. Chicken breasts. Potatoes. Garlic. Olive oil. Simple. Easy. She could do this.

She absolutely could not think about the way water had beaded on his collarbone. Or the V of muscle that disappeared beneath that towel. Or where it leads to.

Focus, damn it.

By the time Bucky emerged from the guest room—fully dressed, thankfully, in a plain white t-shirt and those stupid, goddamn trousers—she had the chicken sizzling in a pan and potatoes chopped and ready to roast.

"Smells good," he said, wandering over to the coffee table where she'd left her notes scattered.

"Thanks." She didn't look at him. She was sure her cheeks were still the color of a fire engine. 

"You mind if I take a look at these?"

She glanced over her shoulder. He was holding up one of her note pages, brow scrunched in concentration.

"Uh, sure. Go ahead."

He settled onto the couch, scanning through her prep. She turned back to the stove, flipping the chicken, trying to ignore the way her heart was still racing now that he was in such close proximity to her again. 

"You've got good answers here," he called after a minute. "Real thorough."

"Thanks."

"You nervous about it?"

"A little," she admitted. "It's a big opportunity."

"Want to practice?"

She paused, spatula in hand. "Practice?"

"Yeah. I'll ask you questions. You answer. Like a mock interview." He grinned at her over the back of the couch. "Come on, it'll help. And I promise I won't be too hard on you."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. Yeah. That'd actually be really helpful."

"Great." He leaned back, studying her notes. "Let's start easy. Tell me about yourself."

She took a breath, steadying herself. Why was he so interested in this? She couldn’t get a good read on him. 

She wiped her hands on a dish towel, gathering her thoughts. "Well, I'm a senior at NYU studying Communications. I'm passionate about storytelling and brand strategy, and I believe that everyone deserves to have their narrative shaped with intention and care—"

"Okay, hold it right there."

She blinked. "What?"

Bucky was shaking his head, a bemused smile on his face. "You sound like you're reading from a script."

"I'm supposed to sound professional—"

"You're supposed to sound like a person." He set down the notes and turned to face her fully. "Nobody wants to hire a robot. They want to hire you. So try again, but this time, talk to me like I'm not some stuffed shirt behind a desk."

She crossed her arms over her chest with an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. What made you pick communications in the first place? What actually gets you excited about it?"

She hesitated, the practiced answer dying on her tongue. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. "I guess... I've always been fascinated by how stories shape the way we see the world. How the right words, told the right way, can change everything. Make someone care about something they never thought about before. Give a voice to people who've been ignored." She paused. "I don't know. That probably sounds naive."

"It doesn't." His voice was sincere. He nodded at her encouragingly. "It sounds real. That's what you lead with."

Something warm unfurled in her chest. "Okay. Yeah. I can do that."

"Good." His grin returned, playful again. "Next question. What's your biggest weakness?"

She groaned. "God, I hate that question."

"Everyone does. That's why they ask it. It’s fun for ‘em. Come on, what've you got?"

She turned back to the stove, checking on the chicken to buy herself time. "I'm a perfectionist. I have trouble delegating because I want things done a certain way—"

"Boring. Next."

"Bucky—"

"I'm serious. That's the answer everyone gives. It's not even a real weakness, it's just you humble-bragging." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Give me something true."

She was quiet for a moment, seasoning the potatoes more aggressively than necessary. "Fine. I have a hard time asking for help. I always feel like I need to prove I can handle everything on my own, and sometimes that means I take on too much and burn myself out."

"There you go. See? That's honest."

She glanced back at him. "You're surprisingly good at this."

"I'm full of surprises, doll. Thought you'd have figured that out by now."

"Oh, I'm learning." She slid the potatoes into the oven and set the timer. "What about you? What would your biggest weakness be?"

He tilted his head, considering. "Probably the same, if I'm being honest. I'm not great at letting people in. Easier to keep things surface-level, you know? Less complicated that way."

The admission caught her off guard. It was the first time he'd said something that felt truly unguarded, without the veneer of charm or the safety of a joke.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I get that."

Their eyes met across the room, and something shifted. The air in the room felt heavier suddenly.

Bucky cleared his throat and looked back down at her notes. "Alright, here's a good one. Where do you see yourself in five years?"

"Wow, pulling out all the classics."

He gave her a dry look. "Answer the question."

She leaned against the counter, thinking for a moment. "Honestly? I want to be good at what I do. Really good. I want to work with clients I believe in, tell stories that matter. Maybe have my own team someday." She paused. "And I want to feel like I earned it. Not because someone gave me a break or felt sorry for me, but because I was the best person for the job."

"You will be."

The certainty in his voice made her chest tight. "You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do." He put the notes down and moved closer to her. Not crowding her this time, but close enough that she could smell the lingering scent of cigarettes and that damn sandalwood soap he kept using. "You've got something, doll. I can tell. You're gonna do exactly what you set out to do."

She swallowed hard, suddenly finding it difficult to maintain eye contact. "Thanks. That's... that means a lot."

"I mean it." He leaned against the counter beside her, shoulders almost touching. "Can I ask you something real?"

"As opposed to fake?"

His mouth quirked. "Smart-ass. I'm serious."

"Okay. Shoot."

He was quiet for a moment, like he was choosing his words carefully. "What are you so afraid of?"

Her breath caught. "What?"

"You work yourself to death over these interviews, you won't let yourself have any fun. You've built all these walls up so high nobody can get close." His voice was gentle, not accusatory. "What's got you so scared?"

She should've deflected. Should've made a joke, changed the subject. Done anything but answer honestly.

Instead, she found herself saying, "I'm afraid of ending up like my mother."

It was surprising how quickly she admitted it. How easily the words fell off her lips. She rarely spoke about that to anyone, much less a handsome stranger. But he wasn’t really a stranger anymore. And there was something about the earnest look in his eyes that made her want to let him in. 

"She gave up everything when she had me," she continued, her voice quieter now. "She had this promising career, all these plans, and then life happened. Marriage, a baby, and suddenly all of that just... disappeared. And I watched her spend my entire childhood being this shadow of who she could've been. Resentful. Bitter." She swallowed hard. "I'm terrified that if I let myself want anything else, if I let myself get distracted, I'll end up the same way."

Bucky was silent for a long moment, his blue eyes searching her face. When he spoke, his voice was rough. "You're not her."

She swallowed, but masked her rising emotions with a scoff, looking down at her feet for a moment. "Oh yeah? You know every member of my family now?"

"I know you." He shifted closer, and she could feel the heat radiating off him. "Because you wouldn't be here if you were like her. You wouldn't be fighting this hard." He shifted slightly closer, his arm brushing against hers. "But you can't live your whole life running from something that hasn't even happened yet. That's not living, doll. That's just...existing."

Her heart was pounding. She couldn't look away from him. She couldn't think past the way he was looking at her. Like he could see straight through every defense she'd ever built. Like he was still holding back. 

"Bucky—"

"Yeah?"

She didn't know what she was going to say — if she was going to tell him to back off or pull him closer. The space between them felt impossibly small, and she could see the exact moment his gaze dropped to her mouth.

 His jaw clenched slightly.  

He leaned in, close enough that she could count his eyelashes, could see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes—

Then the oven timer shattered the moment like glass.

They both jumped back, and she spun toward the stove so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet.

"Potatoes," she said, voice strangled. "The potatoes are done."

"Right. Yeah. Makes sense."

She grabbed the oven mitts with shaking hands, pulling the tray out and setting it on the counter with more force than necessary. Steam rose between them, a convenient barrier.

When she finally risked a glance back at him, Bucky was running a hand through his hair, his neck flushed pink. 

For the first time since she'd met him, he looked genuinely flustered. Almost...bashful. 

"I should—" He gestured vaguely toward the table. "Set the table or something. Make myself useful."

"Yeah. Good. That'd be good."

He moved past her quickly, not quite meeting her eyes. She pressed her palms flat against the cool counter, trying to catch her breath.

What the hell was happening to her?

—-

The next morning, she woke to silence.

No sounds from the kitchen. No smell of coffee brewing. No low hum of conversation waiting for her on the balcony.

She padded out to the living room in her pajamas, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and found the apartment empty. A note sat on the counter in unfamiliar, slightly cramped handwriting:

Had to leave early for work. Coffee's in the pot. 

She stared at the note longer than necessary, something uncomfortable twisting in her stomach.

He'd left early. Without saying goodbye. Without their usual morning routine of coffee and easy banter on the balcony.

Was he avoiding her?

She poured herself a cup of coffee and stepped outside alone, the city waking up around her in shades of gray and gold. The chair where Bucky usually sat looked conspicuously empty.

Last night replayed in her mind on a loop. The way he'd leaned in. The way his eyes had darkened, his gaze dropping to her mouth. The infinitesimal space between them closing —

Until it hadn't.

Maybe she'd imagined it. Maybe she'd read too much into a moment that was nothing more than friendly concern. Maybe she was the one who'd made it weird, and now he was uncomfortable around her.

God, what if she'd completely misread everything? What if all his flirting was just...who he was? The way some people were touchy or loud or overly friendly? What if it didn't mean anything at all?

She pressed her palms against the warm coffee mug and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her chest.

Unfortunately for her, that sinking feeling inside her remained throughout her first class of the day.

"You're doing that thing again," Fiona said, snapping her fingers in front of her face.

She blinked, pulled back to the present. They were sitting in the back of the lecture hall, Professor Martin droning on about something she'd stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago.

"What thing?"

"That thing where you disappear into your own head and overthink yourself into a panic." Fiona narrowed her eyes. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"Liar. You've been weird all morning. Spill."

She sighed, slumping lower in her seat. "It's nothing. Really."

"Is it Bucky?"

Her silence was answer enough.

Fiona's eyes went wide. "Oh my God. What did he do? Did he try something? Because if he—"

"No, he didn't—" She lowered her voice, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. "He didn't do anything. That's the problem."

"I'm confused."

"Join the club." She rubbed her temples. "We had this...moment. Last night. While I was making dinner. He was asking me interview questions and then we started talking about real stuff, and he asked me what I was afraid of, and I actually told him, and then he—" She stopped, the memory making her chest tight. "He looked at me like...like he was going to kiss me."

Fiona leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "And?"

"And then the oven timer went off and I freaked out and now he's avoiding me."

"How do you know he's avoiding you?"

"He left early for work this morning. Didn't even say goodbye. Just left a note." She could hear how pathetic she sounded. "We've had coffee together every morning since he got here, and today he just... bailed."

Fiona was quiet for a moment, considering. "Okay, but have you considered that maybe he's the one freaking out? Not you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, maybe he wanted to kiss you and chickened out, and now he's the one overthinking everything." Fiona shrugged. "He doesn't sound like a guy who's weirded out by you. Sounds more like a guy who's into you and doesn't know what to do about it."

She sighed. Could that really be the case? She didn’t know Bucky all that well but Fiona was right, he wasn’t the type to be embarrassed easily. "I don't know, Fi. Maybe I just—"

"Hey guys."

They both looked up. Trevor Marks stood at the end of their row, backpack slung over one shoulder, and an easy smile on his face. Tall, conventionally attractive in that clean-cut, all-American way. She'd maybe spoken to him twice all semester, though she knew they had a few classes together. 

"Hey, Trevor," Fiona said, shooting her a meaningful look.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, directing his attention to her. "I just wanted to ask…you're killing it in this class, right? Top of the grade curve?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "I mean, I don't know about—"

"Oh, c’mon now. You are. Everyone knows it." His smile widened. "I was wondering if maybe you'd want to study together sometime? For the next exam? I could really use the help, and I figured, you know, two heads are better than one."

"Oh. Um—"

"She'd love to," Fiona cut in, kicking her under the desk.

Trevor's face lit up. "Yeah? That's great. Maybe we could grab coffee this week?"

"Sure. Yeah. Coffee sounds good."

"Awesome." He lingered for a moment, like he wanted to say more, then seemed to think better of it. "I'll catch you after class?"

She nodded, and he headed back to his seat.

The second he was out of earshot, Fiona turned to her with a wicked grin. "Well, well, well."

"Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything. I'm just saying, maybe a little competition is exactly what Bucky needs."

"There's no competition. Trevor just wants help studying—"

Fiona gave her a deadpan look. "Uh-huh. Sure. That's definitely all he wants. Watch what happens next. I bet you lunch he'll talk to you before we leave."

She huffed in annoyance and shook her head, staring down at her notes instead of at her friend. She didn't need another person in her life constantly looking smug around her on a daily basis.

But, true to Fiona's word, she had to quite literally hold back a sigh when Trevor approached her again as class ended.

"Hey," he said, falling into step beside her as she walked out. "You heading home?"

"Yeah."

"Mind if I walk with you? I'm going that direction anyway."

She glanced at Fiona, who was trailing behind them with the same maniacal grin she’d worn earlier and two very enthusiastic thumbs up.

She was going to kill her.

"Sure," she said. "That's fine."

They made small talk as they walked. Easy, surface-level stuff about classes and professors. Trevor was nice. Polite. Completely inoffensive in every possible way.

But she knew she wasn’t attracted to him.

No butterflies. No racing pulse. No awareness of every place his arm almost brushed against hers.

Nothing like what she felt around Bucky.

"So," Trevor said as they approached her apartment door. "I know I said coffee, but maybe we could have dinner instead? Make a real study session out of it?"

She stopped at the base of the steps, turning to face him. He was looking at her expectantly, eyes bright.

Damn it, she really hated when Fiona was right. 

"Trevor—"

"I know it's kind of forward," he said quickly. "But I've been wanting to ask you out all semester and I figured, you know, now or never, right?"

Goddamn it. 

"That's really sweet," she said carefully. "But I don't think—"

"Just think about it?" He nodded, taking a step backwards. Giving her space. " Just... think about it? You can let me know next class.”

She hesitated. Every instinct screamed at her to say no, to make an excuse. To protect whatever fragile thing was building between her and Bucky.

But what if she was wrong? What if this morning's absence meant exactly what it looked like—that he'd had second thoughts? That she'd been a fool to think it meant anything at all?

And Trevor was right here. Safe. Uncomplicated. Exactly the kind of guy who wouldn't make her carefully constructed walls come crashing down.

Besides, Bucky was leaving in less than a week. Trevor was a guaranteed constant. That was a more reliable option. 

"Okay," she heard herself say quietly. 

His face lit up into a wide grin. "Great! We'll figure something out."

"Yeah. Sure thing."

He gave her a small wave and headed off down the street. 

She stood there for a moment in silence. Why did these unexpected things keep happening to her? 

She shook her head, sighing. Whatever it was, she needed her life to go back to normal. All this guy drama was not good for her stress levels.

Fumbling in her pocket for her key, she pulled it out and unlocked the door, still mumbling under her breath about men.

She stepped inside and immediately froze.

Bucky was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. His jaw was tight, blue eyes stormy. 

For the first time since she'd met him, he looked genuinely angry. 

The air in the apartment felt thick all over again. 

"So," he said, voice calm. "Dinner and a study session. Sounds nice."

Her stomach dropped, but irritation flared hot on its heels. "Bucky—"

"No, it's fine. Really." But his tone was sharp, cutting. "You're single. He's interested. Makes perfect sense."

"It's not like that. He just—"

"Just asked you out. You said yes." His eyes flashed. "Seemed pretty straightforward to me."

She dropped her bag by the door, frustration bubbling up fast and fierce. "Why the hell do you care?"

"I don't."

"You clearly do."

"I don't," he repeated, pushing off the counter and moving toward her. Each step felt deliberate, almost predatory. "I just think it's interesting timing. Two days ago you were going on about not having time for distractions, and now you're handing out dates to the first guy who smiles at you—"

She bristled immediately. "He's in my program—"

"—who probably can't wait to get you alone. Have you looked in the mirror?"

"And what business is that of yours?" Her voice rose, sharp and defensive. "We're not dating. We're not even friends. You're some guy crashing on my couch for a week. That doesn't give you the right to—"

"To what?" He was in front of her now, too close, a scowl plastered on his face. "To care that you're making a mistake?"

"A mistake?" She laughed, bitter. "Oh, that's rich coming from you. The guy who runs hot and cold every five seconds. Who flirts with me constantly and then disappears without a word the second things get real."

His jaw clenched. She noticed that his eyes widened fractionally. "That's not—"

"That's exactly what happened." She stepped forward, refusing to back down even though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "You don't get to act like you have some claim on me just because we had a moment. You don't get to be jealous when you won't even—" She broke off, breathing hard.

"Won't even what?" His voice was dangerously low. The expression on his face had gone cold again. 

"Won't even be honest about what you want!" The words exploded out of her. "You've been playing games since the second I met you. The flirting, the looks, the touching—and then the moment it means something, you run. So forgive me if I'm a little confused about why you're standing here acting like I owe you something."

"I'm not asking you to owe me anything—"

"Then what are you asking?" She was shouting now, all the tension from the past few days boiling over. "Because from where I'm standing, you just want me to sit around waiting for you to figure out what you feel while my life passes me by. Well, guess what? I don't wait for anyone. Not even you."

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "So that's it? Some prep school asshole asks you to dinner and you just fold?"

"Don't you dare—"

"What? Tell you the truth?" He stepped even closer. She could feel the heat radiating off him. Could smell the cigarettes, motor oil, and something uniquely him. 

"You want to know what I think?" His voice dropped, turned cold in a way that made her stomach twist. "I think you said yes because it's safe. Because you know exactly how it's going to go. A few dates, maybe you'll sleep with him, and then it'll fizzle out and you can go right back to hiding behind your career and your plans and pretending that's enough."

His eyes bore into hers, brutal and unflinching. "At least with him, you don't have to risk actually feeling something."

The words hit her like a slap.

For a moment, she couldn't breathe. All she felt was the sharp, sudden pain blooming in her chest.

"Get out," she whispered.

His face changed instantly, all the anger draining away and replaced with something that looked like horror. "Wait, I didn't mean—"

"Get. Out." Her voice was stronger now, but it trembled at the edges.

"I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry, I just—" He reached for her, and she jerked back like his touch would burn.

"Don't." The word came out broken. "Just... I need you to leave. Please."

"Let me explain—"

"I don't want to hear it." She wrapped her arms around herself, a flimsy shield against the hurt spreading through her chest. "I need space. I need you to give me space."

He stood there, hand still half-raised between them, looking utterly wrecked. His mouth opened and closed, like he was trying to find the right words and coming up empty.

"Please," she said again, softer this time. The pain in her chest had turned into a cold numbness.

His hand dropped.

She turned away from him, unable to look at his face anymore, and walked toward her bedroom. Each step felt mechanical, distant, like she was watching herself from somewhere far away.

She heard him standing there, silently. He hadn’t moved an inch. 

"I'm sorry," he said finally, his voice rough and quiet. "I'm so sorry."

She didn't answer. Didn't turn around. She reached her door, stepped inside, and closed it behind her firmly. 

For a long moment, there was nothing. Just silence.

Then she heard movement. The jingle of keys being grabbed. The creak of the front door opening.

And then he was gone.

She stood there in the dark of her room, arms still wrapped around herself, and finally let out the breath she'd been holding.

It came out shaky and uneven, dangerously close to a sob.

She pressed her palms against her eyes and told herself she was fine. That he was just some guy. That in three days he'd be gone anyway and none of this would matter.

But her chest ached in a way that made a liar out of her.

And when she finally crawled into bed hours later, still dressed, the apartment remained empty and quiet.

He didn't come back that night.

—-

She woke up the next morning with her face pressed into her pillow and her phone buzzing insistently on the nightstand. Three missed calls from Fiona. A text asking if she was dead.

She typed back a quick ‘Alive, just staying home to prep for tomorrow’ and tossed the phone aside.

The apartment was still quiet. Still empty.

He hadn't come back.

She sat up slowly, running her hands through her tangled hair, and tried to ignore the hollow feeling in her chest. Told herself it didn't matter. That she didn't care where he'd spent the night or if he was coming back at all.

But the lies tasted bitter on her tongue.

She dragged herself out of bed and into the kitchen, making coffee on autopilot. The note he'd left yesterday morning was still on the counter. She crumpled it up and threw it in the trash.

Her backpack sat on the coffee table, surrounded by interview notes and research she should have been reviewing. Tomorrow was the interview. The one she'd been working toward for months. The one that was supposed to be the start of everything.

She needed to be focused. Should be running through her talking points, rehearsing answers, making sure she knew the subway route by heart.

Instead, all she could think about was him.

The way he'd looked at her last night. The venom in his voice when he'd said those words. The way his face had crumpled the second he realized what he'd done.

She pressed her palms against her eyes and let out a shaky breath.

The worst part? He'd been right.

Not about Trevor. She didn't give a damn about Trevor. But about her. About the way she kept everyone at arm's length, the way she'd built walls so high nobody could climb them. The way she used her ambition as a shield against anything that might hurt her.

And Bucky? Bucky had gotten under her skin in a way she hadn't thought possible. In three days, he'd managed to slip past every defense she'd carefully constructed, and now she was sitting here in an empty apartment, missing someone she barely knew.

Someone who'd be gone in two days anyway.

She couldn't deny it anymore. Couldn't pretend it was nothing.

She was attracted to him. More than attracted. She was developing feelings, inconvenient as they were, for a man who was temporary by definition.

God, she was an idiot.

She stood abruptly, abandoning her coffee. She needed to get out of here. Clear her head. Do something productive before she spiraled completely.

The interview. She'd go scope out the route, make sure she knew exactly where she was going tomorrow. No room for error, no chance of being late.

She could do that much, at least.

The subway was crowded even midday, bodies pressed together in that particular New York way. Close but careful to not touch, everyone existing in their own bubble. She clutched her bag and tried not to think about how Bucky would have insisted on coming with her. Probably would have made some joke about being her personal bodyguard.

The PR firm was in Midtown, tucked between a bank and a boutique hotel. She stood outside for a moment, staring up at the building, trying to imagine herself walking through those doors tomorrow as a potential employee rather than a nervous student.

You can do this, she told herself. You don't need romance. You don't need anyone.

But the words felt hollow.

There was a coffee shop across the street. One of those trendy places with exposed brick and overpriced lattes. She ducked inside, suddenly desperate for something to ground her. Something normal.

She ordered a cappuccino and a croissant she had no intention of eating, paid, and turned to leave—

—and walked straight into someone coming through the door.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry—" She stumbled back, and her hand connected with something solid. Really solid. Like hitting a brick wall.

"No, it's my—"

But she was already moving past the man she hit, mumbling another apology, not really looking. Just a blur of dark hair and broad shoulders. Was he wearing a baseball cap indoors?

She felt him freeze behind her, heard the sharp intake of breath, but she was already out the door, clutching her coffee and trying not to spill it all over herself.

By the time she made it back to Brooklyn, her nerves had settled slightly. She'd mapped the route. She knew where she was going. Tomorrow would be fine. Everything would be fine.

She just had to get through tonight.

She climbed the stairs to the apartment slowly, keys jingling in her hand, steeling herself for more emptiness.

But when she opened the door, she stopped.

Bucky was standing in the living room.

The first thing she noticed was how wrecked he looked. His hair was disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it for hours. His eyes were red-rimmed, shadowed with exhaustion. And in his hands—

Flowers. A slightly wilted bouquet of red roses and a bottle of wine.

They stared at each other for a long moment, the silence stretching thin and fragile between them.

"Hi," he said finally, his voice rough.

"Hi."

He shifted his weight, the flowers crinkling in his grip. "I, uh. I got these for you. And the wine. Thought maybe…I don't know what I thought. That maybe you'd—" He stopped, closing his eyes briefly. "Lisen. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. What I said last night was…it was cruel and it was wrong and I had no right to—"

His words were tumbling out now frantically. "You didn't deserve that. Any of it. I was angry and jealous and I took it out on you when you were just…you were just living your life and I had no business—"

"Bucky—"

"—and I wouldn't blame you if you wanted me gone. I can pack my stuff right now, I'll be out in ten minutes, you'll never have to see me again—"

"Bucky." She said it louder this time, cutting through his spiral.

He stopped, breathing hard, looking at her like he was bracing for a blow.

She set down her empty coffee and crossed the room slowly. His eyes tracked her movement, wary, but she noticed how he leaned a bit closer towards her. 

When she reached him, she didn't say anything. Just wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a hug.

He went completely still. Like he'd forgotten how to move. How to breathe.

Then, slowly, carefully, his arms came around her. One hand still clutching the flowers, the other pressing against her back like he was afraid she'd disappear if he didn't hold on tight enough.

He smelled like cigarettes and that sandalwood soap and something else. Something warm and distinctly him. His chest was solid against hers, his heartbeat thundering beneath her ear.

"I'm sorry," he said again, his voice muffled against her hair. "I'm so sorry."

"I know." She pulled back just enough to look up at him. "I accept your apology. But if you ever talk to me like that again, I'm throwing you off the balcony. Clear?"

A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. "Crystal."

"Good." She took the flowers from him, trying not to notice how his hands were slightly trembling. "These are...actually really nice. Thank you."

"They're not much. The guy at the flower stand said they were 'romantic' but I think he might've been messing with me."

"They're perfect." She carried them to the kitchen, hunting for something to use as a vase. "And the wine?"

"Thought maybe we could drink it. Help calm your nerves for tomorrow." He followed her, still hovering like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to stay. "If you want. If you don't want me here, I can—"

"Stay." The word came out quicker than she'd intended. "Please. Stay."

The relief on his face was palpable.

Two hours and most of the bottle later, they were sprawled on the couch, the tension from the night before replaced with something easier.

The wine had been the kind that went down too easy and left you buzzed before you realized what was happening. Her cheeks were warm, her limbs loose, and Bucky's laugh was coming more freely now, his eyes a bit more unfocused. 

"Okay, okay," she said, gesturing with her glass and nearly sloshing wine over the rim. "Tell me about your family. You've mentioned your mom like three times but I don't actually know anything about her."

His smile turned fond, a little distant. "Ma's great. Tough as nails. Had to be, raising me and my sister on her own after my old man passed." He took a sip of wine. "She worked at a factory during the war. Made good money, actually. Better than a lot of folks."

She blinked, her wine-soaked brain struggling to catch up. "During the war?"

"Yeah. She was real proud of it. Said it was her way of doing her part."

"Your mom worked in a factory during what war?" She laughed, doing the math in her head. "Bucky, how old is she?"

He looked at her strangely, like she'd asked him something obvious. "She's in her forties. Why, she seem old or something?”

"Her forties....yeah, okay." She shook her head, dismissing it. Maybe he had meant Afghanistan or Iraq. "What about siblings? You said you had a sister?"

"Rebecca. Becca." His voice softened. "She was a pain in the ass growing up. Always getting into my stuff, always tagging along when I didn't want her to." He smiled. "But she’s a good kid. Smart. Way smarter than me."

There was something almost sad in his voice, something she wanted to prod at, but the wine made her thoughts slow and syrupy. Instead, she leaned her head back against the couch and sighed.

"My family's boring compared to yours. Just me, my parents, and Violet's whole chaotic mess orbiting around us like a comet."

"Violet isn’t boring," Bucky said. "She’s —" He stopped, shaking his head with a soft laugh. "Actually, yeah, she was kind of a mess. But in a good way."

"You talk about her like you really knew her."

"I did. I do." He frowned, like he was trying to work something out. "She's a good person." He groaned. "English is hard when you're drunk."

She laughed, the sound bubbling up unbidden. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're beautiful."

The words slipped out so easily, so casually, that it took her a moment to process them. When she did, her breath caught.

Bucky seemed to realize what he'd said at the same time. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't take it back. A small smile crossed his face instead.

"Bucky—"

"Dance with me."

She blinked. "What?"

He was already standing, slightly unsteady, and moving toward Violet's old record player in the corner. Something she had inherited from her grandmother, just like half of the things in this apartment. "Come on. When's the last time you danced?"

"I don't…Bucky, I don't dance."

"Everyone dances." He pulled out a record out of the old vintage collection Violet’s grandmother had and set the needle down. Brass and strings filled the apartment, warm and crackling. "Come on, doll. One dance."

She hesitated, unsure. Not willing to look like an idiot in front of the most attractive man she had ever seen. 

But the wine had made her bold, and the way he was looking at her, hopeful and a little nervous, made it impossible to refuse.

"Fine," she said, standing with a mock grimace. "One dance. But if you step on my feet, I'm done."

"Deal."

He took her hand, and the touch sent electricity up her arm. Or maybe that was just the wine again.

Bucky pulled her close, one hand settling on her waist, the other holding hers gently. 

She could feel how stiff she was, how awkward her movements were. Their rhythm was off but it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that she hadn’t taken her eyes off her own feet. 

The room was suddenly a lot hotter than she remembered it being a minute ago. How embarrassing did she look right now? 

"Hey," he said softly. "Look at me."

She did.

And something shifted.

The music swelled around them, and suddenly they were moving together, swaying in the small space between the couch and the coffee table. His hand was warm through the fabric of her shirt, his thumb brushing carefully against her ribs. She could feel his breath against her forehead as he leaned in closer. 

"See?" he murmured. "Not so bad."

"You haven't stepped on my feet yet. Give it time."

He laughed and just pulled her closer. 

Her heart was racing now, and it had nothing to do with the wine. She was acutely aware of every point of contact between them. His hand on her waist, her palm against his shoulder. The way their bodies moved in sync like they'd done this a thousand times before.

He spun her slightly, and she laughed despite herself, dizzy with warmth and dangerously close to doing something stupid.

Bucky took another step, then stumbled. Not badly, just a small misstep as he turned, but his shoulder knocked into something solid.

"Shit—" He jerked back, looking around. "What did I—"

"Watch out for the TV," she said, laughing.

He stared at the flat-screen mounted on the wall, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What TV?"

She followed his gaze. "That TV. The one right there. That you almost just walked into."

"There's nothing there."

She laughed again, assuming he was joking. "Okay, sure. You're drunker than I thought. Come on. Finish the dance before you actually break something."

His smile returned, that gooey look still in his eyes. The music swelled again, and he was pulling her back into his chest.

She could care less about how drunk either of them were. There was nowhere else she would rather be. 

The song eventually faded into the crackle of the record's end, but neither of them moved. They just stood there, swaying slightly, caught in each other's orbit.

Bucky's hand was still on her waist, his thumb tracing absent patterns against her side. His eyes searched her face for something she wasn’t sure if she would see in the mirror. 

"I need to tell you something," he said quietly.

Her heart stuttered. "Okay."

"What I said yesterday…about you and that guy, about you being safe—" He swallowed hard, his jaw working. "I didn't mean it. Or I did, but not the way it came out. I was—" He let out a frustrated breath. "I was jealous. So goddamn jealous I couldn't see straight."

She went still in his arms. "Jealous?"

"Yeah." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Standing there listening to him ask you out — it felt like someone was twisting a knife in my gut. And I know I have no right. We barely know each other. You don't owe me anything. But I wanted—" His voice cracked slightly. "I wanted to be the one asking you to dinner. Least that guy had the balls to beat me to it."

Her breath caught. "Bucky—"

"Let me finish, doll. Please." His hand tightened on her waist, like he was afraid she'd pull away. "I've liked you since the second you walked through that door with all those boxes, looking at me like I was some kind of criminal. You didn't swoon, didn't giggle. Didn't play coy. You gave me attitude and called me out on my bullshit and—" He shook his head, something like wonder in his eyes. "You're not like any dame I've ever met. You're smart and driven and you don't take shit from anyone, and…that’s exactly what I want."

The words hung in the air between them. She fought the urge to pinch herself. Was this actually happening?

"And I know it's crazy," he continued, words tumbling out faster now. "I'm leaving in two days. This was never supposed to be…I wasn't supposed to feel like this so fast. But hell, I do. And last night, when I said those things, it was because I was scared that you'd go out with him and realize he's exactly what you need. Someone who's not—" He gestured at himself helplessly. "Whatever the hell I am."

She stared at him, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. Every carefully constructed defense she'd built around not falling for someone was crumbling — and she couldn't find it in herself to care.

"You really are an idiot," she said finally. She heard the tremble in her own voice. 

His face fell immediately. "I know. I'm sorry—"

"No, I mean—" She reached up, framing his face with her hands. "You're an idiot because I like you too. I've been trying not to, trying to convince myself it was just because of proximity or temporary insanity, but—" She laughed, the sound watery. "I like you, Bucky. And I mean it. I don't want Trevor or anyone else. I want—"

She didn't get to finish before he kissed her. 

It was soft at first, tentative, like he was afraid she might pull back if he pushed too hard. His lips were warm and gentle against hers, tasting of wine and something sweeter. One hand cupped her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek, while the other remained firmly attached to her waist. 

She melted into him, her hands sliding from his face to his shoulders, anchoring herself as the world tilted sideways.

When she kissed him back, something in him broke loose.

The gentleness gave way to urgency. To hunger. The hand on her cheek threaded into her hair instead, angling her head as he deepened the kiss, and she felt the hand on her hip wrap firmly around her entire waist instead. She gasped softly, the sound disappearing into his mouth. 

She felt herself moving—or maybe he was moving her—until her back hit the wall with a soft thud. He pressed against her, all solid muscle and heat, his touch growing more confident. She couldn't think past the feel of him, the way his mouth moved against hers like he was trying to say everything he couldn't put into words. All she could focus on was the invisible electricity racing through her body at the feel of his body against hers. 

"God," he breathed against her lips, pulling back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. "You're—"

She pulled him back down, swallowing whatever he was going to say. She didn't want words right now. She nipped at his bottom lip, wrapping her own hands around his neck, and the low groan that rumbled in his chest sent another wave of heat directly to her core. 

Her head fell back against the wall, giving him better access, and her fingers tangled in his hair. "Bucky—"

"The way you look at me," he continued, punctuating each phrase with a kiss. "The way you laugh. The way you give me shit." His teeth grazed her pulse point and she shuddered. "Wanted this. Wanted you so badly, I thought I was going crazy.."

Her hands found the hem of his shirt, sliding underneath, and the feel of his skin, warm and very real, made her dizzy. She explored the planes of his stomach, the ridges of muscle, the way he tensed and relaxed under her touch.

He groaned, a broken sound, and his own hands slid under her shirt in return. His palms were rough and calloused, the contrast against her skin sent sparks racing up her spine. He traced the curve of her waist, her ribs, thumbs brushing just below—

And then he stopped.

She made a sound of protest, trying to pull him closer, but he caught her hands gently.

"Wait," he said, his voice strained. He was breathing hard, his forehead pressed against hers. "Wait, we should—"

"Don't you dare stay stop," she said, her own breathing ragged.

"I don't want to." He pulled back slightly, and the look in his eyes made her chest ache with desire all over again. "Christ, you have no idea how much I don't want to stop. But—" He swallowed hard. "I want to do this right. I want to treat you the way you deserve. Not just…not like this, half-drunk against a wall."

"I don't care—"

"I do." His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing over her kiss-swollen lips. "You're not some girl I picked up in a bar. You're…you matter. This matters. And I want—" He took a shaky breath. "I want to take you on a proper date. I want to do this the right way. The way my Ma raised me to."

Her heart was still racing, her body still thrumming with unfulfilled want, but something in his earnestness made her soften.

"Your Ma would approve of you stopping?" she asked, trying for lightness even though she was sure she still looked desperate.

"Ma would kill me if I didn't." A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. "She raised a gentleman. Mostly."

She laughed despite herself, some of the tension easing. "A gentleman who kisses like that?"

"A gentleman who knows when to stop." But his hands were still under her shirt, his thumbs still drawing maddening circles against her skin. Like stopping was the last thing his body wanted to do.

She sighed, leaning her head back against the wall and closing her eyes for a moment to catch her breath. "You're killing me here, Barnes."

"Yeah." He pressed his forehead to hers again, breathing her in. "Me too."

They stood there for a long moment catching their breath before he broke the silence. 

"Tomorrow," he said finally. "After your interview. Let me take you out. A real date. Dinner, the whole nine yards."

"You sure you can afford it?" She opened her eyes, her mouth curling into a smile as she teased. "On a mechanic's salary?"

"Funny." He kissed her softly, sweetly, just a chaste gesture more than anything. "Just say yes."

"Yes," she whispered against his lips. "I would be honored."

And when he pulled back this time, putting literal space between their bodies with a sheepish grin and eyes still dark with want, she let him.

Because he was right.

This mattered. He mattered.

And she wanted to do it right too.

—-

She woke to sunlight streaming through her curtains and the lingering ghost of last night's wine pressing against her temples. 

For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the memories wash over her.

Bucky’s mouth on hers. The wall at her back. The way his hands had felt under her shirt, rough and warm.

A smile tugged at her lips despite the headache. God, he was something else. Infuriating and charming but surprisingly sweet underneath all that swagger.

She rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom, catching sight of herself in the mirror. Her lips were still slightly swollen, her hair a mess. Evidence of what had almost happened.

What was definitely going to happen again after tonight.

The thought sent a pleasant shiver through her.

Focus. Interview first. Life-changing career opportunity. Then you can think about jumping your temporary roommate.

She showered quickly, the hot water helping to clear her head, and dressed carefully in her outfit for the interview — tailored black slacks, a crisp white blouse, her nicest blazer. Professional. Safe. Exactly the kind of impression she wanted to give off.

When she emerged into the kitchen, Bucky was already gone. But there, next to her usual mug, sat a fresh cup of coffee, steam still curling off the top, and a single rose from last night's bouquet.

A note was propped against the mug in that same cramped handwriting she had seen before.

Knock 'em dead. You've got this. See you tonight for that date. 

Her chest felt warm and tight all at once. She picked up the rose, bringing it to her nose and breathing in the sweet, slightly wilted scent.

When did she become the kind of person who got butterflies over flowers? 

She was still smiling when her phone rang, Violet's name flashing on the screen.

The smile immediately fell from her lips. She almost didn't answer. She had an interview to get to, and conversations with her cousin were never anything but irritating. But something made her pick up.

"Hey, Vi—"

"Oh my God, finally! I've been trying to reach you for days!" Violet's voice was bright and frantic in equal measure. "Listen, I need you to do me the biggest favor. I know I already mentioned my friend crashing there this week. My friend Kevin is supposed to get there sometime during the weekend now. Has he shown up yet? Tall guy, kind of boring, works in finance? He should have a key."

She froze instantly, coffee cup halfway to her lips.

"What did you say?"

"Kevin. My friend? Is the connection bad? I told him he could stay at the apartment while I was gone. Did he not show up? Because if he bailed on me again, I swear—"

"Vi." Her voice came out sharper than intended. "Who's Kevin?"

"Uh, my friend? The one I said could crash at the apartment?" Violet sounded confused now. "Didn't I tell you about him? I could've sworn I mentioned it when we talked the other day."

Her mind was racing, trying to piece together what wasn't adding up. "You said your friend was going to stay but he’s already here. His name is Bucky.”

A pause. Then: "Bucky? Who the hell is Bucky?"

The coffee cup slipped from her hand.

It hit the counter with a dull thud, liquid sloshing over the rim, but she barely noticed. Her ears were ringing, her pulse suddenly too loud in her head.

"What do you mean, who's Bucky?" Her voice sounded distant, tinny. "The guy staying here. Your friend."

"Babe, I have no idea what you're talking about." Violet's voice had shifted from confused to concerned. "I don't know anyone named Bucky. The only person I said could stay there was Kevin. Are you okay? You sound weird."

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the sudden, stark wrongness of everything.

"I have to go," she said, the words coming out robotic.

"Wait, are you—"

She hung up.

For a long moment, she just stood there, staring at the rose. At the note. At the coffee he'd made her before leaving for work.

What the fuck was going on?

Her mind spun through the past few days like cards being shuffled. The first day she had met Bucky, he had already been inside the apartment. He had a key, had been using it to get in and out. Where had he gotten that from? He had been here for days now and she had sensed nothing nefarious about him. Unless, this was some big ploy and he was duping her intentionally…

No. That's insane. You're being insane.

But Violet didn't know him. Had never mentioned him. The only person she'd given permission to stay was someone named Kevin.

So who was Bucky? And why was he here?

Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the counter, trying to ground herself.

He could be dangerous. He could be a con artist. He could be—

But even as the thoughts spiraled, she couldn't make them stick. Because Bucky was... kind. Genuine. The way he'd looked at her last night, the things he'd said—that hadn't been fake. She'd stake her life on it.

Could she?

She glanced at the clock. Forty-five minutes until her interview.

Fuck.

She couldn't do this right now. Couldn't unravel whatever mystery Bucky Barnes was while she was supposed to be preparing for the most important interview of her life.

She'd deal with it later. When he came home. When she could look him in the eye and demand answers. And maybe called the cops before she even went back here.

For now, she had to pull herself together.

She cleaned up the spilled coffee with shaking hands, downed two Advil for her growing headache, and grabbed her bag. The rose stayed on the counter, the red stark against the white tile. 

—-

The subway ride was a blur. 

She kept her eyes on her notes, forcing herself to review talking points even though her mind kept drifting back to Bucky and Violet doesn't know him and what the hell is happening.

By the time she reached Midtown, she'd managed to shove it into a box in the back of her mind. Locked it tight. She could panic about possibly getting targeted by a serial killer later.

Right now, she had a job to get.

The interview started rough—her hands were still trembling slightly when she shook her interviewer's hand—but once they started talking, muscle memory took over. She fell into the rhythm of it, answering questions with the practiced ease of someone who'd been preparing for weeks.

She talked about storytelling. About brand strategy. About her passion for helping people shape their narratives in a world that wanted to define them first.

And somewhere in the middle of it, she forgot about Bucky entirely.

By the end, her interviewer was smiling. Nodding. Making notes that looked promising.

"We'll be in touch by the end of the week," she said, standing and extending her hand again. "But I have to say, you're exactly the kind of fresh perspective we're looking for."

Relief flooded through her, so intense it was almost dizzying. "Thank you. Really. This opportunity means everything to me."

"Well, you earned it." Her interviewer glanced at her watch. "Actually, if you have a few minutes, I'd love to introduce you to a couple of our clients. They're in the building today for a meeting."

"Oh…yes, of course."

They walked down a sleek hallway, all glass and modern art, and stopped outside a conference room. Through the window, she could see two men standing by the table, mid-conversation.

Her interviewer opened the door. "Gentlemen, sorry to interrupt. I wanted to introduce you to one of our top candidates." She gestured for her to enter. "This is—"

But she'd already stopped walking.

Because she knew one of those faces.

The man on the left was Sam Wilson. The Sam Wilson. Captain America. She'd seen him on the news, in magazines, everywhere since he'd taken up the shield.

But it was the man on the right who made her blood run cold.

He was older—mid-thirties, maybe, with short dark hair and sharp blue eyes. He wore dark jeans, a leather jacket, and a black glove on his left hand. There was a hardness to him, something battle-worn and weary, but his face—

His face was Bucky's.

Older. Different. But unmistakably, impossibly his.

Suddenly she remembered Bucky all over again. 

They both turned when she entered, and she watched in real-time as recognition flickered across the older man's face.

Not shock. Not confusion.

Just... resignation. And something that looked heartbreakingly like relief.

Like he'd been expecting this.

"Hi," Sam said, extending a hand with an easy smile. "Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you."

She shook his hand mechanically, her gaze still locked on the other man.

He was staring at her with an expression she couldn't name. Something complicated and knowing. 

"And this," her interviewer continued, oblivious to the fact that she probably looked like she was going to pass out, "is James Barnes. Though most people call him Bucky."

The world tilted sideways.

James Barnes. Bucky.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

God, how could she have been so stupid? James Buchanan Barnes—there was literally an exhibit for him in the Smithsonian. Captain America's oldest friend. A man frozen in time, brainwashed and manipulated by HYDRA to become the Winter Soldier.

She had been in middle school when the Triskelion in DC had fallen. She remembered her parents talking about it, just as she vaguely remembered news reports covering it and the Winter Soldier's involvement, but she hadn't even had a phone yet. She'd learned about Bucky Barnes in high school U.S. History, but she'd probably slept through half of those lessons. She'd never made the connection that the Bucky she knew was the famous villain-turned-reformed-hero.

That and no one really expected to see two versions of the same man about a decade apart in the same day, much less have a younger version of an Avenger living in their apartment.

She felt like she was going to be sick.

Bucky—this Bucky, the older one, whatever he was—took a step forward. His jaw was tight, his eyes searching her face like he was looking for something specific. "It's nice to meet you," he said quietly.

His voice was wrong. Deeper. Rougher around the edges. But still somehow, impossibly, his.

Sam glanced between them, his smile faltering. "Do you two know each other?"

"No," she said at the same time Bucky said, "Yes."

Her interviewer laughed, confused. "Which is it?"

Bucky's eyes never left hers. Something flickered in them. 

"We've met before," he said carefully. "A long time ago."

Her heart was hammering so hard she thought it might break through her ribs.

"I don't—" Her voice cracked. "I don't understand."

"I know." And there was so much weight in those two words. Something that sounded like an apology. "I — I didn’t realize it would happen like this."

Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, maybe we should give them a minute—"

"No." She stepped back, shaking her head. "No, I need—I have to—"

She choked on her own words, stared at him for another beat, and walked out of the room.

She didn't run. Didn't let herself fall apart. Just walked with as much dignity as she could muster until she reached the elevator, jabbed the button, and prayed it would come before anyone followed her.

She jabbed the elevator button again. And again. Her hand was shaking.

James Barnes. Bucky Barnes.

The words looped in her head, nonsensical and terrifying. She pressed her palm against her chest, trying to slow her racing heart, trying to breathe through the nausea rising in her throat.

The elevator dinged. Finally.

The doors started to slide open, and she stepped forward.

A hand closed around her arm.

She yelped, spinning, ready to scream or fight or both—

And then she was being pulled sideways, into a dim storage closet that smelled like cleaning supplies and old paper. The door clicked shut behind her, plunging them into darkness.

"Let me go—" She shoved hard against a solid chest, panic flooding her system. "I swear to God, I will scream—"

The light flickered on.

And there he was.

The older Bucky. James Barnes. The one from the conference room. 

He looked different under the harsh fluorescent light. Older, yes, but there was something else too. Something weathered and worn that went deeper than age. His blue eyes were the same, though. Impossibly, painfully the same.

"Hi," he said, hands raised in surrender. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I just…I saw you leave and I couldn't—" He stopped, jaw clenching. "Without explaining."

"Explaining what?" Her voice came out strangled, too high. She pressed herself against the far wall of the tiny closet, as far from him as she could get. "Who are you? What are you? Because there's a man, a younger version of you, living in my apartment, and Violet doesn't know him, and you looked at me like you know me, and I don't—I can't—"

"Breathe," he said gently. "Please. Just breathe."

"Don't tell me to fucking breathe." She shook her head furiously, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. "Don't tell me anything until you explain what the hell is happening because I feel like I'm losing my damn mind."

His face softened with something that looked like pain. "You're not losing your mind. I promise you're not."

"Then what is this? Who is the man in my apartment? Why does he look exactly like you?"

He was quiet for a moment, and she watched him weigh his words carefully. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and measured.

"The man in your apartment is me. A younger version of me. From 1943."

She stared at him. Waiting for the punchline. The ‘gotcha’. But his expression remained serious, almost grave.

"That's not funny," she said finally.

"I know. And I'm not joking." He leaned back against the door, arms crossed over his chest. A furrow had found its way between his brows. "The apartment, your cousin’s apartment, it's caught in some kind of time paradox. A loop. When he's inside, when I was inside all those years ago, it exists in 1943. Everything looks like it did back then. The furniture, the layout, even the view from the window."

"That's impossible."

"Yeah. That's what I said too." A bitter smile tugged at his mouth. "I've been to space. I've fought aliens. I died and came back. And somehow this is still the weirdest thing that's ever happened to me."

She was shaking her head, backing up until she hit the wall. "No. No, this is insane. You're insane. I need to—"

"The things you bring into the apartment," he continued, speaking over her rising panic. "Your clothes, your laptop, that coffee maker he couldn't figure out—those are the only things that are different. Everything else, to him, it's 1943. He sees it the way it was. The way it looked when he…when I stayed there the first time."

"Stop." She pressed her hands over her ears. "Stop talking."

But he didn't stop. His voice was quieter now, almost gentle. "When he leaves the apartment, he goes back to his time. 1943. And when you leave, you're still here. That's why he was so confused about your TV. About your appliances. To him, they don't exist."

She dropped her hands slowly, her mind racing through every strange moment of the past few days. The way he'd looked at her coffe maker like it was alien technology. His comments about the war. About his mother. The way he'd stared at the TV and insisted there was nothing there.

Oh God.

"This can't be real," she whispered. "How do you know Violet then? She's my age—"

"Was she named after her grandmother? That's the Violet I knew...back in my time."

Something bottomed out inside her. Violet had been named after her grandmother. Who had grown up in Brooklyn and lived in that apartment. It had stayed in the family for nearly a century now.

"I know it sounds impossible—"

"Because it is impossible. Time travel isn't—people don't just—" She was spiraling, she could feel it, but she couldn't stop. "How? How is any of this even possible?"

"I don't know the mechanics of it." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it made her chest ache. "But I've spoken with people who understand this stuff better than I do. After I left to go back home, I went looking for you, but it was like you never existed. Because you hadn't yet. It wasn't until this year, when I moved back here, that I found Doctor Strange and he confirmed it. Said the apartment exists in a temporal loop. Some kind of magical anomaly tied to the building's history."

"Doctor Strange," she repeated flatly. "The wizard."

"Sorcerer, technically. But yeah."

She laughed, but it came out wrong. Broken. Hysterical. "This is a nightmare. I'm having a nightmare."

"You're not." He took a small step closer, and she flinched. He stopped immediately, hands raised again. "I know this is a lot. Trust me, I know. But you're not dreaming. And you're not crazy."

"Then why?" Her voice cracked on her own words. "Why is this happening? Why me? Why you?"

Something flickered across his face, an emotion too complex to name. Grief, maybe. Or longing.

"I don't know," he said quietly. "Strange couldn't tell me that part. Just that the paradox exists. That it's always a constant." He paused, his eyes searching hers. "That it always leads here. To you."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication.

"What do you mean, 'always leads to me'?"

He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was rough. "This isn't the first time we've met, right? The younger me, the one in your apartment right now, he doesn't know it yet. Won't know it until he's standing where I am. But I remember." He tapped his temple. "I remembered during the war. After I broke free of HYDRA. I always have. You turned my whole world upside down — the girl who I fell for who somehow didn’t exist. You think I could forget that?"

Her legs felt weak. She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the cold linoleum floor. "I don't understand."

"Neither do I. Not completely." He crouched down in front of her, keeping his distance but close enough that she could see the fine lines around his eyes, the silver threaded through his dark hair. What was the age gap between them now? Fifteen years? "But I figured I’d find you again one day. Should have known you’d wind up here, for that interview you and I were prepping for all those years ago. I wanted to find you sooner but…kinda got busy with being brainwashed and all that.” 

"That’s…comforting," she whispered.

He continued, voice dropping lower, "I still fell for you, sweetheart. Still care, even now. Even knowing how it ends. Even knowing it's impossible.”

"Why are you telling me this?" she breathed, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Why not just…I don't know, let it play out? He…I mean, you — are still staying in my place. And now that I know whatever fucked up magic this is —”

"Because I'm selfish." His laugh was bitter. "Because seeing you again…I couldn't just let you leave without you knowing. Without you understanding what this is. I’ve waited decades to see you again."

"I'm not anything to you. We just met."

"He just met you. I've known you since before the war." He shifted, settling to sit properly on the floor across from her. "In every way that matters, I've known you almost my whole life."

She pressed her hands against her face, trying to process. Trying to breathe. "This is too much. This is way too much."

"I know."

"I kissed him last night," she said through her fingers. "We…we almost—"

"I know that too." His voice was rough. Something flickred across his face. "I remember."

She dropped her hands and looked at him. Studied him. At the gray in his hair that the younger version didn't have. At the way his jaw was sharper, more defined. At the black glove now covering his left hand.

"What happened to you?" she asked quietly. Her eyes dropped down to his arm. "Between then and now?"

She wasn’t sure why she asked. Everyone knew what happened to James Barnes. It was in every American history book. Maybe she just needed to hear it from his lips. 

"War. Mind control, torture. A lot of shit I wouldn't wish on anyone." He flexed his left hand, and she heard the whir of machinery. "Lost my arm in 1945. Got a fancy replacement courtesy of HYDRA and then later, Wakanda." He met her eyes. She could have sworn he looked nervous. Wary. "But that's not important right now."

"Can I—" She gestured at his arm. "Can I see it?"

His entire body went rigid. For a long moment, he just stared at her, something guarded and uncertain on his face.

"You don't have to," she added quickly. "I just…I want to understand."

"It's not pretty," he said quietly. "Nothing about what happened to me was pretty."

"I don't care about pretty."

He studied her face, searching for something. Revulsion, maybe. Pity. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't seem to find it, because after a moment, he let out a slow breath and pulled off the glove.

The arm beneath was black metal. Vibranium. It caught the fluorescent light overhead, reflecting it in intricate patterns. Beautiful, in a lethal sort of way.

He held it out stiffly, like he was bracing for her to recoil.

Instead, she inched closer.

"Can I touch it?"

His eyes widened slightly. "I…yeah. If you want."

She reached out slowly, her fingers hovering just above the metal plating. When she finally made contact, the surface was cool and smooth, nothing like the skin she had felt last night. But somehow still him. 

She traced the gold lines threading through the black, following them up toward his shoulder where metal met flesh. He shivered under her touch. She glanced up to find him watching her with an expression she couldn't quite name.

"Does it hurt?" she asked softly.

"Sometimes. At the connection point." His voice was rough. "But mostly it just feels...foreign. Like it belongs to someone else."

"It doesn't." She met his eyes. "It's yours. Part of you."

"That’s very romantic of you. Always knew your generation loved technology a bit too much.”

"Shut up." She ran her fingertips over the palm, marveling at the craftsmanship. "It's beautiful. Pretty terrifying, but beautiful.”

He let out a breath that might have been a laugh. "That's one way to describe it."

She continued her exploration, noting the way the plates shifted slightly with his movements, the subtle whir of machinery beneath the surface.

"Thank you," she said finally, letting go."For showing me."

He pulled the glove back on, shooting her a familiar smirk. "Thank you for not thinking it’s hideous."

She offered a small smile back. “I don’t think I could ever think you’re hideous.”

"Yeah?" His mouth quirked. "Could've fooled me with how fast you left that conference room."

"I panicked. Sue me."

"Wouldn't dream of it, doll."

She shook her head, but she was grinning now. "You're different from him. The younger you."

"Yeah, well." He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "Eighty-something years and a shitload of trauma will do that to a person."

"It's not just that." She tilted her head, studying him. "You're more...settled. More sure of yourself. He's got all that swagger, but underneath it, he's trying so hard to impress me."

"And I'm not?"

"You're not. You already know how this goes." She paused. "Though for the record, you aged well. Really well. The whole silver fox thing works for you."

He blinked, then huffed out a surprised laugh. "Silver fox?"

"What? It's a compliment."

"It makes me sound old."

"You are old. You're like a hundred."

"Hundred and seven, actually. But who's counting?" He was grinning now, that crooked smile that was so familiar it made her chest ache. "And here I thought you had a thing for younger men."

"I have a thing for men who make me coffee and leave me flowers. Apparently, that spans multiple decades. Always figured dating older would be a good way to go. Never knew it would be an age difference of close to a century though."

His grin softened into something warmer. "Careful. Keep talking like that and I might get ideas."

"What kind of ideas?"

"The kind where I kiss you in this storage closet and really confuse the space-time continuum."

Her breath caught. For a moment, she forgot they were different people separated by eighty years. Forgot everything except the heat in his eyes and the way he was looking at her exactly the same way the younger him had looked at her yesterday. 

She took a breath. Closed her eyes for a second. 

Then reality crashed back in.

"We can't," she said, but her voice was unsteady.

"I know." He pushed off the wall, running a hand through his hair. The heat in his eyes had faded into something more nervous. "Sorry. That was…I shouldn't have said that."

"It's okay." And strangely, it was. "For what it’s worth, it just feels…I don’t know. I need to process this for a while. Knowing I’m going out with a guy born at the same time as my grandpa.” 

"Yeah. I get it." His smile was sad now. "You should go. Before I really do something stupid."

She nodded, but she didn't move immediately. There was still so much she wanted to ask. So much she needed to understand.

"I could tell him," she said suddenly. "The younger you. I could warn him. About the war, about HYDRA, about…about all of it. Change your future. Stop all this from happening."

His expression shuttered immediately. "No."

"But if I could—"

"You can't." His voice was firm now, brooking no argument. "Some things are fixed in time. My past—my future, from his perspective—it's one of those things. It has to happen the way it happened."

"Even the bad parts?"

"Especially the bad parts." He stepped closer, his eyes intense. "Because all of it—the war, HYDRA, the decades of trying to find myself again—all of it led me back to Steve. Here to Sam, to the Avengers. Back to you." His hand came up, hovering near her face before dropping back to his side. "You tell him, you change things, maybe I never find you again. Maybe this magic shit breaks and I lose the only good thing I've had in a century."

Her eyes burned, but she swallowed down the emotional fallout fromt the gravity of his statement. "That's not fair. You shouldn't have to suffer just so we can meet. I…I’ve known you for a week."

"Maybe not. But I'd do it anyway." His smile was gentle, resigned. "Some things are worth the price. Trust me on that one."

She pressed her hands over her temple, overwhelmed. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to go back there and pretend everything's normal when I know…when I know how it ends."

"You don't have to pretend." He carefully pulled her hands away from her face, his metal hand surprisingly gentle despite the fact she knew it tear people in half. "You just have to be honest. With him. With yourself. About what you want from the time you have left."

"What I want," she repeated hollowly. "What I want is for this to make sense. This is all so insane. And you’re telling me it’s going to end tomorrow?"

"I can't give you that." His thumbs brushed over her knuckles. "But I can tell you that what you build with him, even if it's temporary, it'll be real. And it carried me through the war. So, at least give him that."

She looked down at their joined hands. His flesh hand felt familiar, though old scars — pale, white with time — lined his skin. 

“Some things are worth it. Even when they hurt." He leaned forward slightly. "And because that kid back there? The one who made you coffee and left you a rose? He's falling for you so hard he can't see straight. And you're falling for him too. I can see it all over your face."

She felt blood rush to her cheeks. Clearing her throat awkwardly, she hoped he didn’t notice. "You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do. Because I lived it." His smile was gentle now. His eyes flickered down to her lips. "I was him, remember? I know exactly what he's feeling. What you're feeling."

She hiccupped out something between a laugh and a sob. "You're not making this easier."

"I'm not trying to make it easier. I'm trying to be honest." He stood slowly, offering her both hands. Real flesh and black vibranium. "Come on. I should let you go before Sam comes looking for me."

She stared at his hand for a moment before taking it. The metal was surprisingly gentle as he pulled her to her feet.

She could see faint scars on his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. Could smell leather and something that might have been cigarette smoke. The same scent she had breathed in last night. 

He was real. All of this was real.

"One more thing," he said quietly. "Before you go."

"What?"

"Tonight. He's going to want to take you on that date. The one he promised you." His thumb brushed over her knuckles, just once. "If you do it, if you decide to see this through, don't hold back. Don't protect yourself. Just...let yourself feel it. All of it. He deserves that. You both do."

Her throat felt tight. What could she even say to that? To any of this? "Okay."

He opened the door carefully, checking that the hallway was clear. She could hear voices from the conference room. Sam, her interviewer, someone else.

"For what it's worth," Bucky said quietly, not looking at her, "he's going to fall in love with you. If he hasn't already. Just thought you should know."

He was gone before she could respond. Striding down the hallway with his hands in his pockets, leaving her standing alone in the doorway of a storage closet with heart a wreck and her entire understanding of reality in pieces at her feet.

____

She sat pressed against the window of the subway, watching Brooklyn slide by in flashes of brick and graffiti and autumn light, her mind unable to settle on any single thought for more than a few seconds.

Time paradox. 1943. He's going to fall in love with you. Every single time.

Her phone buzzed. Fiona asking how the interview went. She stared at the text for a long moment before typing back a simple ‘Good. tell you later’ and shoving the phone back in her bag.

How was she supposed to explain this? How was she supposed to go back to that apartment and look him in the eye knowing what she knew?

But she'd made her choice.

She was going back.

Back to him.

By the time she climbed the stairs to the apartment, her heart was hammering against her ribs. She stood outside the door for a moment, key in hand, trying to steady her breathing.

Just be normal. Just be you.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Bucky was standing in the kitchen, and the sight of him—younger and whole, grinning at her like she'd just made his entire day—hit her like a physical blow.

"There she is!" He moved toward her immediately, practically bouncing on his heels. She could see he'd put effort into his appearance. His hair was freshly combed, his shirt pressed, suspenders perfectly aligned. "How'd it go? Did you knock 'em dead or what?"

"I—" Her voice caught. She forced a smile, blinking back the burning sensation behind her eyes. "Yeah. I think it went really well, actually."

"That's my girl." He stopped just in front of her, close enough that she could smell his cologne. That same sandalwood and something crisp she'd come to associate with him. "I'm proud of you, doll. Really."

The sincerity in his voice made her chest ache. She wanted to throw her arms around him and never let go. Wanted to tell him everything about the older version of himself she'd just met, about the loop, about the future waiting for him.

But she couldn't.

"Thank you," she managed.

"Now come on, get changed into something nice. I've got reservations at this place in Manhattan. Real classy joint. They've got a band and everything." His excitement was palpable, boyish, so full of life it made her want to cry. "I want to take you out properly. Show you off."

And that's when it hit her.

If they left the apartment, he'd be back in 1943. And she'd be here.

They'd be in different times, different worlds, unable to see or touch each other even if they were standing side by side.

"Wait—" The word came out too sharp. She saw his expression shift from excitement to concern.

"What's wrong?"

"I just—" She set down her bag, mind racing. "Can we stay here instead?"

He blinked. "Here?"

"Yeah. We could cook something together. Like we did before." The words were tumbling out faster now, desperate. "And we could dance. You said you wanted to dance with me, right? We could put on more records and just—stay in. Together."

"Doll, I want to take you out. A real date. You deserve more than—"

"I don't want to go out." She stepped closer, reaching for his hands. Her voice came out fiercer than she'd intended, and she winced. "Bucky, I want to be here. Alone with you. Just us, no crowds, no distractions. I want—" 

Her voice softened, became more honest than she'd intended. "I want to exist in this space with you. This apartment. Where it's just you and me and nothing else matters. Can we do that? Please?"

He searched her face for a moment, confusion giving way to something warmer. Something tender. "You really want to stay in?"

"I really do."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Well, when you put it like that, how can I say no?" He squeezed her hands. "Let me at least make it nice, though. A proper dinner. Candlelight and everything."

Relief flooded through her so intensely she felt dizzy. "That sounds perfect."

"Yeah?" He pulled her closer, and she let herself sink into him for just a moment, breathing him in. "You sure you're okay? You seem a little..."

"I'm fine." She pulled back, forcing brightness into her voice. "Just tired. It's been a long day. Let me change into something comfortable and I'll help you cook."

"Take your time. I'll get started."

She disappeared into her bedroom and closed the door, leaning against it with her eyes shut. Her hands were shaking.

Get it together. You have tonight. Just tonight. Make it count.

She changed out of her interview clothes into a simple dress. Soft, fitted, the kind of thing that felt effortless but still made her feel pretty. When she emerged, Bucky's eyes went wide.

"Jesus," he breathed. "You look—"

"Don't." She crossed to the kitchen, fighting a blush. "It's just a dress. No need to get excited."

"It's not just anything." But he let it drop, turning his attention to the ingredients spread across the counter. "I'm thinking we do it right this time. Maybe some steaks? I saw you had potatoes. We could do those herb ones you mentioned."

"Sounds prefect."

They fell into an easy rhythm while they cooked, their bodies moving around each other in the small kitchen like a choreographed dance. He kept making her laugh with stories about the garage, about his friend Steve who was "a scrawny pain in the ass but loyal as they come."

"He sounds like a good friend," she said, and her chest tightened at the mention of his friend. The first Captain America. And he had a crush on her cousin’s grandmother. If she had paid him any mind, would he have joined the Army? Became a superhero? 

"The best." Bucky grinned. "Though don't tell him I said that. His head's big enough as it is. I'll introduce you to him soon. He’ll love you."

She smiled despite herself, letting the normalcy of it wash over her, even as guilt crept in at the edges.

When dinner was ready, he insisted on plating it properly, even going so far as to light the candles he'd dug out from somewhere. They ate at the small table, knees bumping underneath, and she tried to memorize everything. The way candlelight caught in his hair. The way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room. The way he laughed, open and unguarded.

His older self had seemed so different. So much more guarded, jaded. His eyes alone looked like they carried a century of weight. And this young man in front of her hadn't even enlisted yet. Hadn't lost a limb, been turned into a weapon and had his memories locked away with him.

And yet, she realized she felt the same way looking at his older self as she did the man in front of her. Joy. A sense of belonging. The beginnings of something much deeper.

She swallowed a bite of steak that suddenly felt too dry and took a far larger sip of wine than she needed.

"Can I ask you something?" he said as they were finishing up.

"Anything."

"What do you want? Like, really want. Five years from now, ten years from now. What's the dream?"

She set down her fork, considering. "I want to be good at what I do. I want to matter. I want—" She paused. "I want to build something that lasts. Something real."

"You will." There was no doubt in his voice. "I can see it. You're going places, doll. Big places."

"What about you?" She forced herself to ask even though she wasn't sure she could handle the answer. "What do you want?"

His expression grew more serious. "Honestly? I want to enlist."

Her heart stopped. "Enlist."

"Yeah. In the Army." He leaned back in his chair, and there was something determined in his eyes. Something noble and foolish and so achingly young. "The war's getting worse every day. We're gonna need all hands on deck soon. And I want…I need to do my part. Can't just sit here while other guys are over there fighting."

"Bucky—" She didn't know what to say. Couldn't tell him not to go, that if he did he would lose his arm, his mind, and decades of his life.  

"I know it's dangerous," he continued, misreading her silence as worry. "I know there's a chance I won't come back. But it's the right thing to do. And besides—" His smile turned playful, but there was something underneath it. Something scared, despite his bravado. "I'm pretty tough. I'll be fine."

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't look at him without seeing the older version, the metal arm, the weight of all those years crushing down on him.

"Let's not talk about the war," she said abruptly, her voice coming out sharper than she'd intended. "Not tonight. Tonight, let's just…let's dance. You promised me a dance."

He studied her for a moment, something curious flickering across his face, but then he nodded slowly. The grin returned. "Okay. Yeah. Dancing. I can do that."

He stood and crossed to the record player, selecting something slow and jazzy. When he turned back, he held out his hand with a small bow. "May I have this dance, my lady?"

She took it without hesitation.

He pulled her close, closer than before, and they began to sway. His hand was warm on her lower back, solid and sure. She rested her head against his shoulder and let herself just feel.

"This okay?" he murmured against her hair.

"Perfect."

They moved together in the small space, the music washing over them, and she felt something in her chest crack open. This was it. This moment. This was what the older Bucky had remembered for eighty years.

Strange, to think that what he knew of his past was her future. Strange that any of this was happening at all. That she was dancing in her apartment with a man from the 1940s.

"I have to go back tomorrow," he said quietly. "Back home."

She went still against him. "What?"

"My time. I've been here almost a week. I need to get back before—" He paused, and she felt him tense slightly. "Before things get complicated at home."

He doesn't know. He doesn't understand what leaving means.

"Bucky—"

"But I'll come back," he said quickly, pulling back to look at her. "I’ll visit you before I go. I'll write to you. And when I'm on leave, I'll come straight here. I promise."

She felt tears burning at the corners of her eyes. "You promise?"

She didn't know why she asked that. Maybe she just wanted to know how he felt about her. About them.

"Cross my heart." His thumb brushed her cheek, and his brow furrowed when he felt the wetness there. "Hey, what's wrong? Talk to me."

"I just—" Her voice broke. "I don't want this to end."

"It doesn't have to end. It's just—it's a pause. That's all." His smile was gentle, reassuring, so full of hope it made her want to scream. "And when I enlist, when I go overseas, you'll wait for me, right? Write to me? Be here when I get back?"

The lie tasted like ash on her tongue. "Yes. I'll wait."

"Good." He leaned his forehead against hers. "Because you're—Christ, you're everything. You know that? In just a few days, you've become so much to me."

And then he was kissing her.

Not gentle like before. Not tentative. This was urgent and desperate and full of all the things he couldn't say.

She kissed him back just as fiercely, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. She hoped her kiss, her energy, was full of all the things she couldn’t say as well. 

He walked her backward until her back hit the wall, his mouth never leaving hers. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her hair, sliding up her sides—and she couldn't get enough.

"Bucky—" She gasped against his lips. "Wait."

He pulled back immediately, breathing hard. "Too much?"

"No. Not enough." She met his eyes, her decision made. Because, fuck it. She might as well commit to the end, if this was the final day. "Come to bed with me. Stay with me tonight."

His eyes went wide. "Doll, I…are you sure?"

"I'm sure." She took his hand, pressing it against her racing heart. "I want this. I want you. All of you. Tonight."

He searched her face, and she saw the exact moment he stopped questioning it. Stopped holding back.

"Okay," he said roughly. "Yeah. Okay."

She led him to her bedroom, her heart pounding so hard she could barely breathe. When they crossed the threshold, he stopped, looking around at her space with something like wonder.

"This is where you sleep," he said softly.

"Good observation.."

"It's—" He turned back to her, and the look in his eyes made her knees weak. "It's perfect. You're perfect."

She reached for him, pulling him down into another kiss. He came willingly, eagerly, his hands finding the zipper of her dress.

"Can I?" he murmured against her mouth.

"Please."

What followed was slow and sweet and achingly intimate. He took his time learning her—every sound she made, every place that made her gasp, every way he could make her come undone. And when they finally came together, when he buried his face in her neck and groaned her name like a prayer, she felt something fundamental shift inside her.

This was it.

This was what the older Bucky had been talking about. This connection. This rightness.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her shoulder.

"Stay," she whispered. "All night. Don't leave."

"Wasn't planning on it." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "I'm right where I want to be."

She closed her eyes, committing every detail to memory. The warmth of his skin. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The weight of his arm around her.

Because tomorrow, he'd be gone.

And she'd be left with nothing but memories and the ghost of a man who'd loved her across time itself.

But tonight he was here. And that would have to be enough.

—-

She woke to the sound of movement in the kitchen.

For a blissful, sleep-fogged moment, she didn't remember anything. Just registered lingering warmth beside her, dawn streaming through the curtains, and the smell of coffee drifting through the apartment.

Then it all came crashing back.

He's leaving today.

She sat up slowly, the sheet pooling around her waist, and looked at the empty space beside her where he'd been. The pillow still held the indent of his head. She pressed her hand against it, feeling the lingering warmth.

This whole thing is so fucked.

"Morning, beautiful."

She looked up to find him standing in the doorway, fully dressed, two mugs of coffee in his hands. His hair was perfectly slicked back again, his smile bright and easy, like last night had been the best night of his life.

It probably had been.

The contrast between his happiness and the weight crushing her chest was almost unbearable.

"Hi," she managed, accepting the coffee he handed her.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his free hand finding her knee through the sheet. "Sleep okay?"

"Yeah." The lie came easily. She'd barely slept at all, too busy memorizing the feel of him beside her, the sound of his breathing, the way he'd held her like she was something precious.

"Good." He leaned in and kissed her softly, and she tasted coffee and something sweet. "Because I wore you out pretty good last night."

Despite everything, she felt her face heat. "Confident, aren't we?"

"Just stating facts, doll." His grin was smug. "You made some very enthusiastic noises."

"Oh my God." She buried her face in her free hand. "You're the worst."

"And yet, here we are." He tugged her hand away, his expression softening. "Last night ws amazing, by the way. In case you were wondering."

Her throat felt tight. "I know. I was thinking the same."

They sat there for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on her knee, her trying desperately to memorize every detail of his face in the morning light.

"I have to go soon," he said finally, and she heard the reluctance in his voice. "Need to head home. See my Ma, my sister."

Her stomach dropped. "Right. Of course."

"But I'll come back. As soon as I get the enlistment paperwork handled." He squeezed her knee. "And I'll be back on leave before you know it. We can do this again. All of it."

"Bucky—"

"I know." He stood, pulling her up with him and into his arms. "I know it's hard. But this isn't goodbye, okay? It's just...temporary. I promise."

She pressed her face into his chest, breathing him in one last time. Sandalwood and coffee and something uniquely him. "Okay."

"Hey." He tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You gonna be alright?"

"Yeah." Another lie. "I'll be fine."

"That's my girl." He kissed her again, slower this time, tender and sweet. When he pulled back, his eyes were soft. "Thank you. For everything. For letting me stay. For giving me this week. For—" His voice roughened. "For last night. For you."

"Bucky, I—" The words caught in her throat. I love you. Don't go. Stay with me. Please.

"I know," he said, like he could read her mind. "Me too."

He kissed her forehead, then stepped back. "I'll see you soon, doll. I promise."

And then he was grabbing his jacket from the chair, flashing her one last grin, and heading for the door.

She followed him on shaking legs, the sheet wrapped around her like armor.

He paused in the doorway, hand on the knob, and looked back at her one more time. "Wait for me?"

"I'll wait," she whispered.

His smile could have lit up the city. "Good."

And then he was gone.

She stood there, staring at the closed door, her heart hammering in her chest. Any second now, she'd hear his footsteps in the hallway. Hear him descending the stairs. Hear him leaving.

But there was only silence.

She made it three steps back toward the bedroom before her legs gave out.

She sank onto the couch, the sheet tangling around her, and finally let herself break.

The sob that escaped her was raw and ugly, torn from somewhere deep in her chest. She pressed her hands over her mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but it was useless. Tears streamed down her face, hot and unrelenting, and she couldn't stop them.

He was gone.

Really, truly gone. Back to 1943, to a war that would destroy him, to a future full of pain and loss and horrors she couldn't prevent.

And she'd let him go.

You had to. You didn't have a choice.

But that didn't make it hurt any less.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and let herself cry. For him. For them. For the impossible, beautiful thing they'd had for less than a week.

She loved him.

The realization hit her like a freight train, stealing what little breath she had left.

She was in love with Bucky Barnes. A man from 1943. A man she'd never see again.

No.

The thought came suddenly, fiercely.

No. I'm not letting him walk into that alone. I'm not letting him go without telling him. Without trying.

She scrambled off the couch, nearly tripping over the sheet. She didn't bother getting dressed, just ran for the door in nothing but her underwear and the sheet clutched around her.

She threw the door open and burst into the hallway—

And stopped.

The hallway was empty. Completely empty.

"No. No, no, no—" She ran down the hallway anyway, desperate, irrational. "Bucky!”

Her voice echoed off the walls, but there was no answer. No one emerged from their apartments to see what the commotion was. The building felt eerily still, like she was the only person in it. In New York, no one would bother to come out to hear any sort of commotion. 

She made it to the stairwell and looked down, but she already knew. Already understood.

He was gone. Not just down the stairs but back to 1943, to a world she couldn't follow him to.

"Fuck!" She slammed her hand against the wall, pain radiating up her arm. "FUCK!"

She'd been so stupid. So cowardly. She should have told him. Should have said the words while she still had the chance.

I'm falling in love with you. Don't go.

But she hadn't. And now it was too late.

She turned back toward her apartment, furious with herself, embarrassed by her own desperation. Running after him half-naked like some lovesick idiot. What had she been thinking? What kind of stupid plan did she think she had? Stay in the apartment with me for the rest of your life and don’t leave? Don’t enlist and come find me when you’re a hundred years old instead? 

She was almost to her door when a voice called out behind her.

"That’s a good look on you, but maybe we can just keep that one for behind closed doors."

She whirled around.

Bucky stood at the end of the hallway, hands in his pockets, expression carefully neutral. The older Bucky. He was wearing the same leather jacket from yesterday, the same dark jeans. His short hair was slightly disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it.

For a moment, she just stared at him.

Then something inside her snapped.

"You!" She marched toward him, sheet trailing behind her like a cape, fury and grief and love all tangled up inside her. "This is your fault!"

Bucky raised an eyebrow, looking far too amused for someone about to get yelled at. His eyes trailed down her figure appreciatively. "Tell me how it's my fault. Can't say I won't agree with whatever you say based on that current attire though."

"Cut the shit." Her voice rose into something between a snarl and a sob. "You—you told me not to tell him, you told me to let him go, and I did, and now he's gone and I didn't—I couldn't—"

Her voice broke, and she hated herself for it. Hated that she was standing here in a hallway in her underwear, crying over a man who'd left eighty years ago.

Bucky's amusement faded, replaced by something gentler. He didn't move toward her, just stood there letting her spiral.

"I let him walk away," she continued, her voice raw. "I let him walk straight into that future. Into the war and HYDRA and all of it. And I didn't say…I didn't tell him—"

"That you love him?" Bucky's voice was quiet.

She stopped, the words hitting her like a slap. "I—"

"It's okay." He took a step closer. "I know. I remember."

"You remember?" She laughed bitterly, swiping at her face. "Of course you do. You remember everything. This is your past. You should have told me about this yesterday. Before I capitalized on the 'biggest idiot of the year' award."

"You're not an idiot." His voice was firm. "You did exactly what you were supposed to do."

"I should have stopped him." Fresh tears spilled over. "I should have told him not to enlist. Should have locked the door and never let him leave."

"You couldn't have." He stepped closer, his expression serious now. "Even if you'd tried, he would have found a way. Some things are fixed, remember? My path was always going to lead where it led."

"That's not fair."

"No," he agreed. "It's not."

They stood there in the hallway, and she felt the fight drain out of her, leaving only exhaustion and grief in its wake.

"Why are you here?" she asked finally, her voice small.

"Because I knew what was going to happen," he said, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. Something almost sheepish. "And I couldn't help myself. Told you it was just temporary, didn't I?"

Her breath caught. "What?"

"I knew." He pulled his hands from his pockets. "The second I saw you in that conference room yesterday, I knew. I remembered. This day. This moment." His smile turned sad. "I've lived this before. Just from the other side."

He looked almost guilty. "I just didn’t know that when I came back here to see you again, a few days later, it was like you never existed at all. And now, you do. And I kept on waiting, hoping I’d run into you one day again when you’d remember me."

"Why?" The word came out broken, loose. "Why would you do that to yourself? Why would you—"

"Because eighty years is a long time to miss someone," he said quietly. "And I'm tired of missing you."

The words hit her like a physical blow. She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to breathe through the ache.

"I'm not him," Bucky continued, taking another careful step closer. "I know that. I'm older. I've got more baggage than anyone should have to carry. I've done things I'm not proud of, seen things I can't unsee." He gestured at himself almost helplessly. "I'm not the kid who charmed you with old-fashioned manners. I'm—"

"You're still him," she interrupted, her voice shaking. "You're just...further down the line."

"Yeah." His expression softened. "I am. Same terrible jokes. Same inability to work modern technology." His mouth quirked. "Same guy who falls for you every single time, no matter what decade it is."

She let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "This is insane."

"I know."

"You're a hundred years old."

"Hundred and seven, actually, remember?"

"And you're telling me you've been carrying this, carrying me, for eighty years?"

"Give or take." He took another step closer, close enough now that she could feel his warmth, see the years in his eyes. "Look, I know this is a lot. I know I'm asking for something that doesn't make any sense. But I came back because—" 

He stopped, jaw working. "Because I love you. Still. Always. And if there's any part of you that could see past the years and the scars and all the ways I'm different—"

"Stop." She held up a hand, and he went silent immediately. "Just—give me a second."

He waited, patient and tense all at once, while she tried to organize her thoughts.

She looked at him quietly. The older face, the harder edges, the weight he carried in his shoulders. He wasn't the boy who'd left this morning. Wasn't the one who'd held her last night with such earnest sweetness.

But when she looked in his eyes, she saw him. The same blue. The same warmth. The same person underneath all those years.

"So let me get this straight," she said finally, wiping her face with the edge of the sheet. "You're a hundred and seven years old?"

He blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. "Uh. Yeah."

"And you want to date me? A twenty-two-year-old?"

"I—when you put it like that—"

"Because I have to tell you, Barnes." She crossed her arms, fighting the smile tugging at her lips despite everything. "That age gap is kind of concerning. What are we going to talk about? Your war stories? How much better music was in the forties?"

Understanding dawned on his face, followed by a slow, cautious smile. "Are you seriously giving me shit right now?"

"I'm just saying. You're practically ancient. Do you even know how to work a smartphone? Can you stay up past nine o'clock?" She pretended to study him critically. "Should I be worried about your hips?"

"My hips are fine, thank you very much. I’d love to show you."

"What about your back? All that heavy lifting as an Avenger probably did a number—"

"My back is also fine. Super soldier serum does wonders." He was fully grinning now, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Anything else you want to mock me for?"

"Give me time. I'm sure I'll think of something." She paused, her smile softening. "Though I suppose I could be persuaded to overlook the age thing. If you ask nicely."

The hope that bloomed on his face was almost painful to witness. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She took a step toward him, then another. "You're still you. Different, but the same. And I—" Her voice caught. "God, this whole thing is crazy, but I think I love you too. Both versions. All versions. I don't know how that's possible, but—"

She didn't get to finish.

He closed the distance between them and kissed her.

It was different from how the younger Bucky had kissed her. Less exploratory, more certain. Like a man who'd been waiting a lifetime for this moment and wasn't going to waste a second of it.

But underneath the differences, it was still him. The same warmth, the same tenderness, the same feeling of rightness that made her chest ache.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she found herself laughing despite the tears still on her cheeks.

"What?" he asked, his forehead resting against hers.

"Nothing. Just—" She shook her head. "You're a little rustier than you were eighty years ago."

He pulled back, mock-offended. "Rustier?"

"I'm just saying. The younger version of you was pretty smooth. Very confident. This was a little—"

"A little what?" He was trying not to smile.

"Tentative?" She grinned up at him. "Like you forgot how to kiss somewhere between 1943 and now."

"Oh, that's how we're playing this?" His hands settled on her waist, pulling her closer. "You want to compare me to my younger self?"

"I mean, I have a pretty good reference point. Last night was very memorable."

"Christ." He dropped his head to her shoulder with a groan. "You're going to be the death of me."

"Probably. But you waited eighty years for me, so you must think I'm worth it."

"I do." His voice was muffled against her shoulder. "Even when you're being a pain in my ass."

"Especially when I'm being a pain in your ass."

He lifted his head, and the look in his eyes made her breath catch. "For the record? The rust is because I waited. There was never anyone else. Just you. Every version of you. So yeah, maybe I need some practice. But I'm a quick learner. Especially if you're willing to help me brush up."

Her throat felt tight. "You really waited?"

"Every day." His thumb brushed her cheek. "And I'd do it again."

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him again, softer this time. A promise.

"Come inside," she whispered against his lips. "Please."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure." She pulled back and tugged the sheet more securely around herself. "Though I should probably put on actual clothes first."

"Don't do it on my account." The teasing was back in his voice, and it made something in her chest settle. "I'm enjoying the view."

She swatted his arm. "Behave. You're a hundred years old. Have some decorum."

"Never with you." But he followed her inside, and when she closed the door behind them, she felt something shift. Something settle.

This wasn't the ending she'd expected.

But maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning she needed.