Archive of Our Own

You don't even make it past the living room when you're pulling out your phone and calling your best friend. It only rings twice when she's picking up and you practically yell at the phone. "He asked me out!"

Natalie, completely oblivious remains silent for a second before muttering. "The hot townie that spilled coffee on you? The one who walked you home?"

"I never called him hot townie, that was all you…"

"But you never said I was wrong," she interrupts you. "Well thank god, it was about damn time you put yourself back in he market again. And we didn't need to create you a dating app profile!"

That earned a small smile on your lips but then you shook your head. "First of all, getting into a dating app in a small town would be one of the worst ideas you've ever had. Second of all, I'm panicking, Natalie. Panicking"

"But I thought you did want him to ask you out. Am I wrong? You wouldn't shut yourself about him and his eyes, and the way he talked to you. You were drunk rambling about him in New Year going on and above his muscles and—"

"I did not!" You interrupt her, feeling the heat rushing to your cheeks.

"Oh, you absolutely did," Natalie says, smug. "You said—and I quote—'I bet he smells really good, like leather and pine and something unfair'."

"That is not even something I would admit out loud," you groan, dropping onto the couch and covering your face with one hand. "Okay but—what if I'm not ready?"

Natalie's tone softens immediately. "Ready how?"

You stare at the ceiling, chewing on your bottom lip. "Ready for… anything. I don't know the rules anymore. I don't know what people expect. What if he wants something I can't give? Or worse—what if I want something and then freak out and ruin it?"

There's a minute of silence. Then Natalie says carefully, "You mean… something like sex?"

You sit straight up. "YES. Oh my god, yes."

She bursts out laughing. "Oh wow, we got there fast."

"No, because think about it!" you ramble. "What if he asks me out for coffee and then suddenly it's dinner and then suddenly it's late and then suddenly I'm in his house and I'm like—what do people even do now? Is there a timeline? Is there a signal? What if I misread it and I go home alone with a croissant and emotional whiplash."

"You're catastrophizing," she says, still amused.

"And what if he's not ready?" you continue, ignoring her. "He said that he was just figuring things out. What if he's just being nice? What if I'm projecting?"

Natalie hums. "You did say he looked at you like he was… careful with you."

"Do not quote me."

"I'm not," she says gently. "I'm just saying—you noticed he paid attention. That's not nothing."

You let our a slow breath, fingers tightening around your phone. "That doesn't mean anything."

"It doesn't mean everything either," Natalie replies. "But it means he wasn't just being polite. And it means you weren't imagining it."

There's no teasing in her voice now, just quiet certainty. The kind she only uses when she knows you're close to bolting. You groan and collapse back onto the couch. "I hate you for knowing me so well."

"No, you don't. Listen." Her voice turns gentle. "You're both new. You're both outsiders. You're not broken for being scared. And coffee is just coffee. No one is forcing you to jump into bed, fall in love, or unpack your divorce papers on the table.

"…I would never," you mutter. "Maybe".

She smiles through the phone. You can hear it. "Go. Have coffee. Let it be awkward. Oh, and for the record? If he does want to have sex eventually—good. You deserve to want things again."

You swallow, heart thudding a little louder this time.

"…Okay," you repeat, softer. "I will call you on Tuesday so you can help me pick what I'll wear."

Bucky clears his throat before speaking, bracing himself for the impact when he finally speaks.

"So… how does dating work now?"

Sam doesn't even stop walking. "Nope."

"What do you mean 'no'?"

"I mean, I'm not answering that unless you tell me who this is about," Sam says, far too pleased with himself.

Bucky sighs. "The woman that lives past the docks, Sarah's new friend."

Sam grins. "Knew it."

Bucky shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. "I don't want to repeat whatever happened the last time I tried to go to a date."

"Good," Sam says. "Look, man. I help vets get back into the world all the time. You know the pattern?"

Bucky glances at him. "What pattern?"

"Y'all overthink," Sam says. "You either avoid everything or you treat one simple thing like it's a life altering commitment."

"I'm not doing that."

"You just asked me how dating works," Sam points out.

"…Fair."

"Here's the deal. You talk about normal stuff. You let her talk. And if it gets awkward?"

"I leave?"

"No," Sam replies. "You breathe. You let it be awkward. That's how people figure each other out."

Bucky considers that. "And if she thinks I'm weird?"

Sam shrugs. "Then congratulations—you're a person."

Bucky lets out a quiet huff of a laugh. "I don't remember it being this complicated."

"That's because last time you dated, people didn't text," Sam says. "But here's the good part—you don't have to be great at it. You just have to be honest and kind. Most people are just trying not to mess it up."

Bucky nods slowly, absorbing it.

"And," Sam adds, pointing at him, "you're not doing this because someone told you to, or because you feel guilty. You asked her out because you liked her." Bucky's jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue. "That matters, it changes the whole thing."

"You're weirdly good at this."

Sam grins. "I know. I literally do this for a living."

Bucky shakes his head, a faint smile pulling at his mouth. "Okay," he says. "I think I got this."

You stop just outside the library doors, one hand still on the strap of your bag. The glass reflects you back at yourself, warped slightly by the afternoon light, and you tilt your head, scrutinizing. Was it too much?

You'd changed twice already. Settled on this because it felt… safe. Not trying too hard. Not hiding either. But now, standing still long enough to think about it, doubt creeps in anyway. You smooth down your sleeves. Too neat? Too intentional? What if he shows up in a hoodie and looks at you like you misunderstood the assignment?

You exhale slowly, grounding yourself. It's just coffee. Natalie's voice echoes in your head. No one is asking you to reinvent yourself.

"Okay," you murmur, mostly to yourself. "You're fine."

"Hey."

You flinch slightly and turn. Sarah stands a few steps away, keys in hand, smiling at you in that easy open way she has. She looks you over—not critically, just enough to notice. "You look really nice," she says. "Are you trying to charm the elders into giving up their bingo winning or something?"

You blink, then laugh, tension easing out of your shoulders. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only a little," she says, smiling. "You're usually more… cozy-coded."

You glance back at your reflection. "Well… I was going for casual. But not too casual. Which I think I may have missed."

Sarah tilts her head, considering you again—this time with warmth instead of scrutiny. "You look nice. Whoever you're meeting is lucky."

Something soft settles in your chest at that. "Thank you."

While you work in the library shelving books, your nerves gradually ease, but once the closing time approaches, a knot tightens in your stomach.

As you head toward the exit, you catch your reflection one last time.

Still a little nervous.

You step outside, bag over your shoulder, coat pulled tight against the cold. For a split second, you pause—like you're bracing yourself—and then your eyes find him, holding a bouquet of flowers.

And you smile.

He takes one step towards you before he can overthink it. "Hey."

"Hey," you reply, a little breathless.

He clears his throat and offers you the flowers. "Uh. These are for you."

Your eyes drop to them, surprise flashing across your face. "Oh—Bucky. You didn't have to."

"I know," he says quickly. "I just— they were there. It's still winter. I thought—" He stops, exhales. "You don't have to take them if that's weird."

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you accept them. "No, it's not weird. It's actually… really nice." You bring them a little closer. "They're beautiful."

He nods, looking considerably relieved. "Yeah. They're called camellias. I think."

"You think?" you tease gently.

"I asked," he admits. "Once."

That earns him a smile—real, warm, easing the last of the tension.

The library window reflects the two of you for a moment: him, hands shoved into his jacket pockets; you, holding flowers you didn't expect, looking a little brighter than you did ten minutes ago.

"So," you say. "Coffee?"

He pulls open the main door of the building, holding it for you to walk out. "Right after you."

The town is quiet in that early-evening way. Bucky falls into step beside you easily as you leave the library behind, the flowers tucked carefully under your arm.

"I didn't think you'd be done this late," he says.

"It was inventory day," you reply. "Which means the community gets competitive about who's misplacing books on purpose."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "That sounds dangerous."

"Oh, it is," you say seriously. "Mrs. Klein nearly took me out with a cart."

As you pass the corner shop, he slows just a fraction. "You usually get the maple pecan latte. With oat milk."

You blink at him. "You remembered?"

Bucky shrugs, suddenly very interested in the street ahead. "Well… you order it every time."

"That doesn't mean people notice," you say, smiling.

"Well," he murmurs. "I noticed."

Once you're at the coffee shop, he holds the door open for you without thinking. You step inside, the warmth wrapping around you instantly. The familiar smell of coffee settles your nerves.

At the counter, before you can speak, he clears his throat and places the order for the both of you. While you wait, you stand shoulder to shoulder, close enough to feel the heat of him through your coat. Not touching. Not not touching either.

When he hands you your cup, your fingers brush just briefly.

You don't pull away right away. Neither does he.

The coffee shop is quieter than usual for a Wednesday evening. Most of the crowd has cleared out, leaving just the hum of the coffee machine and the low murmur of a couple in the corner. Bucky gestures to a small table by the window, and before you can reach for the chair, he's already pulling it out for you.

You pause.

It's such a small thing. Automatic, even. But your chest tightens anyway—not in a bad way. Just in a way that reminds you how long it's been since someone did something like this without expecting credit for it.

"Thank you," you say softly, sitting down.

He nods, sliding into the seat across from you, hands wrapping around his own cup. For a moment, neither of you speak. It's not uncomfortable, just… new. Like you're both trying to figure out where to start.

"So," he says finally, voice low. "How the bingo circuit treating you?"

You laugh—quiet, surprised. "Competitive. Ruthless, actually. Mrs. Chen accused Mr. Morel of cheating last week."

"Was he?"

"Absolutely." You grin. "But she still hasn't forgiven him."

Bucky's mouth quirks up at the corner, and something in your chest eases. He leans back slightly cradling his coffee. "You seem like you're settling in okay."

"Yeah," you say, and it's mostly true. "It's… different. Quieter than I'm used to. But in a good way, I think."

He nods slowly, like he understands more than you've said. You study him for a second—the way his shoulders carry tension even when he's sitting still, the careful way he chooses his words.

"Is that why you stayed?" you ask gently after a minute of silence.

"Yeah, I needed to figure out who I was when I wasn't—" He stops, jaw tightening briefly. "When I wasn't fighting anymore."

You nod, recognizing the weight of the unspoken pieces. "I get that," you say. "Needing to start over"

He watches you, waiting. Not pushing. Just… there.

You take a deep breath before continuing. "I was married," you say, and the words come out steadier than you expected. "For four years. It ended about nine months ago."

Bucky doesn't flinch. Doesn't fill the silence with questions or apologies. He just nods once, acknowledging it.

"Not in the best way," you add, softer now.

"I'm sorry," he says, and it doesn't sound like a platitude. It's like he really means it.

You wrap your hands tighter around your cup. "I thought I knew what I wanted. What my life was supposed to look like. And then… it all just fell apart." You glance up at him. "That's why I'm here. My aunt offered me her place. I need somewhere that didn't feel like—"

"A reminder," Bucky finishes quietly.

"Yeah."

The silence stretches, but it's not heavy. Just honest.

"Do you miss it?" he asks after a moment. "The city?"

You consider that. "I miss who I thought I was there. What my life was supposed to look like. But no, not really."

He nods slowly. "That makes sense."

"What about you?" you ask. "Do you miss… wherever you were before?"

Something crosses his face—too quick to name, but you catch it anyway.

"No," he says, firm but not harsh. "I spent a long time not having a choice about where I was. Being here… it's the first time in a while that I get to decide."

Your heart does something unfamiliar at that. Something warm.

The conversation shifts after that—lighter, easier. He asks about the library. You ask about the boat. He tells you about Sam's terrible taste in music while they work. You tell him about the time you accidentally shelved an entire cart in the wrong section and didn't realize until Mrs. Klein gave you a thirty-minute lecture on the Dewey Decimal System.

And when you laugh—really laugh, head tipping back, unguarded—you feel Bucky's gaze watching you like he's memorizing it.

By the time you step back outside, the sky has started to shift. The sun sits low on the horizon, washing everything in shades of amber and soft pink. Bucky falls into step beside you without discussion, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. The flowers are safely tucked under your arm.

For a while, neither of you speak. The town moves around you in that sleepy, end-of-day rhythm. A dog barks in the distance.

"You don't have to walk me home," you say eventually, though there's no real protest in your voice.

"I know," Bucky replies. "But I'm heading that way anyway."

You glance at him. "Are you?"

His mouth twitches. "I am now."

That pulls a smile out of you, soft and unguarded.

You pass the community center, its window dark for the evening. The docks come into view soon after, boats swaying gently against their moorings. The water catching the last of the daylight, turning it liquid gold.

Without planning to, you both slow.

"It's pretty," you say quietly, stopping near the edge of the dock.

Bucky stops beside you, gaze following yours out over the water. "Yeah," he murmurs. "It is."

But when you glance over, you catch him looking at you instead. Your breath catches, just slightly. He doesn't look away.

"I'm glad you said yes," he says, voice low. "To coffee."

You swallow, heart picking up speed. "Me too."

"I wasn't sure I could," you admit.

His brow furrows slightly, concern flickering across his face. "You don't have to—"

"No," you interrupt gently. "I mean… I wasn't sure I was ready. For this. For…" You gesture vaguely between the two of you. "Any of it".

Bucky nods slowly, understanding settling in his expression. "And now?"

You take a breath, watching the way the light plays across the water. "I think I want to try."

Something shift in his face. Relief, maybe. Or hope.

"I'm not…" He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "I'm not good at this. At dating. At being… normal."

"Normal's overrated," you say softly.

He huffs a quiet laugh. "Maybe."

You turn to face him fully now, and he does the same. The sunset paints him in warm light—softens the edges of him, the tension he carries.

"I don't need perfect, Bucky" you say. "We're just trying again."

The silence that follows isn't empty. It's full of things neither of you are saying yet. Full of the distance between you—less than two feet, but it feels like miles and inches all at once. You notice the way his gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then back up. The way he takes a small step closer, careful. Asking without words.

Your heart is pounding now. Not with fear, exactly. With anticipation. With the terrifying exhilarating feeling of standing on something new. Bucky closes the distance, slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind. His hand comes up, hesitating near your face before settling gently against your jaw. His touch is warm, careful.

When his lips meet yours, it's soft, tentative… and you freeze. It's not conscious, not a choice. Your body just stops. Bucky pulls back immediately, eyes searching your face. "I'm sorry—"

"No," you say quickly, breathless, embarrassed. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"Hey," his voice is gentle. His hand still on your face, thumb brushing your cheek once. "It's okay."

You shake your head, frustration welling up—not at him, at yourself. "I wanted to. I want to, it's just—"

"I know," he says quietly. "It's the first time in a long time I've kissed anyone too. And I mean a long time. Decades, actually."

You blink at that, processing. "Decades?"

"Long story, but I'm rusty. And probably terrified I'm doing this wrong."

Something in your chest loosens at that. At his honesty. At the reminder that you're not alone in this—in being scared, in being new at this all over again.

"Can we…" You take a deep breath. "Can we try again?"

He nods. This time you're the one who leans in first. You move slowly, deliberately, closing the space between you. Your hand finds his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your palm—too fast, mirroring yours.

When your lips meet his this time, you're ready. It's still not perfect. Your noses bump slightly. You have to adjust the angle, but it's better. Softer. His other hand comes up to cradle your face, and you let yourself lean into him.

When you finally pull back, you're both breathing a little harder. "Better?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips. "Better."

He smiles too, and something in your chest unfolds… something that's been locked up tight for eight months, maybe longer. Because standing there, with the sunset painting everything gold, with Bucky looking at you like you're something precious and not something broken—you think maybe this is what beginning again feels like.

You don't let go of each other right away. His hand slides down to yours, fingers threading together carefully. You squeeze once, and he mirrors your gesture. The walk to your door is quiet, but it's the comfortable kind now.

Once you reach your porch, you turn to face him, reluctant to let the evening end.

"So… Same time next week?" you ask.

His smile widens just a fraction. "I'd really like that."

You nod, biting your lip to keep from grinning too wide. He's still holding your hand, but neither of you moves. "I should…" You gesture vaguely at the door.

"Right, yeah…" But he doesn't step back yet.

You make the decision for both of you, leaning up on your toes and pressing a quick, soft kiss to his cheek. When you pull back, his eyes are wide, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

"Goodnight, Bucky," you say softly before slipping inside.

Only if you would've looked back, you would've saw him raising his hand to touch his cheek where you kissed him.

Once you're safely tucked in bed, you pull out your phone, lips still buzzing from the kiss. For a second, you just sit there, trying to organize your thoughts into something coherent. Then you give up and just type:

You: we kissed.

The response is almost immediate.

Natalie: WHAT.

WAIT.

EXPLAIN WITH DETAILS NOW.

WAIT, WHY ARE YOU TEXTING ME THIS? CALL ME NOW. FACE TIME ME! I NEED TO SEE YOUR FACE.

You can't help but smile, curling up against one of your throw pillows before answering her request. Flush creeping off your cheeks as you see how whipped you look.

"Oh my god, there she is!" Natalie greets, a wide grin showing at the screen. "Tell me everything, now."

You resume your date, from the flowers, the whole gentleman kind of old fashioned behavior, the conversation, the walk on the sunset and of course… the kiss. Natalie squeals out of emotion and starts cheering you up.

"Wait wait… are you telling me you're not freaking out right now? How on earth?"

You pause at that, checking it with yourself. Waiting for the panic, the guilt, the voice that says you're moving too fast or making a mistake. But it doesn't come. "Well… I don't know. I kind of felt like I couldn't breathe at one point, but, everything seems fine now"

"So when are you seeing him again? You said next week?"

"Girl, what are you waiting for? Text him!"

"I don't— god, I forgot to ask his number. But it's okay… I mean, it's a small town, we keep running into each other, is not like he'd able to ghost me, even if he wanted to."

Natalie hums in agreement. "Okay, and then if he ghosts you, I will come personally and kick his ass, but I don't think he would do that. He sounds nice. And I'm really happy for you, babe. You deserve this, after all the things you went through with dipshit Noah."

Your heart tightens at the mention of Noah, but this time doesn't sink the way it used to. The ache is there, faint and distant, like a bruise you only notice when you press on it.

"It's weird," you admit quietly. "Talking about it today didn't… wreck me like it used to. I didn't even go into details. I didn't need to. He didn't push, he just listened."

"Green flag behavior. We love to see it. I'm definitely team Bucky now."

You huff out a small laugh. "Don't jinx it."

"I'm not jinxing it," Natalie says. "I'm manifesting responsibly."

The call ends not long after, Natalie promising—threatening, really—to demand updates the moment you have them. Once the screen goes dark, the room feels quieter, softer. Your lips tingle again at the memory of the kiss.

You smile into your pillow when you read a last text from Natalie.

Sweet dreams. I hope you dream about your man! Love you.

You tell yourself you're just going for a walk. That's it, just a walk. Because it's a nice day—cold, but sunny— and you have the day off and there's no reason to stay cooped up inside.

The fact that your walk happens to take you past the docks is purely coincidental. Obviously.

You spot the boat first—the one you've been watching change slowly over the past months. It looks different today. More of the hull has been sanded smooth, and there's fresh wood where rotted planks used to be. Then you hear voices.

"—if you sand against the grain one more time"

"I know, I know." That's Bucky's voice, slightly exasperated, but amused. "You already told me six times."

You slow your steps, not wanting to interrupt but not quite ready to leave either. Sam notices you first. He's standing on the dock, hands on his hips, supervising Bucky while he works on the boat itself. When he spots you, his face breaks into a knowing grin.

"Well, well," he says, loud enough that Bucky's head snaps up. "Look what the wind brought."

Bucky straightens, and even from a distance you can see the way his expression shifts—surprise, then something softer.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," you reply, suddenly very aware of your hands and what to do with them. You settle for tucking them into your coat pockets. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You're not," Bucky says quickly, at the same time Sam says, "You absolutely are, but we don't mind."

Bucky shoots him a look.

Sam just grins wider. "Actually, I just remembered— I gotta go pick up AJ and Cass from school." He checks his watch theatrically. "Yep, running late. You good here, Buck?"

"Sam—"

"Great, you're good." Sam's already walking backward down the dock, still grinning. "Nice seeing you!" he calls to you. "You two kids have fun!"

"Subtle," Bucky mutters as Sam disappears around the corner. Then, he climbs out of the boat, wiping his hands on his jeans. There's sawdust in his hair, on his clothes. He looks at you. "Day off?"

You nod. "Thought I'd take a walk. Clear my head."

"How's that going?"

"Better now," you say before you can think better of it. Heat creeps up your cheeks.

His mouth quirks up at the corner. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

There's a brief pause, and then: "You want some company?" he offers. "Or I can let you get back to your walk. I don't want to—"

"Company sounds nice," you interrupt gently.

"Give me a second," he says grabbing a rag to wipe the worst of the sawdust off.

You wait, watching as he tidies up his workspace with careful, practiced movements. There's something meditative about the way he works. Methodical. Present. Once he's done, you fall into step beside each other, leaving the boat behind. The dock creaks beneath your feet, water lapping gentle against the posts.

"So," Bucky says after a moment. "About last night."

Your heart picks up speed. "Yeah?"

"I meant what I said. About wanting to do it again."

"The coffee or the kissing?" you ask, then immediately want to sink into the dock.

But he just huffs a quiet laugh, and when you dare to glance at him, there's color in his cheeks. "Both," he admits. "If that's—only if you're okay with that."

"I do—I mean… I'm okay with it."

His hand brushes yours, not quite holding. You hook your pinky around his. Small. Tentative. He hooks his back.

"Tell me something," Bucky says as you walk.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Something you haven't told anyone here yet."

You think about that, watching the water. "I used to take pictures. I have this… collection of vintage cameras. Nothing fancy, just—" You pause, feeling self-conscious. "Film cameras, mostly. Thrift stores, estate sales. I liked the hunt as much as the actual photography."

"Used to?"

"Yeah. Stopped somewhere along the way."

You don't say nothing about Noah saying it was a waste of money. Or about he asking why you needed 'another broken camera' when you had a perfectly good phone. Because eventually it was easier to stop doing it than to defend something you loved.

"Do you miss it?" Bucky asks.

The question catches you off guard. No one's asked you that before. "Yeah," you admit quietly. "I think I do."

"You should start again," he says simply.

"Maybe." You glance down. "I actually brought some of my cameras with me. They're just sitting in boxes."

"Why?"

You shrug. "I don't know. Didn't feel ready, I guess."

Bucky leans to you slightly. "What did you like about the photography?"

"I liked capturing moments, I guess. The way light falls on things. The way something ordinary can look extraordinary if you pay attention." You pause. "And I liked that film makes you slow down. You can't just take a hundred shots and hope one works. You have to think about it."

"Well, that sounds like something worth getting back to," he says.

You walk until the sun starts to sink lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink again. When you circle back toward town, your pinkies are still linked. At the turn where your paths would split, you both slow.

"How would you feel about not waiting until next week?" Your heart flips at that. "There's a bonfire Saturday night. Sarah's organizing it. You should come."

"Will you be there?"

"I will if you will."

You bite back a smile. "Then I'll be there."

"Okay." He squeezes your pinky once before letting go. "It's a date."

"Is it?"

He pauses, suddenly uncertain. "I mean—If you want it to be. Or it can just be—"

You lean up and press a quick kiss to his cheek cutting off his rambling. When you pull back, he's staring at you, completely dazed. "It's a date," you confirm softly.

Then you turn around and walk away before you can lose your nerve, feeling his eyes on you the whole way home.

The bonfire is already roaring by the time you arrive, flames reaching toward the darkening sky. There are maybe twenty people scattered around—some you recognize from the community center, others you've only seen in passing. String lights are hung between the streets, and someone's set up a speaker playing low music that gets occasionally drowned by laughter.

Your camera bag is slung over your shoulder—the Canon AE-1, loaded with fresh film. You'd brought it on impulse, thinking maybe you could capture some of the evening. The light is beautiful, golden hour fading into blue hour.

Sarah spots you first. "Hey! You made it!" She pulls you into a quick hug. "Come on, there's hot chocolate and Sam's attempting to make s'mores without burning them."

"How's that going?"

"Terribly," she says with a grin. "But don't tell him I said that.

You follow her toward the fire, adjusting your camera bag. Through the crowd, you spot him. Bucky's standing slightly apart from the main group, holding a bottle of beer he doesn't seem to be drinking. He's talking to an older man you don't recognize, nodding along politely but his posture is tense.

Then he sees you… and his entire demeanor shifts. The tension in his shoulders eases. His expression softens. He excuses himself and crosses to you.

"Hey," he says and there's relief in his voice.

"Hey yourself."

Someone calls his name from across the fire, and he waves them off without looking away from you. The firelight catches his face just right—warm and golden, softening the hard edges. Your fingers itch for your camera.

"Can I…" you start, then hesitate. You've photographed landscapes, the town, the boats. But not people. Not him.

"Can you what?"

You pull the camera from your bag. "Can I take your picture? The light is really beautiful right now and you're—" You stop, suddenly self-conscious.

He looks at the camera, then at you. "Okay. Yeah."

You raise the Canon slowly, giving him time. Through the viewfinder, you frame him against the firelight. Your fingers find the shutter button.

Click.

Bucky flinches. It's subtle—most people wouldn't notice. But you see it. The way his whole body goes rigid. The way his eyes go distant for half a second. The way his hand tightens around the beer bottle.

You lower your camera immediately. "I'm sorry," you say quickly. "I should have—are you okay?"

He blinks, coming back to himself. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just—" He shakes his head. "The sound surprised me. That's all."

But it's not all. You can see it in the tension still thrumming through him, in the way he won't quite meet your eyes. "Bucky." You step closer, lowering your voice. "What just happened?"

"Nothing. Really. It's stupid."

He's quiet for a moment, jaw working. Around you, the party continues—people laughing, kids running, music playing. But you're both in your own bubble.

"Can we…" He gestures away from the crowd. "Can we talk somewhere quieter?"

You nod and follow him to the edge of the gathering, near the water where it's darker and quieter. He sets down his beer bottle and runs a hand through his hair.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to make it weird."

"I know you didn't. But you can tell me what's wrong."

He looks out at the water, not at you. "The sound of the camera. It just… reminded me of something."

You wait, giving him space to continue or not.

"I told you I was in the military," he says finally. "What I didn't tell you is that I was captured. For a long time. And they—" He stops, swallows hard. "They documented everything. Photographed me. Catalogued me like I was an object. And the sound of the shutter, it just… kind of brought me back there."

Your heart clenches at that. "Oh god, Bucky. I'm so sorry. I should have asked first. I should have—"

"You didn't know." He finally looks at you. "And it's not your fault. It's just… my brain sometimes."

You look down at the camera in your hands. This thing that brings you joy… for him, it's a trigger.

"I won't take any more pictures," you say. "Not of you. Not if it bothers you."

"No, don't—" He stops himself. "I don't want you to stop doing something you love because of me."

"But if it hurts you—"

"It doesn't. Not really." He takes a breath. "It just caught me off guard. The context was different. They didn't ask. They just took. But you asked. That maters."

"I did ask," you say slowly. "And you can always say no… you know that, right? If I ever want to photograph you, you can say no. You don't owe me anything."

Something in his expression softens. "I know. And that's the difference. You give me a choice. They never did."

You set the camera down carefully on a nearby bench. "Do you want to talk about it? What happened?"

"Not really. Not tonight." He manages a small smile. "I don't want to bring those memories to this."

"Okay, but when you're ready—if you're ever ready—I'm here."

He's quiet for a moment, looking at you in the dim light. Then: "Can we try again?"

"Try what?"

"The photo. I want to try again."

You blink at that, looking at the camera. "You don't have to—"

"I know. But I want to." He picks up your camera, holding it out to you. "You asked. I said yes. I don't want my past to take that away from me. From us."

You take the camera slowly. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Just—" He takes a breath. "Just give me a second to get ready, so I know it's coming."

You raise the camera again, slower this time. He's watching you, not the lens. His shoulders are still tense, but there's determination in his eyes. "Ready?" you ask softly.

He nods. "Ready."

Click.

This time, he doesn't flinch. His jaw tightens briefly, but he holds steady. "Good?" you check, lowering the camera.

"Yeah." He lets out a breath. "Yeah, that was better."

"We don't have to do any more—"

"One more," he says. "I want to… I want to get used to it. With you."

So you take another one, and this time you see it—the moment he consciously chooses to relax. To trust. To let himself be seen by you, captured by your camera, preserved in your art. And it's not surveillance. It's not documentation of something being done to him.

It's… something you aren't quite ready to name yet.

"How was that one?" you ask.

He smiles—small, but real. "That one was good."

You check the frame counter. Three photos. Three moments. Three choices.

"Thank you," you say quietly. "For trusting me with this."

You sit down on the bench, and he sits beside you. The camera rests between you.

"Is that why you like old cameras?" he asks. "The film ones?"

"Part of it," you admit. "I like that they make you slow down. Think about each shot. Make it intentional. You can't just spray and pray like with digital."

"Spray and pray?"

"Take a hundred shots and hope one's good." You run your fingers over the Canon's body. "With film, you have to mean it. Every frame costs something. So you make sure it matters. Plus, there's something about the process… developing the film, seeing the images appear in the darkroom. It feels like magic every time."

"You develop them yourself?"

"When I can. I saw a darkroom at the community center. I asked Mrs Klein if they would let me use it sometimes and she agreed." You glance at him. "I could show you, sometime… If you want."

"I'd like that."

Those words take you by surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah. I want to understand… what you see, how you see it."

Your chest tightens with feeling. "Okay. Yeah. I'd love to show you."

You both stand, heading back toward the fire. But something's shifted between you. Something deepened. You know he's working through trauma you don't fully understand yet. And you're both choosing to move forward anyway.

At the fire, Sam immediately hands Bucky a truly catastrophic s'more. "Okay, I need a ruling. Is this salvageable or should I start over?"

You bite back a laugh at the charred marshmallow, because honestly… it's horrible, but you don't feel confident enough to mock Sam about it.

"Start over," Bucky says flatly.

"But you didn't even look, man!"

"Didn't need to. I could smell it burning from the other side of the docks."

As they bicker, you pull out your camera again. This time, you catch Bucky's eye first, a silent question between the two of you. He nods simply, giving you permission.

Click.

Sam mid-rant, Bucky trying not to smile, the fire crackling between them.

By the end of the night, it's become a game almost. You'll raise your camera, he'll spot you and you'll wait. He'll give you the tiniest nod or shake of his head.

When he says no, you lower the camera without question. When he says yes, you capture the moment —and he stays relaxed. Present. Choosing to be seen.

Later, when he walks you home, he says quietly, "Thank you. For tonight."

"For what?"

"For not pushing. For letting me have control over when you photographed me."

"Of course. It's your choice."

When you reach your porch, you pull the camera from your bag one last time. "Can I take one more? Just of you, right here."

He looks at you and there's something vulnerable in his expression. "Why?"

"Because this is the first night you let me photograph you. And I want to remember it."

Once he agrees, you raise the camera one last time, and this time, when you frame him in the view-flight—standing on your porch, looking at you with that soft expression—he's completely relaxed.

Click.

"Perfect," you murmur, lowering the camera.

"You haven't even seen it yet."

"I don't need to. I know it'll be perfect."

He kisses you then, soft and sweet and full of gratitude. You kiss him back, hands fisting in his jacket to pull him closer. He makes a small sound in the back of his throat, his other hand finding your waist.

When you finally pull apart, you're both breathing hard. You stand there for a moment longer, just breathing together, before he pulls back reluctantly.

"I should go," he says, but he doesn't move.

"You should," you agree, but you don't let go of his jacket.

He laughs quietly, pressing one more quick kiss to your lips. "Goodnight, shutterbug."

You scrunch your nose looking at him with a soft smile tugging up your lips. "What did you just call me?"

"You heard me," he says, stepping back. "I'll bring you coffee tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Bucky."

You watch him walk backward down your path, hands in his pockets. He waves once before turning around, and you swear there's a lightness to his step that makes you smile.

Inside, you lean against the door, hand pressed to your chest where your heart is racing. You looked at the closed door, thinking about his hand in yours. His arm around your shoulders. The way he looked at you like you were something precious. And god, the way he kissed you.

You set your phone down without waiting for an answer and catch sight of your reflection in the hallway mirror. You look… different. Happy.

Outside, the cold air of January is cold and clear. But inside, something warm has taken root in your chest.

Something that feels a lot like hope.

Enough to keep going.

You write a message for Natalie.

I think I'm falling for him.