sebstanaddict

[sebstanaddict]

Cat and Mouse

Nick Fowler x You One Shot

When Nick Fowler falls, he falls for you

A/N : My first ever Nick Fowler one shot! (this was a custom story for my giveaway winner and she allowed me to share publicly, thank you!) This is something with "enemies to lovers" and "I can fix him" vibes. Hope you guys like it!

Warning : some kissing, minor blood and wound depiction, gunshots, a little "fight"

Word Count : 2k words

Read more Sebastian Stan related one shots here.

Check out my master list here for more Sebastian (and also Bucky) stories.

---

Cat and Mouse (Nick Fowler x You)

—

You knew he was close before you heard him.

The faint scrape of leather shoes against wet concrete, the way the shadows shifted just slightly in the alley - Nick Fowler wasn’t subtle when he didn’t want to be. He liked the chase. He liked knowing you could feel him breathing down your neck.

You didn’t bother turning around. Instead, you adjusted the strap of the satchel slung across your body, the one that held the encrypted drive he’d been trying to reclaim for weeks. “You’re getting sloppy, Fowler,” you called into the night air. “I counted at least three times you could’ve had me tonight, but here you are still lurking in the dark.”

A low laugh unfurled behind you, lazy and sharp. “Sweetheart, if I’d wanted you, I’d have had you pinned two blocks back. Don’t flatter yourself.”

You pivoted then, slowly, keeping one hand near the pistol under your jacket. Nick stepped into the half-light, hands in his pockets, expression cut into that familiar smirk - half amusement, half threat. His suit was rumpled, tie hanging loose, like he’d rolled out of some smoky backroom deal and decided to hunt you down for dessert.

“Funny,” you said, tilting your head. “That’s not what your bosses are saying. Pretty sure they’re tired of wiring you money just so you can keep chasing me in circles.”

That smirk widened. “You’ve been listening in.”

“Maybe you should invest in better encryption.”

“Maybe you should stop pretending you’re not enjoying this.”

Your pulse jumped - not that you’d let him see it.

You took a deliberate step back, and Nick mirrored it forward, closing the gap with a predator’s patience. The two of you had been playing this game too long: the stolen drive, the endless near-misses, the nights where his voice found you before his hands did.

And now, here he was.

“Hand it over,” he said softly, eyes catching yours. “And I might even let you walk away without cuffs this time.”

You let out a short laugh, more breath than humor. “You’re not going to shoot me. You want what I know. And you like the chase too much.”

He leaned in slightly, just enough that you caught the faint trace of cologne mixed with gunpowder. His voice dropped, almost intimate. “Careful. Keep talking like that, and people will think you want me to catch you.”

Your retort was already forming - sharp, cutting, something to wipe that smug grin off his face - when the hairs on your neck rose. The alley wasn’t just holding the two of you anymore.

Nick’s eyes flicked past your shoulder, and in that fraction of a second his smirk disappeared. “Down.”

You didn’t think, just moved. The first shot ricocheted off the wall where your head had been a heartbeat before. Then the alley erupted - muzzle flashes, the deafening echo of gunfire, shadows moving fast.

Third party. Of course.

You ducked behind a dumpster, hand finally drawing your weapon. Across from you, Nick was already firing back, his jaw clenched tight, movements sharp and precise. Not aimed at you this time.

“Friends of yours?” you shouted over the chaos.

“Cute. You think I have friends.” He returned fire without looking at you, the flare of his muzzle lighting the hard set of his face.

One of the attackers tried to flank, and you dropped him with two clean shots. You caught Nick glancing at you - quick, assessing - before he jerked his head toward the far end of the alley. “We move, now.”

You almost told him to go to hell. Almost. But bullets have a way of changing priorities.

So you ran.

The two of you bolted through the side streets, weaving past shuttered shops and abandoned cars, the attackers close behind. At one point Nick’s hand closed around your wrist, yanking you into the cover of a doorway just as a spray of bullets tore down the street. Too close. His body pressed flush against yours, heartbeat hammering against your shoulder, breath hot by your ear.

“Still think I don’t enjoy the chase?” he muttered, voice low, rough from adrenaline.

You glared at him, chest heaving. “You’re impossible.” “And yet - ” he fired two more shots around the corner,  “ - you keep running with me.”

The footsteps behind you grew louder. Whoever wanted that drive wasn’t letting go. Nick grabbed your arm, eyes burning into yours. “Safehouse. Two blocks north. We make it there, we regroup.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You mean I make it there with you holding me hostage.” His mouth curved, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Semantics, sweetheart.”

Another volley of gunfire cut off any response. You both ran again, side by side this time - enemies, allies, something else entirely - the line between hunter and hunted blurring with every step.

The city blurred around you, all cracked pavement and shuttered storefronts, the hum of distant traffic a reminder of how close normal life carried on while you sprinted for yours. Nick took the lead without asking, cutting through alleys with the kind of confidence that made you grit your teeth and follow anyway. Twice he shoved you into cover as bullets shredded brick, and once his hand pressed against your back to push you forward when you hesitated at a blind corner. You told yourself you hated it - his control, his nearness - but the heat of his palm lingered long after he let go.

By the time he dragged you up a rusted fire escape and shouldered open a forgotten door, your pulse thundered louder than the gunfire behind you. 

The safehouse was a narrow, unlit flat tucked between two crumbling buildings. Nick shoved the door shut behind you, bolted it, and pressed his back against the wood for a beat, gun still in hand, chest rising hard.

For the first time all night, silence.

You leaned against the opposite wall, your pulse still wild, the satchel with the drive digging into your ribs. “Great hideout,” you said, breathless. “Very Home & Garden of you.”

Nick shot you a dry look, then crossed the room to pull the curtains shut. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Would you rather still be outside playing target practice?”

You peeled off your jacket, feeling the sting of a shallow graze across your upper arm. Blood had already soaked into the fabric. You hissed under your breath, tugging the sleeve back.

Nick noticed immediately. His steps slowed, eyes flicking from your arm to your face. “You’re hit.”

“It’s nothing.” You turned slightly, hiding it. The last thing you wanted was his hands on you -

Too late. He was already moving, pulling a small kit from a drawer. “Sit.”

“I said it’s -”

“Sit, or bleed on my floor. Your call.”

The command in his voice made your jaw tighten, but adrenaline was ebbing, and the wound throbbed harder than you wanted to admit. You perched stiffly on the edge of a battered chair, glaring up at him as he crouched in front of you.

He worked in silence at first, swabbing the wound with brisk efficiency. The burn made you suck in a sharp breath. His eyes flicked up, catching the twitch of your mouth, the way you refused to make a sound.

“Stubborn,” he murmured. “Always have been.”

You shot back, “Arrogant. Always have been.”

For a moment, his lips curved, faint but real. Then he taped the bandage down, fingers brushing your skin longer than necessary. The air between you shifted, heavier, warmer.

You swallowed, forcing your gaze away. “Why help me, Fowler? You’ve been chasing me for weeks.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing. “Because they wanted you dead. I don’t.”

“That’s not very spy-like of you.”

He smirked again, softer this time. “Maybe I just like the game too much.”

The silence stretched. You realized, with a sudden jolt, how close he still was - crouched at your knees, the heat of his hand lingering on your arm, his breath brushing against you.

Your heart slammed in your chest. His gaze dipped - not to the drive, not to the gun at your hip, but to your mouth.

For one suspended second, you wondered if he’d close the distance. If you’d let him.

Then he stood abruptly, the moment snapping like glass. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing toward the window. “We’ll have company again by morning. Get some rest while you can.”

You exhaled, slow, steady, shoving the swirl of heat and confusion back down. This wasn’t over - not by a long shot.

—

The safehouse had only one narrow bed and a couch that sagged under its own weight. You chose the couch without argument, dropping onto it with a weary exhale. The satchel stayed within reach, but the drive itself-small, sharp-edged, worth more than gold-remained in your pocket. You weren't stupid enough to let it out of your sight.

Sleep came reluctantly, but the steady ache in your arm and the bone-deep exhaustion of the chase finally dragged your eyes shut.

A shift in the air woke you. The faint creak of floorboards. The subtle warmth of someone standing too close.

You opened your eyes to find Nick crouched at your side, his hand sliding toward the pocket of your pants. His fingers brushed the outline of the drive before your hand shot out, gripping his wrist tight, twisted, and shoved him back hard. Nick hit the floor with a grunt, but rolled smoothly, catlike, already ready to spring.

“You never quit, do you?” you spat, moving fast. Before he could lunge again, you tackled him, slamming him down. In a flash you were straddling him, your forearm pressing into his chest, pinning him to the carpet.

His lips curved. “Always knew you liked being on top.”

“Shut up.” Your face hovered just above his, so close you felt his breath. “You don’t have to keep doing this. Switch sides. Do the right thing for once.”

For a split second, his gaze softened. Then, with a sharp thrust, he bucked you off, flipping you onto the bed. Suddenly he was over you, braced on either side, his weight pressing you down.

“You think your side is clean?” His voice was a low snarl by your ear. “They’ll bleed you dry and leave you in the dirt. With me, at least you’d matter. With me, you’d survive.”

You shoved at his chest, twisting beneath him, refusing to let his words sink in. “I don’t want to survive - I want you to be better.”

He pressed harder, his face inches from yours, and for a dangerous moment you thought he’d win. But you snapped your knee up, catching him off guard, and rolled him hard onto the floor. This time you slammed him down, pinning his wrists above his head. Both of you were breathing hard, chests heaving.

“Listen to me, Nick,” you panted, your voice sharp, urgent. “You can’t keep running from who you are. You’re better than this. You know it. Choose me.”

His smirk faltered. For the first time, he didn’t twist out of your hold. His eyes searched yours, something wild burning deep inside, something that wanted to fight and wanted to give in all at once.

“You think you can drag me out of hell with just a kiss?” he rasped.

“No,” you whispered, leaning close enough that your noses brushed. “But I can make you want to crawl out yourself.”

The silence between you snapped like a wire pulled too tight. With a guttural sound, he broke one wrist free-only to seize your jaw and crash his mouth against yours. It was savage, desperate, all hunger and confession. He kissed you like a man drowning, like he hated you for making him need this, need you.

When he finally tore away, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot and ragged. His voice was low, almost reverent. “You win. I’m yours. Damn me for it - but I’m done fighting you.”

Your hands slid down, no longer holding him prisoner but holding him gently, deliberately. You kissed him again, slower this time-steady, forgiving - an absolution he hadn’t earned, yet couldn’t refuse.

When you finally pulled back, your lips lingered against his as you whispered the only words that mattered: “Then be mine. And be free.”

His answer wasn’t words, but another kiss - soft, surrendered, sealing him to you like a vow in the dark.

And in that moment, you knew - he’d finally crossed the line, and there was no going back.

---

A/N:

Do you want to read a story like this too but where HE says YOUR name? And where YOU can decide the vibe, plot and details? 

I'm opening limited spots for custom stories. Contact me for more details or visit my Ko-Fi

[sebstanaddict]

Vacation Cosplay

Bucky Barnes x You

When Bucky Barnes is the resort you need

Warning : none

Word count : 897 words

Read more soft Bucky / Sebastian scenes in Scenes for The Soul (A series of soft, fluff scenes between you and Bucky / Sebastian to help you get through the day)

Read more of my stories here.

---

You slammed the door shut behind you, dropped your bag with a thud, and collapsed face-first onto the couch.

Bucky peeked around the corner from the kitchen, towel slung over his shoulder. “Rough day?”

A groan was your only answer. You eventually rolled over, glaring at the ceiling. “I need a vacation. A real one. With beaches. Or mountains. Or literally anything that isn’t a cubicle and fluorescent lights. But - ” You flopped your arm dramatically. “ - I don’t have the time, and I sure as hell don’t have the money.”

Your voice cracked on the last word, the frustration you’d been holding in all week spilling out. “It’s like I’m running on empty, Buck. I just… I just need a break, and I can’t.”

Bucky crossed the room in two strides and sank onto the couch beside you. He didn’t try to talk you out of it, didn’t tell you to “look on the bright side.” He just leaned down until his face was level with yours.

“Well,” he said, dead serious, “lucky for you, doll, I happen to have an advanced degree in - ” He paused for dramatic effect, then raised his eyebrows. “ - vacation cosplay.”

Before you could ask, he disappeared into the bedroom. Two minutes later, he reemerged in the most absurd get-up you’d ever seen: his Hawaiian shirt from a thrift store, sunglasses perched crookedly on his head, and a plastic lei from some forgotten Avengers party. He was also carrying a pineapple from the kitchen like it was a sacred totem.

“Welcome to Bucky’s Budget Resort,” he announced in a mock-radio voice, holding the pineapple aloft like a hotel mascot. “Population: you and me. Five-star dining includes leftover pizza and that half-pint of ice cream you forgot about.”

You burst out laughing, your bad day cracking like glass under a hammer. He grinned, clearly pleased with himself, and waggled his eyebrows.

“Now, if you’ll follow me,” he continued, standing up and gesturing like a cruise director, “our exclusive spa experience offers complimentary shoulder massages by a rugged war veteran. Tips are not required but highly encouraged in the form of kisses.”

You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he said, plopping down beside you again, “you’re smiling.”

Before you could respond, he pulled a beach towel from behind his back like a magician revealing his grand finale and draped it dramatically over your lap. “Voilà! Sand-free beach blanket.”

“Bucky - ” you laughed harder, doubling over.

“Oh, I’m not done.” He leaned down, dropped the pineapple onto the coffee table with reverence, then whipped out his phone. A second later, the sound of crashing waves and distant seagulls filled the room. He even angled a desk lamp toward you like it was the midday sun.

“Sunbathing hours are now open,” he said in his best concierge voice. “Apply your sunscreen - by which I mean, let me cuddle you until you can’t move.”

You were still wheezing from laughter when he straightened, clearing his throat dramatically. “Next on our itinerary: aquatic adventures.” He pointed toward the bathroom with exaggerated flair. “Snorkeling trips available hourly in the luxurious resort bathtub. Please bring your own floaties.”

You covered your face with both hands, howling. “Stop, I can’t - ”

“There’s also karaoke night,” he continued, ignoring your plea, “where the Winter Soldier himself will perform a moving rendition of ‘Under the Sea.’” He spread his arms wide. “Requests are open but beware: I only know two verses.”

You were laughing so hard tears pricked your eyes.

Finally, he dropped the act just a little, sinking down beside you again with a satisfied sigh. He reached over, brushed your hair back gently, and murmured, “See? Who needs money? Just me, you, and Mr. Pineapple here. Cheapest vacation you’ll ever have.”

You curled into his side, still giggling, your cheeks aching from smiling. And for the first time all week, the heaviness lifted just enough to let you breathe again.

---

The next day, Friday evening, you stepped out of work dragging your feet - only to stop dead in your tracks.

There he was. Bucky. Leaning casually against his motorcycle, hair ruffled by the breeze, sunglasses on, looking like something out of a movie poster. When he spotted you, that smug little grin curved his mouth.

“You busy this weekend, doll?” he called, holding out a spare helmet.

You blinked at him, confused. “What - what are you doing here?”

“Picking you up,” he said simply. “Got us a cabin two hours out, stocked it with enough food to last, and before you ask - yes, there’s coffee and real milk. And I may or may not have bribed the owner with Stark’s money.”

Your jaw dropped. “Bucky - ”

He just shrugged, still holding the helmet out like it was nothing. “You said you needed a vacation. So I got you one.”

Something warm and sharp bloomed in your chest as you took the helmet, your fingers brushing his.

“You’re insane,” you whispered, still in disbelief.

He smirked. “Insanely in love with you.”

Moments later, you were on the back of his motorcycle, arms tight around his waist, the city melting into open road and endless sky.

And as the sun dipped low, painting the horizon in streaks of gold and rose, you thought maybe this was exactly what you’d needed all along: not just a vacation, but Bucky Barnes, riding with you straight into the sunset.

[sebstanaddict]

Operation Mousecapade : Bucky Barnes vs Disneyland

Bucky Barnes x Reader One Shot

Summary: Bucky Barnes has fought Nazis, robots, and aliens - but none of it prepared him for the true battlefield: Disneyland with his girlfriend, Y/n. Where dancing peacekeeping dolls become psychological warfare, giant teacups are torture devices and every ride turns into a scream inducing mission.

Warning: may cause uncontrollable laughter

Word count: 8.1k - bring some popcorn or churros 'cause this story is huge, I have to give the Disneyland experience justice.

Note: This story is not sponsored or affiliated with Disney / Disneyland. Copyright infringement not intended.

Read more Bucky Barnes related one shots here.

Check out my master list here for more Sebastian (and also Bucky) stories.

---

“This is a mistake.”

Bucky Barnes stood just outside the gates of Disneyland, arms crossed like a bouncer who had beef with joy itself. He was already sweating. The sun was barely up, the crowd was overwhelmingly cheerful, and the smell of sugar was offensive.

“You agreed to this,” Y/n chirped, bouncing beside him in a pastel pink tank top, Mickey ears perched on her head like a crown of evil. Her smile was wicked. “No backsies. You signed the digital waiver, old man.”

Bucky glared at her, then down at the sparkly magic band around his wrist. It had a little Captain America shield charm dangling from it.

“Why does it have Steve’s face on it.”

“Because it was the only one left in stock.” She sipped her iced coffee. “And because I know it bothers you.”

He muttered something about betrayal under his breath.

Y/n leaned in, her voice dropping to a mock-serious whisper. “You look tense, soldier. Is the happiest place on Earth compromising your tactical integrity?”

He squinted at her. “Is that a thing you rehearsed on the plane?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Before Bucky could fire back, the gates opened. Children squealed. A dad sprinted past them like a linebacker, pushing a stroller with the speed of a warthog escaping a wildfire.

Bucky flinched. “That kid just growled at me.”

“They sense fear.”

Y/n grabbed his vibranium hand before he could bolt, dragging him into the swarm of humanity with the giddy strength of a woman on a churro-fueled mission.

—

Ten minutes in

“I already hate this.”

“We’re not even past Main Street.”

“There are… balloons. They’re floating. They’re everywhere.”

“Correct.”

A woman in a full Belle ballgown brushed past Bucky, gave him a once-over, then said, “You should try cosplay! You’d make a great brooding prince.”

Y/n leaned into his shoulder. “She’s not wrong. You already look like you escaped a cursed forest.”

“I'm gonna lose my mind.”

Then it happened.

A college-aged guy across the street squinted at Bucky. “Wait a sec… hey, are you the Winter So - ”

“NOPE.” Bucky spun on his heel and took off at a full sprint, vanishing behind a popcorn cart like a feral raccoon.

Y/n sighed, leisurely following him as she waved to the stunned bystander. “He gets excited around snacks.”

Five minutes later, she found him sulking beside the statue of Walt and Mickey.

“They have a statue of the man and the mouse,” Bucky grumbled, pulling his cap lower. “This is a cult.”

“It’s not a cult,” she said, handing him a cold bottle of water from her fanny pack. “It’s themed optimism.”

He twisted the cap with unnecessary force. “There are too many people. Too much sunshine. Too many children. That one licked my vibranium arm, Y/n.”

“He was curious! Don’t be weird about it.”

Bucky stared her down. “He meowed at me. Meowed.”

Y/n leaned close, patting his cheek, “You’re doing great, babe. Just keep pretending you’re undercover in a pastel dystopia.”

He groaned. “I’m not built for this.”

“You survived seventy years of brainwashing and assassinations. You can survive Disneyland.”

A pause.

“I miss brainwashing.”

She smirked. “Come on, Soldier. It’s time for our first ride.”

“Which is?”

“Space Mountain!”

He made a noise that was part sigh, part whimper, and entirely tragic.

“Do I have to?”

“Oh, you absolutely have to.”

He stopped dead in his tracks. “I thought we were doing the easy ones first.”

“That is the easy one.”

“It’s in the dark, Y/n.”

“Exactly.”

She gave him a sweet kiss on the cheek before turning back to her battle plan - literally, a folded paper itinerary decorated with cartoon stickers, color-coded like she was planning a heist.

Bucky, ex-assassin, part-time Avenger, full-time brooder, stared at the people around him. Families. Couples. A man in a Goofy onesie. He could take down a HYDRA base with one hand but here? He was outmatched. This was enemy territory.

Y/n looked up at him and beamed. “Let the games begin, Barnes.”

He didn’t know what that meant yet.

But he would.

—

Space Mountain - The Winter Screamer

Bucky was glaring at the Space Mountain sign like it owed him money.

“Why is it in the dark?” he demanded. “What are we hiding from? Physics?”

“It’s space, babe,” Y/n said, already in line and skipping ahead with unearned enthusiasm. “You’re supposed to feel small and terrified while artificial G-force destroys your frontal lobe.”

“I like my frontal lobe.”

“You don’t even use it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

He grunted and followed, shoulders hunched like he was walking into battle, not a themed indoor roller coaster surrounded by twelve-year-olds in Star Wars shirts.

Inside the queue, the lights dimmed to “galactic anxiety,” and the air smelled like metal and regret. Bucky shifted from foot to foot. Y/n side-eyed him.

“You okay, Sergeant?”

“Fine.”

“You look pale.”

“I am pale.”

“You sure you’re not… scared?”

He turned his head so slowly it looked like a horror movie. “I’ve jumped out of planes, been frozen, electrocuted, stabbed, and possessed by Hydra. I’m not scared of a theme park ride.”

Y/n raised a single eyebrow. “That’s a lot of detail for someone who’s not scared.”

“I’m just saying. Context.”

“Oh, so you’re not scared. Good,” she said sweetly. “Because I was gonna challenge you to a game.”

He frowned. “A game?”

“Yup.” She stepped closer, grinning like a Disney villain. “Whoever screams louder on the rides loses.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Loser buys dinner.”

“No.”

“And wears whatever hat the winner picks out from the gift shop.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Calculated the likelihood of her putting him in sequined Minnie ears.

…She absolutely would.

“And you think you’ll win?” he asked, arms crossed.

“Oh, I know I will.” She poked his chest. “Because you scream like a boy band fangirl in 1999 every time there’s a drop.”

“I DO NOT.”

“Bucky. You shrieked on the subway when it jerked forward.”

“That was a startled exhale.”

“It echoed.”

He leaned in, dead serious. “Fine. You’re on.”

“Yesssss.”

“But when I win,” he said darkly, “you’re wearing the Goofy hat with the ears and the teeth and the chin strap.”

Y/n gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

She offered her hand. “Deal.”

He shook it.

And immediately regretted everything.

By the time they got through the line, he’d muttered “this is a mistake” no fewer than seventeen times. Y/n, gleefully unaffected, threw her arms up as they were loaded into the ride vehicle.

Bucky pulled the lap bar down with excessive force and looked sideways at her like a man being dragged to the gallows.

“You ready?” she grinned.

“For death?”

“For victory.”

The ride launched.

The first turn came out of nowhere. Darkness swallowed them, stars spinning wildly overhead. The coaster dipped - hard - and suddenly…

“HHHEEUAUUGHHH!!”

The noise that came from Bucky’s mouth defied language. It was a sharp, startled yowl, like someone had poked a medieval knight with a cattle prod.

Y/n didn’t scream. She laughed.

Hard.

Half of it was the ride, the other half was his face - mouth open in sheer betrayal, hands clenched on the lap bar, sunglasses askew, hat flapping precariously.

When the restraints popped open on Space Mountain, Bucky climbed out of the car looking like he’d barely survived a warzone. His hair stuck up in the wrong direction, and there was a faint pink flush on his cheeks.

“You screamed,” Y/n said, unable to keep the laugh from bubbling out.

“I did not scream,” he muttered, straightening his shirt like that would restore his dignity.

“You definitely screamed,” she teased. “Like… operatic levels.”

Bucky shot her a look, but it lacked bite. Then his gaze slid to the little cart parked nearby, where warm churros were being pulled fresh and rolled in cinnamon sugar. His frown eased just a little. “What’s that?”

“Churros,” Y/n explained, already steering him toward the stand. “Disneyland staple. Fried dough, cinnamon, sugar - pure happiness on a stick.”

He eyed the tray like it was a suspicious weapon. “You just… eat it? No fork, no plate?”

“You’re overthinking fried dough, Buck.” She handed him one, and he turned it over in his hand like it might detonate. Then, finally, he took a bite.

And froze.

Y/n bit back a grin as his eyes went wide. “Good?” she asked.

He swallowed, then nodded, a little dazed. “This is… this is unbelievable. Why did nobody tell me about these?”

“I just did.”

“Yeah, well - ” He took another huge bite, sugar already dusting the edge of his stubble. “You’re late. Should’ve told me years ago.”

By the time they made their way toward It’s a Small World, Bucky was down to the last inch of churro, licking cinnamon from his fingers like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

—

It’s a Small World - Psychological Warfare Edition

“This looks harmless,” Bucky said suspiciously as they approached the whimsical white-and-gold facade.

Y/n tilted her head. “Does it?”

“It looks… cute.”

“Yes,” she said with a terrifying smile. “Exactly.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “That’s a trap.”

She offered nothing but a cheerful shrug and handed their tickets to the smiling cast member, who waved them toward a gently floating boat.

Bucky sat down slowly, eyes scanning the animatronic skyline like he expected sniper fire. “Why is it moving like that?”

“It’s a boat.”

“It’s lurking.”

Y/n was already humming the opening tune, blissful and unbothered. Bucky sat ramrod straight beside her as they drifted into the first room - lights dimming, music swelling.

Then the dolls appeared.

Dancing. Singing. Smiling. In sync.

Dolls from every nation, every continent, with unblinking eyes and jerkily waving arms. All chanting the same cursed lullaby in multiple languages. Over. And over.

“It’s a small world aaaaafter aaall…”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“They’re all staring at me,” he muttered.

“They’re not.”

“They are.”

“They’re literally on rotating platforms.”

“Rotating. Like they’re tracking.”

Y/n leaned back in the boat, arms spread wide. “It’s sweet! It’s about unity.”

“It’s a coordinated assault.”

He ducked as one of the French dolls lifted a baguette too enthusiastically.

“This is Hydra all over again,” he whispered. “Too much smiling. Too much singing. Too many hats.”

Y/n, nearly in tears from trying not to laugh: “You’ve fought Thanos. What is wrong with you?”

“I was prepared for Thanos. I was not prepared for global animatronic diplomacy.”

A Hawaiian hula doll wiggled in rhythm beside him. Bucky recoiled like it was a live grenade. “They’re too happy. It’s unnatural.”

Y/n started recording discreetly as he hunched lower in the boat.

“I swear one of them just blinked at me,” he muttered.

“She did not.”

“She winked. She’s sending messages.”

Y/n zoomed in on a Dutch puppet with braids. “That one looks like she could fight you and win.”

“She probably did in a past life.”

They floated into the Africa section, where drums played and giraffes bobbed their heads joyfully.

Bucky whispered, “This is psychological warfare. This is what they play when they want you to break.”

Y/n was humming along, swaying slightly. “Don’t fight it. Just let the diplomacy wash over you.”

He stared straight ahead, dead inside. “I miss the Cold War.”

By the time they floated into the final room - all nations united, glowing pastel, with one final chorus of that infernal melody - Bucky looked physically ill.

Y/n snapped a photo. “Smile, babe! We survived world peace!”

Bucky didn’t smile. He whispered, “We didn’t survive. We were changed.”

She took his hand sweetly as they stepped off the boat. “Come on. Let's have some tea.”

He paused.

“…Tea?”

“You’ll see what I mean.” Y/n grinned and Bucky swore he could see an evil glint in her eyes but he decided to trust her anyway.

As they walked away towards Mad Tea Party, one of the dolls somewhere in the ride behind them glitched and let out a mechanical groan.

Bucky flinched and spun around. “It’s following us. I know it.”

—

Mad Tea Party - Bucky Barnes and the Mad, Mad, Mad Teacup

Bucky stared at the giant pastel teacups like they were the most untrustworthy objects on earth. “This isn’t a ride. This is a children’s torture device.”

“It’s classic!” Y/n insisted, already skipping toward a bright pink one. “C’mon, how scary could it be?”

He reluctantly followed, muttering, “Anything that colorful is dangerous. Learned that the hard way in ’43.”

Once inside, Bucky wedged himself stiffly onto the little bench, knees practically to his chest. The ride operator closed the little door, and Bucky gave Y/n the look of a man boarding his own execution.

The ride started gently, the teacups swirling lazily.

“This isn’t so bad,” Bucky admitted, loosening his death-grip on the center wheel. “Kinda peaceful, actually.”

“Uh huh.” Y/n smirked, then planted both hands on the wheel and spun it like her life depended on it.

The world blurred instantly. The teacup whirled, colors streaking, children’s laughter turning into something truly sinister.

Bucky’s scream ripped through the air. “Y/N! WHAT THE HELL - ?! STOP THE CUP, STOP THE CUP - ”

She cackled, spinning harder. “Scream game, Barnes! Don’t lose your cool!”

“I’M GONNA HURL!” His vibranium hand slapped uselessly against the wheel, trying to slow it down. But her grip was ironclad.

Around and around they went, Bucky sliding helplessly against her, hair plastered back by centrifugal force. At one point he actually tried to use his vibranium arm like an anchor against the seat, but it only made the spin wobblier, more chaotic.

Children in the next teacup pointed and laughed as the “big scary super soldier” shrieked like a banshee.

By the time the ride slowed, Bucky was pale and disheveled, while Y/n was doubled over, clutching her stomach from laughing too hard.

“You…” she wheezed, “…were actually enjoying it until I touched the wheel!”

Bucky slumped against the back of the teacup, groaning. “I was. And then you tried to kill me.”

Y/n beamed, wiping her eyes. “Worth it. You scream like a girl.”

He muttered something dark under his breath, refusing to meet her eyes, but the pink creeping up his ears betrayed him.

As they stepped out of the teacup, Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “I’m never drinking tea again.”

“It’s not like you were ever a tea person.” She smirked, looping her arms around his and dragged him along. “Come on, time to meet the ghosts.”

“The.. what now?” Bucky’s voice raised slightly but she just grinned.

—

Haunted Mansion - Bucky Barnes vs. The Ghosts

The line to the Haunted Mansion was long, winding past wrought-iron gates and fake gravestones with names like I. M. Mortal and Paul Tergyst. Y/n giggled every time she spotted another pun, while Bucky looked like he was being marched into actual combat.

“This is it,” Y/n whispered dramatically, nudging his arm. “One of the best rides in the park. A classic. Iconic. Walt himself approved it.”

Bucky squinted at the mansion’s looming facade, the windows dark, the columns crooked with age. “Looks like every Hydra safehouse I’ve ever infiltrated.”

Y/n grinned. “Perfect, then you’ll feel right at home.”

Inside, they were ushered into the stretching room. The lights dimmed, the walls “grew,” the portraits elongated into grotesque images of doom. People gasped in awe. Bucky was already shifting uncomfortably, scanning for exits.

“Y/n,” he muttered, “did the ceiling just - ?”

“Yes,” she whispered, eyes sparkling. “It stretches. It’s called magic.”

He scowled. “That’s called structural instability.”

The Ghost Host’s booming narration filled the chamber: “This chamber has no windows… and no doors…”

Bucky immediately pointed toward a corner. “False. There’s an access panel there. That vent could take us outside. Worst-case scenario, I punch through the wall.”

People turned to stare. Y/n clapped a hand over her mouth, barely containing her laughter.

When the Doom Buggies arrived, Y/n practically skipped into theirs, tugging Bucky along. He sat stiffly, glaring at the track as though he were about to ambush a convoy.

As the ride began, ghostly voices crooned and dancing specters twirled in eerie ballrooms. Y/n was enchanted. Bucky was muttering.

“That candelabra’s on a track. That knight armor? Definitely a guy in there. These holograms - ” He cut himself off when a skeletal hand reached from a coffin toward their buggy.

He flinched. Hard.

Y/n gasped in delight. “OH MY GOD. You jumped!”

“I did not.” His jaw tightened.

“Yes, you did! That corpse hand scared you.”

“It startled me. There’s a difference.”

The ride carried them into the graveyard scene, animatronic ghosts howling with glee, spectral choir singing. Bucky kept muttering under his breath.

“This is psychological ops. They’re softening you with music before the jump scare. Hydra used the same - ”

Then, a ghostly projection suddenly appeared inside their buggy, materializing right between them.

Bucky’s soul left his body.

He shoved himself against the far side of the seat like he was avoiding a grenade. “NOPE. ABSOLUTELY NOT. Y/N, IT’S IN THE VEHICLE WITH US.”

Y/n was doubled over, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Bucky - it’s just a hologram - ”

The ghost grinned and “sat” smugly between them.

Bucky hissed, “If this thing touches me, I swear to God - ”

The Doom Buggy rolled to the end, the ride cheerfully warning them to “Hurry baaaack…”

As soon as they exited, Bucky yanked off his hat and sunglasses, running a hand down his face. “That wasn’t a ride. That was torture.”

Y/n leaned against a railing, still laughing. “You screamed louder at the hologram ghost than you did on Space Mountain.”

He glared. “Keep talking and I’ll throw your Mickey ears in the Rivers of America.”

“Don’t lie to yourself,” Y/n teased, slipping her arm around his. “You loved it.”

He muttered, “I fought actual witches, and somehow this is worse.”

Y/n laughed so hard people turned to look, and Bucky only scowled deeper, muttering something about dignity being overrated.

“Alright old man, come on, let’s go and ride on something less tense.” She said, dragging him towards the Indiana Jones Adventure ride.

—

Indiana Jones & the Animatronic Incident - The Ride That Got Them Flagged in the System

“Okay, this one’s chill,” Y/n said as they entered the dusty, jungle-themed line for Indiana Jones Adventure. “A little bumpy, but mostly story-driven. Lots of cool effects.”

Bucky squinted at a skeleton in the corner. “I don’t trust that guy.”

“That’s a prop.”

“So were half of HYDRA’s weapons. Until they exploded.”

Y/n sighed. “Just don’t touch anything.”

They climbed into the jeep-like ride vehicle. Bucky took the wheel. He wasn’t supposed to, but the look in his eyes said, Try and stop me.

The ride began. Torches flickered. Skulls glowed. Harrison Ford mumbled something cryptic through a speaker.

Then came the snake.

A giant, mechanical cobra lunged down at them with glowing eyes and a hiss.

Bucky reacted like it was a real Hydra ambush.

“OH HELL NO.”

WHAM.

Without hesitation, Bucky launched his vibranium fist across the vehicle  -  right into the face of the animatronic snake. A crunch echoed through the cave.

The ride paused.

“Sir, please stay seated,” said a voice through the overhead speaker, too calm to be real.

Y/n was doubled over. “YOU PUNCHED THE SNAKE?!”

“It lunged at us!”

“It’s made of foam and regret!”

Two cast members in khakis and name tags emerged from the shadows like theme park ninjas.

“Sir, you cannot assault the ride.”

Bucky, still gripping the seat like he was in ‘Nam, blinked. “I was defending my girlfriend.”

“She was filming you!”

“I WAS GETTING CONTENT,” Y/n wheezed, holding up her phone. “And it’s incredible. Oh my God. Your face when it lunged - ”

They were escorted out mid-ride, jeep paused behind them, confused tourists watching the Winter Soldier get marched past the sacred idol like he’d just failed a side quest. Y/n could barely breathe from laughing, while Bucky’s jaw was tight, muttering about snakes that had it coming.

—

Rise of the Resistance  -  Bucky’s Tactical Meltdown

“Okay, this one is supposed to be better than that Indiana Jones one, Bucky.” Y/n said, dragging him towards Rise of the Resistance.

Bucky stood in line looking like he was physically restraining himself from taking over the ride.

“This is Star Wars,” Y/n whispered, bouncing on her feet. “This is the one. It’s got a Resistance base, a fake Star Destroyer, and Stormtroopers. It’s immersive!”

He narrowed his eyes. “You mean it’s tactically confusing.”

“No, I mean it’s a storyline. You’re on a mission, and then you get captured - ”

“Captured?”

“...okay maybe don’t overthink that part - ”

Too late. His jaw was already clenched.

They entered the Resistance base. Bucky ducked instinctively behind a fake console.

“They have bad cover. Exposed angle on the south side.”

“It’s a set piece, soldier.”

Then BB-8 rolled out. Y/n clapped.

Bucky flinched. “That’s a surveillance droid.”

“Oh my God - ”

The fake mission briefing began, complete with holograms, sirens, and chaotic lighting.

And then?

They got “captured” by the First Order. Stormtroopers barked orders. Cast members played villains. The doors opened to reveal a life-size Star Destroyer hangar.

It was… stunning. Immersive. Genuinely impressive.

And Bucky lost his damn mind.

He squared his shoulders, stepped forward, and started shouting tactical orders at the group of unsuspecting guests.

“WE’VE GOT IMPERIAL TROOPS AT THREE O’CLOCK. FLANK LEFT. MOVE, MOVE!”

A kid in Mickey ears screamed.

A dad ducked behind his daughter’s stroller.

The Stormtroopers didn’t break character, which made it worse. One of them pointed vaguely at Bucky and said, “You will come with us.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Over my dead body.”

Then a massive screen flickered on. Kylo Ren appeared, his voice cold and sharp as a blade.

Bucky took one step forward, fists raised. “I CAN TAKE HIM.”

“YOU ABSOLUTELY CANNOT,” Y/n shrieked.

Kylo Ren, of course, didn’t respond.

Before Bucky could escalate, a red, glowing square suddenly carved itself into the wall beside him, like a lightsaber cutting straight through metal. Sparks showered. The panel clattered open.

Bucky jumped back three feet, hand to his chest. “Nope. Absolutely not. That’s exactly how the Terminator started.”

Y/n was doubled over laughing as The Resistance cast members “rescued” them into the next room.

Finally, the ride vehicle rolled up. A little BB-unit droid beeping cheerfully at the front. Bucky narrowed his eyes at it. “What’s your escape plan if this turns?”

The droid chirped and whistled nonsense.

Bucky nodded solemnly. “Good answer.”

During the escape sequence, blaster fire echoed, lights flashed, and Bucky yelled, “EVASIVE MANEUVERS, YOU CLOWNS! I NEED COVER FIRE!”

A tourist shouted, “I’m a graphic designer!”

Y/n sob-laughed the entire way through. “STOP YELLING. THEY’RE ANIMATRONICS.”

Then they successfully got into one of the “ships”.

The “ship” jolted, screens curving around them in a dizzying panorama of stars. The Resistance shuttle shot forward, weaving between TIE fighters as alarms blared and laser fire streaked across their field of vision.

Bucky’s hand immediately gripped the safety bar like it was the edge of a helicopter door. His eyes went wide, jaw tight. “We’re under fire! Do they even have shields on this thing?”

“Bucky - ” Y/n wheezed through a laugh, clutching his sleeve as the shuttle dipped.

Another blast rattled the cabin. Bucky ducked low, as though blaster fire could actually hit him through the screen. “This is terrible piloting - who the hell put a droid in charge?” He twisted in his seat, glaring at the animatronic pilot like it could hear him. “Hold steady, damn it!”

Y/n was doubled over now, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “It’s a ride! It’s not real!”

“Tell that to the people we just lost! We’re going down!”

The shuttle angled hard, blue planet swelling in the viewport. Bucky gritted his teeth, knuckles white on the safety bar. “Brace for impact!” he barked, snapping his metal arm out in front of Y/n like he was shielding her from a crash.

The ride lurched - violent enough to throw everyone sideways in their seats. Screams and laughter erupted as the shuttle bucked and rattled, the floor plates thudding like they’d actually slammed through atmosphere.

Bucky groaned, holding on like he was in a helicopter spiraling out of the sky. “This is it - we’re going down!”

With one final bone-jarring slam, the shuttle skidded into the Resistance base. The lights flickered, hiss of hydraulics echoing as the “doors” creaked open.

Gasps and cheers rippled through the riders.

Bucky stayed frozen, chest heaving, eyes darting around the smoke and flashing panels. “…Rough landing,” he muttered hoarsely. “Pilot’s grounded. Indefinitely.”

Y/n peeled his death grip off the safety bar, wheezing with laughter. “It’s a ride, Buck.”

He shot her a look that was equal parts betrayed and exhausted. “Rides aren’t supposed to crash-land.”

As they exited into the gift shop, a little boy stared up at him with wide eyes. “Are you… the Winter Soldier?”

Bucky leaned down, patted the kid’s shoulder, and whispered, “Not today, soldier. Today I’m the Resistance.”

“And the Resistance needs to refuel. Come on, soldier.” Y/n chuckled as she grabbed his hand and dragged him away.

Y/n herded Bucky into Docking Bay 7 like she was wrangling a very stubborn war horse. He sat at the table still looking mildly concussed from their “crash landing,” tray in front of him.

“This is…food?” he muttered, poking at the golden, rectangular block with his fork.

“It’s Endorian tip-yip,” Y/n said, already sipping her blue milk with satisfaction. “Space fried chicken.”

Bucky poked the chunk of fried tip-yip with his fork. “This looks like army rations pretending to be gourmet.”

Y/n laughed. “You mean like if someone plated mystery meat and gave it a fancy name?”

“Exactly,” he muttered.

“Just try it,” she said.

He cut off a piece, raised it warily to his mouth, and bit down. After chewing a moment, he froze. Slowly, he glanced at her. “…This is just fried chicken.”

“Yup.”

He threw the fork down like she’d betrayed him. “We crash a ship, I get interrogated by stormtroopers, and Disney serves me KFC in space packaging.”

“Immersion,” Y/n said, gesturing around at the spaceship interior.

He sighed, reached for his drink, took a long sip of the famous blue milk - then immediately grimaced. “Nope. Nope. Not happening.” He shoved it as far away as possible. “That tastes like…like somebody blended a candle.”

Y/n burst out laughing. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Dramatic? Y/n, I’ve eaten bark in the woods and Soviet field rations, and this is worse.”

“Fine,” she said, grinning. “Next time, try the green one.”

He gave her a dark look. “If that one tastes like lawn clippings, I’m burning this place down.”

—

The Incredicoaster - Bucky’s Public Downfall

After lunch, Y/n happily licked blue milk foam from her straw while Bucky walked beside her, still chewing like he was suspicious of every bite.

“Okay, fine,” he admitted at last. “That was chicken.”

“See? Told you,” Y/n said, smug, spinning her empty cup.

“Yeah, but - ” he gestured his hand back at the tray they’d left behind - “what kind of psychopath cuts chicken into cubes? It felt like eating rations in geometry class.”

Y/n snorted. “You’re unbelievable.”

He shook his head gravely. “Food shouldn’t have corners.”

She tugged his arm, laughing. “Come on, Captain Culinary. You survived space battles, now you get to survive the Incredicoaster.”

Bucky stopped in his tracks, narrowing his eyes at the massive roller coaster looming in the distance. “That thing’s taller than Stark Tower.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she said, tugging harder.

“I’m not being dramatic. I’m being factual.”

Bucky stood at the loading platform like he was about to be court-martialed. The coaster roared overhead, riders screaming as the track twisted upside down in a fiery loop.

“Y/n,” he said slowly, sunglasses clutched in his hand like a lifeline, “that’s not a ride. That’s a death sentence with jazz music.”

Y/n beamed, practically bouncing on her feet as she tugged him toward the loading gates. “It’s fine! It’s Pixar! It’s whimsical! The theme is Jack-Jack using his powers to chase a cookie. A cookie, Buck.”

“A baby on fire is whimsical to you?” He gave her a look that was one part trauma, two parts betrayal. “Why is the baby exploding? Why does the baby have lasers?”

“Because Disney magic.” She shoved him into the seat. “Now stop whining and buckle up.”

The restraints locked into place. Bucky sat there, knuckles white, muttering like he was back in a foxhole.

“Alright, stay calm, Barnes. It’s just hydraulics and gravity. Gravity can’t kill me. Probably. …No, no, gravity can kill me.”

Y/n grinned so wide she could’ve powered the entire coaster. “Remember, whoever screams louder loses.”

Bucky scowled. “I don’t scream.”

The ride launched.

And Bucky screamed.

Not just screamed  -  shrieked. A raw, guttural, betrayed-by-best-friend noise as the coaster blasted forward at 60 mph. His arms shot straight into the air - not on purpose, but because the G-force ripped them up.

Y/n was laughing so hard she almost missed the loop. Almost. Instead she threw her hands up and cackled, hair flying everywhere.

 “WOO! JACK-JACK, GET THAT COOKIE!” she shouted like a lunatic.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s eyes were shut so tight he looked like he was trying to astral project his soul away.

“WHY IS IT UPSIDE DOWN?! WHY ARE WE UPSIDE DOWN?!” he hollered, clutching the restraint with his vibranium hand.

The speakers blared: “Jack-Jack is multiplying!” Animatronic babies popped up everywhere.

Bucky, wild-eyed, shouted, “THEY’RE SURROUNDING US, Y/N! THIS IS AN AMBUSH!”

She was crying with laughter. “It’s not Hydra, Buck! It’s Pixar!”

By the time the coaster screeched back into the station, Bucky looked… broken. His hair was a windblown disaster, his shirt was wrinkled, and his entire soul had left his body somewhere in that loop-de-loop.

A little kid in the row behind them leaned forward and whispered, “Mister, are you okay?”

Bucky turned his head slowly, like a haunted war veteran. “No, kid. I’ll never be okay again.”

Y/n doubled over laughing so hard she nearly fell out of the car.

“Oh my God, Barnes,” she wheezed. “You just got your ass kicked by a cookie chase.”

Bucky stumbled off the Incredicoaster, hair sticking up in all directions, arms trembling like he’d just fought off an ambush.

“That… was… completely unnecessary,” he muttered, still gripping the safety bar.

Y/n laughed, looping her arm through his. “Oh, come on. You screamed like a girl the whole time - and loved it for the first ten seconds.”

“I did not scream like a girl. That’s tactical panic.”

“Uh-huh,” she teased, grinning. “Well, if you think that was bad, the next ride might actually kill you.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “What… do you mean by that?”

Y/n winked. “Welcome to the Collector’s fortress. Time to save the Guardians of the Galaxy.”

Bucky straightened immediately, chest out, shoulders squared. “…Oh. I see. A mission. Finally.”

—

Guardians of The Galaxy: Mission Breakout - Bucky’s Galactic Breakdown

As soon as they stepped through the gates of Avengers Campus, Bucky stopped dead in his tracks. His hand twitched toward his hip - only to realize there was no weapon there.

“...What the hell,” he muttered. “Why is there a Quinjet parked on the roof? Who’s watching it? That’s terrible positioning - sitting duck for enemy fire.”

“Bucky,” Y/n sighed, tugging his sleeve. “It’s decoration.”

He squinted at the Avengers logo plastered on the building. “That’s classified branding. They’re just letting civilians walk around with cameras? Stark would lose his mind. Rogers too.”

“Good thing neither of them are here,” Y/n muttered.

A crowd of tourists cheered nearby as Black Panther strode past, giving a regal wave. Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Ok. That is not T’Challa. I know T’Challa. That guy’s walking like his knees hurt.”

Y/n slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. “You’re analyzing cosplayers?”

Bucky scowled, arms crossing over his chest. “If this is supposed to be a base, it’s the worst-secured installation I’ve ever seen. Wide open gates. Civilians everywhere. No tactical cover. A - wait - why is Ant-Man standing by a shawarma cart? Is that his new post?”

“Food duty,” Y/n choked out between giggles. “Very high-level mission.”

Bucky groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This entire operation is compromised. Come on, let’s get to that tower before something explodes.”

Y/n grinned, leading him toward Guardians of the Galaxy: Mission Breakout. “Relax, Sergeant Paranoia. Nothing’s going to explode here.”

The moment Y/n and Bucky stepped into the Collector’s fortress, he slowed his stride, eyes narrowing at the glowing cases of alien artifacts like he was sweeping a hostile zone.

“Place smells like HYDRA,” he muttered, scanning the walls. “Don’t like it.”

Y/n nudged him. “It’s a ride, Bucky. Relax.”

Before she could say more, the lights shifted, and Tivan himself appeared on the massive screen, slick and smug as ever. He showed the Guardians of the Galaxy, banging on glass cases, yelling to be let out and fighting among each other.

Bucky’s whole body went rigid. “They’ve been captured,” he whispered, horrified. His hand clamped onto Y/n’s arm. “We’ve gotta break them out. They’re Avengers-adjacent. Banner’s gonna kill me if I let Groot die.”

“Bucky,” you groaned, “they're a pre-recorded video.”

But Bucky was already squaring his shoulders like he’d been given a mission briefing.

Then, out of nowhere, Rocket popped above them, cursing and fiddling with wires.

Bucky lunged forward and his finger shot out accusingly.

“I KNOW THAT RAT! He tried to buy my arm once!”

Half the room started laughing. A dad in the corner snorted so loud he scared his toddler.

“I’m serious!” Bucky barked at them. “Didn’t even offer cash - he wanted to trade a… a battery or something! Total scam!”

Rocket kept ranting about the breakout plan. Bucky leaned forward, nodding solemnly. “Copy that. We’re with you.”

Then they entered the elevator. The restraints clamped down. Bucky tensed like he was being  chained up in a Hydra cell. “They’re locking us in. Stay sharp.”

Then - WHOOSH - the elevator shot upward.

“AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Bucky shrieked. Not a manly yell. Not even close. A full, glass-cracking falsetto.

Everyone screamed, but Bucky’s was by far the loudest. And yet, the moment the car leveled out, he growled: “We’re good! I’ve got it under control.”

The next drop came.

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH - DON’T WORRY, I’VE GOT YOU - AAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

He flailed one hand in front of Y/n like he was shielding her from enemy fire while simultaneously white-knuckling the restraint like his life depended on it.

Rocket popped back on the screen mid-ride.

“Copy that, rodent!” Bucky hollered, voice breaking. “I’ve got eyes on the prisoners - AAAAHHHHH - breach complete! Doors compromised!”

By the time the final door opened, Bucky was sweaty, pale, and breathing like he’d just run ten miles.

On the screen, the Guardians poured out of their cages, triumphant.

“Thanks for the save!” Peter Quill shouted.

Bucky saluted with shaky hands. “All in a day’s work.”

But then, right behind them, the camera panned - and revealed the giant, writhing worm creature from Guardians 2 slithering through the wreckage.

The Guardians casually ran towards the Giant worm without a word.

Bucky’s jaw dropped. He lurched forward, pointing furiously at the monitor. “WAIT! There’s still a KAIJU in there! Why are they just RUNNING TO THEIR DEATHS?!”

The restraints popped open and people began filing out.

Bucky stayed frozen, glaring at the screen like he was about to file an official complaint. Finally, he turned to Y/n, dead serious.

“Unbelievable. We risked our lives for them, and they just went out to face that giant worm like they weren’t gonna be killed by it. Typical.”

“They’re gonna be fine, Buck. Now come on, time to save another one of your co-workers.” Y/n grinned, dragging Bucky to Web Slingers - A Spider-Man Adventure.

—

Web Slingers: A Spider-Man Adventure - Super Soldier, Zero Aim

The line for the ride snaked past the futuristic streets of Avengers Campus. Bucky shuffled forward, muttering like he was heading into a tactical briefing.

“Y/n,” he said grimly, “I do not like the look of this. They’ve got holograms, web shooters, giant spiders… and that kid…”

Peter Parker popped up on the main screen, grinning nervously.

Bucky leaned forward, pointing. “Ah yes. Peter ‘I’ve got this under control’ Parker. Who literally does not have this under control.”

Y/n stifled a laugh. “He’s just a teen, Buck.”

“Teen or not, we’re about to babysit the city’s biggest threat again. Look at him - what is he doing?”

A single spider robot skittered into view. Bucky stiffened. “Ah. Threat identified. Engage immediately.”

“These spider-bots are trained to self-replicate.” Peter Parker said, “and they’re also trained to clean up any kind of mess but.. Uh.. it seems now stuck in self-replicate mode.” Peter continued, his voice shaking a little.

The spider-bot split into two, then four, then eight. Bucky groaned. “I knew it. They never train these kids properly. We’re going to babysit a swarm of mechanical arachnids!”

Peter’s voice cracked over the speakers. “I’m calling Spider-Man!”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “…You mean… you?”

Peter of course didn’t respond and neither is Spider-Man. “Uh, everyone, help me shoot webs at them while we wait for Spider-Man. Thanks.”

They stepped into the ride vehicle, Bucky scanning the controls like he was about to launch a real mission instead of a family-friendly attraction.

The ride jolted forward, and Bucky’s hands flailed as he tried to aim at the multiplying spider-bots. “I’ve fought HYDRA! I’ve escaped HYDRA! I can handle a dozen robot spiders!”

The tally on the screen blinked. Bucky hit one, then two… and promptly got swarmed by six more. He shrieked, high-pitched, as the ride spun him around. “Get off me! Get off me! These aren’t even real!”

Meanwhile, Y/n calmly aimed, shot, and tagged every spider that popped up. Her score skyrocketed.

Bucky’s score lagged embarrassingly behind, flashing red. “…How is she - she’s cheating.”

The final tally appeared as the ride slowed to a stop. Y/n’s score was astronomical. Bucky’s? Pathetic.

He groaned, slumping in the seat. “I… I lost to a girl. And she laughed the entire time.”

Y/n leaned over, kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry, soldier. You’ll always be my second-best web-slinger.”

Bucky muttered something about needing tactical debriefing while glaring at the ride console like it had personally betrayed him.

—

The Meta Experience 

By late afternoon, Avengers Campus was in full swing. Music blasted from hidden speakers, Spider-Man flipped over rooftops, and kids raced past with plastic shields and foam Mjolnirs. It was loud, messy, and cheerful - the exact opposite of Bucky’s current mood.

Bucky had expected some trouble the second Y/n dragged him into Avengers Campus, but he hadn’t expected to walk into what looked like his own reflection.

Black tactical suit. Shiny vibranium arm. Wig styled into brooding shoulder-length waves. A beard that looked like it had been glued on, but at a glance? Close enough.

Y/n’s laughter was immediate and merciless.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, clutching her stomach. “There’s two of you.”

Bucky stopped dead in his tracks, eyes narrowing.

“That’s not me.”

“It’s literally you,” Y/n countered, shoving her phone in his face as she took a sneaky picture of both of them in the same frame. “Oh my God, take a close picture with him. Please.”

Before Bucky could grab the phone, someone tapped his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” said a woman holding her toddler, “could you - uh - take a picture with him? He’s a big Winter Soldier fan.”

It was the toddler who sealed it. Chubby cheeks, wide eyes, clutching a little plush Captain America shield. Looking up at him like “you’re my hero”.

Bucky froze. Y/n smirked. And before he knew it, he was kneeling down, letting the kid touch his very real vibranium arm. “Cool,” the boy whispered, awestruck.

The mother snapped a picture. Then another family came over. And another.

“Barnes, what the hell are you doing?” Y/n whispered between hysterical giggles.

“I don’t - !” he hissed back. But it was too late. A small crowd had gathered. People thought he was the best cast member they’d ever seen.

He ended up posing with three Captain America cosplayers, saluting in unison. Someone asked him to “look menacing,” so he crossed his arms and scowled. Another group wanted a selfie where he was fake-punching them.

By the fifth photo, Y/n was crying from laughter.

“They think you work here,” she wheezed. “You’ve been accidentally hired!”

“Don’t say it like that,” Bucky muttered, stiff as a board as a college girl hugged his arm for a picture. “I’m not - this isn’t - ”

But when a little girl in a Black Widow costume shyly asked, “Can I get one too, Mr. Winter Soldier?” …Bucky couldn’t say no. He picked her up gently, posed for the camera, and even managed a small smile.

When the family walked away, Y/n elbowed him. “You’re a natural. They’re probably going to put you on the schedule now.”

Bucky groaned. “I swear, if Sam hears about this…”

Ten minutes later..

Y/n was doubled over on a bench, wiping tears from her eyes as family after family snapped pictures with him. He had tried - tried - to slip away, but every time he moved, someone else flagged him down.

“Best Winter Soldier yet,” a dad said approvingly, giving him a thumbs up.

“Bro, your arm looks so real,” a teenager marveled, poking the vibranium plates before Bucky could swat him away.

Y/n had just opened her mouth to tease him again when the crowd suddenly gasped.

Because the other Bucky Barnes had walked towards them.

Two Buckys. One campus.

“Oh no,” Y/n whispered gleefully, phone snapping pictures at lightning speed.

The crowd went wild.

“They cloned him!” someone shouted.

“It’s a multiverse variant!” another yelled.

“This is the coolest day of my life!”

Phones shot up everywhere. The two men stared at each other - real Bucky looking horrified, cast member Bucky looking confused but professional.

“Uh…” the actor started carefully, breaking character just for a moment. “You’re… really good at this.”

“I’m not - ” Real Bucky began, but Y/n cut him off with a grin.

“Babe, do the Spider-Man pointing meme!” she shrieked.

The crowd started chanting. “Point! Point! Point!”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He glared at Y/n. Then, under the weight of fifty expectant guests, he reluctantly lifted his hand and pointed at the actor. The actor, bless him, pointed right back.

The plaza erupted in cheers.

Suddenly everyone wanted pictures of both Buckys together. The poor cast member was trying to keep up the act while side-eyeing the real one like what are you doing here?, while the real Bucky just looked like he wanted to sink into the concrete.

At one point, a kid ran up between them, holding a toy shield. “Can I get a picture with both Winter Soldiers?”

And Bucky - real Bucky, Avenger, super-soldier, war hero - ended up crouching beside a child while his theme park doppelgänger did the same. Cameras flashed. Applause broke out. Y/n nearly passed out from laughing so hard.

By the time security discreetly pulled the actor aside to figure out what was happening, Bucky had already bolted, grabbing Y/n’s hand and muttering darkly, “We’re never coming back here again.”

“Are you kidding?” Y/n gasped, still laughing. “That was the best day of my life.”

Bucky had just managed to drag Y/n toward the exit gate, jaw clenched so tight it could’ve cracked granite, when another familiar voice rang out over the plaza.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Barnes.”

Bucky froze. Slowly, he turned.

There - strutting out from the Avengers Campus building - was Sam Wilson. Or, more specifically, Disney Sam, suited up in the Falcon-Captain America gear, wings folded and shield gleaming under the California sun.

The crowd screamed. “It’s Cap!!”

“Oh, for the love of- ” Bucky muttered.

The cast Sam looked him up and down, clearly recognizing that this wasn’t his Winter Soldier coworker, but not missing a beat. In full character, he clapped Bucky on the shoulder and said loudly, “Barnes, what did I tell you about sneaking off duty? Man, you always causing trouble.”

The crowd ate it up. Phones were out again, everyone chanting, “Cap and Bucky! Cap and Bucky!”

Y/n was practically doubled over in a laughing fit, clutching her stomach. “Oh my God, they think you’re on the clock!”

Bucky gave her a deadly glare. “Don’t.”

Disney Sam leaned in closer, lowering his voice for just Bucky. “Hey, man, you’re really good. Like, scary good. Who trained you?”

Bucky just blinked at him. “The U.S. Army. And Hydra.”

“…Uh-huh,” Disney Sam said, clearly assuming this guy was just very committed to the bit. Then, with a big theatrical gesture, he shouted to the crowd: “Come on, folks, let’s hear it for the Winter Soldier!”

The plaza erupted. Bucky stood there, fists clenching, trapped in a sea of applause and camera flashes, as Y/n squealed from the sidelines, “Smile, honey! Cap said so!”

That was the final straw.

“Y/n,” he hissed, grabbing her hand, “we’re leaving. Now.”

And with that, Bucky Barnes - real-life Avenger, war hero, the man who helped save the world multiple times - fled through Disneyland with Y/n cackling behind him, determined to make it out before someone introduced him to Spider-Man too.

—

Fireworks and The Winner

Bucky and Y/n finally made it to a spot in front of Sleeping Beauty Castle. The park had dimmed, the chaos of the day fading into the gentle hum of distant rides and the occasional murmur of tired guests.

Bucky stood among the crowd in front of the castle, shoulder to shoulder with strangers, but he only noticed Y/n. The first fireworks cracked the sky in bursts of red, blue, and gold, painting Sleeping Beauty Castle in shimmering light. For the first time all day, he let his chest loosen, let himself to simply exist in the absurd magic of Disneyland. His arm slid around Y/n’s waist, steady and protective, and she leaned her head against his shoulder as if the chaos around them didn’t exist.

“This… isn’t terrible,” he muttered softly, almost to himself. “Kind of… nice.”

Y/n smiled, looking up at him. “You mean it?”

Bucky let a small, almost shy smile slip. “Yeah. For now.”

The fireworks climaxed, lighting the castle in shimmering colors. Bucky finally closed his eyes, letting himself soak in the moment. The world felt… quiet. Safe. Almost normal. Almost.

And then.

Y/n pulled out her phone. A mischievous grin spread across her face.

“Ready for… the result?” she asked.

Before Bucky could react, she played every single scream he’d let out that day on full volume - Space Mountain, Mad Tea Party, Haunted Mansion, Incredicoaster, Guardians - each one echoing over the castle - making people turn their heads at them.

“I. WIN.” she declared, tossing her hair and crossing her arms triumphantly.

Bucky groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You’re evil.”

Y/n wasn’t done. From her bag, she produced a glittering pink Minnie Mouse ears headband and plopped it on Bucky’s head.

“When did you even buy it?” Bucky asked, shaking his head.

“I was prepared, I knew I would win.” She smirked, “Now, soldier, you will buy me shawarma from Avengers Campus. Immediately.”

Bucky sighed, exasperated, but there was a sparkle in his eye. He wrapped an arm around her waist, leaning close. “You know… I wouldn't do this for anyone. Just you.”

Y/n’s cheeks heated as she leaned into him. “You’re actually… sweet,” she murmured.

Bucky smirked, tugging her closer. “Just don’t tell anyone. It ruins my image.”

Y/n chuckled and before she could respond, Bucky pressed a soft, gentle kiss to her lips. Just a brief, tender moment that made her heart skip.

She melted for a second, then laughed, tugging him gently by the arm. “Alright, soldier, come on. Shawarma awaits at Avengers Campus!”

Bucky groaned dramatically - but the corners of his mouth tugged into a reluctant, happy smile as he let himself be dragged along, Minnie ears perched jauntily on his head.

As Y/n pulled him toward Avengers Campus once more, he whispered, softly, “Next time… I pick the ride.”

Y/n only laughed, already imagining all the chaos that would come. “Sure, Buck. Sure.”

And for the first time all day, amidst the chaos, the screams, the rides, and the memes, Bucky felt something surprisingly simple: joy.

[sebstanaddict]

Red Velvet & Rainstorm

Bucky Barnes x You

When Bucky Barnes loves you, even bad days taste sweet

Warning : none

Word count : 872 words

Read more soft Bucky / Sebastian scenes in Scenes for The Soul (A series of soft, fluff scenes between you and Bucky / Sebastian to help you get through the day)

Read more of my stories here.

---

It started with rain.

Not the romantic movie kind - this was the kind that made the sky look like it was having a full-on breakdown. You sat on the couch, still in your work clothes, staring at nothing while your shoulders curled in on themselves.

Bucky came in from his run, dripping wet, hair plastered to his forehead.

“You okay, doll?”

That one simple question cracked you wide open.

“No, Bucky. I’m not okay,” you blurted, your voice trembling. And before you could stop yourself, it all spilled out - the bad day, the worse week, the months of keeping it together when inside you were falling apart.

When you finally stopped talking, you realized the only sound in the room was the rain against the windows.

Bucky just stood there. Quiet.

The silence stung like a slap. You didn’t wait for him to speak. You grabbed your coat and ran out into the storm.

—

You didn’t know where you were going until you found yourself outside the glowing windows of the corner bakery. The smell of sugar and coffee cut through the wet air.

Then you heard him - Bucky, calling your name.

You turned to see him jogging up, soaked to the bone, looking like a very determined, very soggy action figure.

“Doll, you can’t just dump all that on me and run. C’mon, let’s get you inside before you catch pneumonia and make me learn how to cook soup.”

A few minutes later, you were sitting in the bakery while he returned from the counter with the biggest slice of red velvet cake and a steaming mug of coffee.

“With butterscotch and real milk,” he said, setting them down. “Exactly how my girl likes it.

”You sniffled. “You didn’t have to-”

“Shut up and eat your cake,” he said gently, sliding into the seat across from you. “It’s a scientific fact that you can’t be sad with frosting in your mouth.”

That made you laugh despite yourself.

When the cake was halfway gone, his voice softened.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything right away. I’m not good at… big feelings. But I heard you. I understand. And it’s okay if you break down in front of me. You don’t have to hold it all in. I’m here. No matter what.”

You blinked back tears, nodding.

Then, of course, he had to ruin the perfectly touching moment.

“Also, just say the word and I’ll go after anyone who hurt you.”

You raised a brow. “Go after them? Like… talk to them?”

He smirked. “Sure, let’s call it that. No one will find the body.”

You burst out laughing, covering your face with your hands.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he said without missing a beat, stealing a bite of your cake.

You let him. Because maybe this was exactly what you needed - someone who could sit with your pain, and still make you laugh so hard it chased the rain away.

—

Three days later, you were finally starting to feel lighter. Work was still a mess, but you weren’t crumbling under it anymore.

Bucky had insisted on picking you up after work, claiming he “just happened to be in the neighborhood,” which was a lie, because you’d spotted him leaning on his motorcycle outside the building for at least twenty minutes, pretending to scroll on his phone while really just waiting for you.

As soon as you reached him, he straightened, that boyish grin tugging at his mouth. Before handing you your helmet, he held out a plain paper bag.

“What’s this?” you asked, squinting at it.

“Survival kit,” he said casually, scratching the back of his neck. “For… you know. In case you have another one of those days.”

You opened it right there on the sidewalk. Inside was a generous slice of red velvet cake in a plastic container, a mini bottle of your favorite coffee creamer, and-because it could only ever be Bucky - an utterly ridiculous pair of pink glittery brass knuckles.

“Bucky,” you said slowly, already laughing, “what the hell is this?”

“They’re for intimidation purposes,” he replied, completely serious. “Nobody messes with my girl. Not on my watch.”

“They’re pink.”

“Exactly. Deadly and fabulous. They’ll never see it coming.”

You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over, clutching the bag to your chest.

“You’re actually insane.”

He just smirked and handed you the helmet. “Insanely in love with you,” he corrected gently, his voice dipping low. “I meant it, you know. The other day. You’re it for me.”

Your laughter softened into something warmer, heavier. You leaned forward and kissed his cheek, your voice muffled against his skin.

“You’re it for me too.”

When you finally climbed onto the bike behind him, you hugged him tighter than usual. And as the motorcycle roared to life and the city lights blurred into streaks around you, you held onto him, your survival kit pressed safely between you - cake, coffee, glitter brass knuckles and all.

And for the first time in weeks, you felt lighter, knowing that no matter how stormy life got, you’d always have him - steady, stubborn, and stupidly in love with you.

[sebstanaddict]

How Not to Plan a Birthday

Sebastian Stan x You One Shot

A/N: Just a little something to celebrate Sebastian's birthday :)

Warning: none

Word count: 1k words

Read more Sebastian Stan related one shots here.

Check out my master list here for more Sebastian (and also Bucky) stories.

---

You had a plan.

Not just a “let’s wing it” kind of plan - no, this was a full-on, military-grade, color-coded, bullet-pointed itinerary. Weeks in the making. You had backup activities for your backup activities. It was going to be perfect.

Because it was Sebastian’s birthday.

You’d carefully plotted out the morning surprise brunch at a swanky rooftop cafe, then a private movie screening, then a relaxing afternoon before a fancy dinner at his favorite Italian place, ending with the piece de resistance: a custom cake so expensive you were considering naming it in your will.

But as you stood in the hotel lobby, clutching the brunch confirmation email, watching the hostess at the rooftop cafe shake her head, you realized something crucial.

The universe does not care about your bullet points.

---

The Brunch Betrayal

“They don’t have us?” you repeated, forcing a smile that was starting to twitch.

“No reservation under your name,” the hostess replied brightly. “Or under Stan? We even checked for ‘Chris Evans’ just in case you were being funny.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Do people actually do that?”

The hostess shrugged like she’d seen it all. “More than you’d think.”

You quickly pulled out your phone and shoved the email at her. “See? Confirmation! Table for two at 10:30, rooftop, by the window-”

Her polite smile never faltered. “It says here it was cancelled online at 6:13 this morning.”

You turned to Sebastian in slow motion. “Did you-”

“Babe,” he said, putting a hand over his heart, “if I was gonna cancel brunch, I’d do it at a reasonable hour. Six-thirteen is barbaric.”

And that’s how you ended up in the diner across the street.

The kind of diner where the menu is laminated, the coffee could be used to strip paint, and the pancakes… well, they were supposed to be Mickey Mouse-shaped.

Supposed to be.

What hit your table looked more like Mickey Mouse after a long night and a tax audit.

Sebastian just grinned, held up his phone, and took a picture. “This is going on Instagram. Caption: ‘Best birthday brunch ever.’” He snapped one of you holding your fork in mock despair. “You look like you’re mourning the pancake.”

“It’s just-this was supposed to be eggs benedict with champagne, not… decapitated Disney,” you groaned.

“Champagne’s overrated,” he said through a mouthful of pancake. “These taste like childhood and questionable food safety. I love it.”

---

The Frozen Incident

You were certain the movie screening would save the day.

You’d rented out a small, retro theater - red velvet seats, gold trim, the kind of place where even the popcorn machine looks like it has a life story. You’d chosen Notting Hill because Sebastian adored it, and you’d even brought the file yourself.

The lights dimmed. The screen flickered to life.

And then… a snowflake appeared.

“Wait…” you whispered.

“Is that-” Sebastian started.

“NO,” you said too loudly, as Elsa materialized in glorious HD.

He turned to you, grinning like Christmas morning. “You brought Frozen 2?”

Your jaw dropped. “No! I must’ve grabbed the wrong USB-oh my God-”

“Let it gooo,” he sang softly, the traitor.

You slumped in your seat, burying your face in your hands as Olaf waddled onto the screen.

“Okay, but,” he whispered, leaning toward you, “Olaf’s existential crisis scene? That’s cinema.”

By the time the credits rolled, he was reciting lines with the confidence of a man who’d clearly seen it more than once. You didn’t even fight it anymore. You just sang along.

---

Blackout Pasta

Dinner was your last hope. You were going to wow him with pasta, candlelight, and a dessert wine that cost more than your shoes.

And then the city went dark.

Literally.

Every light blinked out. The restaurant windows showed only reflections of confused faces. Somewhere down the street, someone yelled, “Well, this is romantic!”

You turned to Sebastian, ready to apologize for the 700th time that day, but he was already standing, motioning for you to follow.

Outside, the neighborhood had transformed. Candles glowed in windows. Flashlights danced across sidewalks. A street musician had set up under a lamppost and was playing guitar. Someone nearby was selling roasted corn from a cart, the smell warm and buttery in the cool night air.

And just like that, you were sitting on the curb together, eating corn from paper sleeves and drinking soda from glass bottles.

Sebastian leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky. Without the city lights, the stars were visible, scattered and glittering.

“You know,” he said quietly, “this is perfect. I wouldn’t trade today for anything.”

You snorted. “Seriously? Even with the pancake ears, Elsa, and zero pasta?”

He nodded. “Especially because of that. I like it when things go wrong… means I get to see how much fun you are when you’re not trying to be perfect.”

You felt your face heat, and then remembered the cake. “Well… one thing did survive.”

---

The Cake Catastrophe

You retrieved the fancy white box from your tote bag with a flourish. “Ta-da.”

It was supposed to be a pristine two-tier creation, fondant wrapped, decorated with delicate chocolate accents. It was supposed to be the highlight.

It was… not pristine.

Apparently, between the diner, the movie, the blackout, and the roasted corn, the cake had been on its own emotional journey. One tier was cracked, chocolate accents lay in sad little piles, and the frosting was smeared like a toddler’s art project.

You froze. “No.”

Sebastian peered into the box, then back at you, and then he lost it. Full-on doubled over, clutching his stomach, gasping for air.

You tried to be mad, but it was impossible. His laugh was contagious, and soon you were both sitting on the curb, tears streaming down your faces, spooning messy cake straight from the box.

People walking by smiled at you, some even wishing him happy birthday. The street musician switched to Happy Birthday, and strangers clapped along.

"You know…" he began, after the birthday song was over, "I don’t need the perfect plan. Or the perfect day. Just… you."

"Even with questionable mickey mouse pancakes and Olaf?"

"Especially then," he said, grinning before he leaned in and kissed you softly.

It wasn’t the day you’d planned. Not even close.

But it was a day you would remember forever.

[sebstanaddict]

The Hat Between Worlds

Jefferson x You One Shot

Summary : When Jefferson took you to the only place you feel like home

Warning : none just slow burn and found family vibe (literally)

Word count: 6k words

Read more Sebastian Stan related one shots here.

Check out my master list here for more Sebastian (and also Bucky) stories.

---

The map is wrong.

You know it before the waitress even sets down your tea - the third intersection mark, the one you’d circled twice, is nowhere near the town line. You walked the distance this morning, boots crunching over frost-stiff grass, and found nothing but fence posts, a patch of stubborn thistles, and a goat that looked like it was judging your life choices.

Your pencil hovers over the faded grid lines. To anyone else, this is just a scatter of marks and arrows, annotated with cryptic symbols - field notes for your graduate thesis on Folklore Migration Patterns Across Rural Settlements. At least, that’s the official version. The one the university board approved. The one that gets you funding, travel clearance, and the occasional condescending pat on the head from professors who think “folklore” means “campfire ghost stories.”

What you didn’t put in the proposal is that your research is also about finding your real parents.

Your adoptive mom and dad never hid the truth. They found you as a baby on the edge of a frozen wood, bundled in a blanket they didn’t recognize. Just a note with your name on it, a single word, Y/n. But no other trail to follow. They told you they loved you as their own, and you believe them. But even when you were a kid, there was this constant itch under your skin - the sense that you belonged somewhere else entirely.

Your eyes drift to the blank corner of the map. You never draw there, as if leaving space for something you haven’t found yet. And as always, the dream surfaces. Or maybe it’s a memory.

You’re small enough to be cradled, your cheek pressed against your mother’s heartbeat. She smells like pine after rain, and something sweeter you can’t name. A man’s voice is close, low, and steady, though the words never make it back with you when you wake. Above, light moves like water in the air.

It’s the same dream every time. 

You’ve never told anyone, but that dream is the only place you’ve ever felt at home.

The waitress leans on the counter, eyeing the map like it might start talking. “Looking for someone?”

“Something,” you correct.

“Well,” she says with a conspiratorial tilt of her head, “if it’s magic you’re after, you should talk to the Mad Hatter. Real name’s Jefferson. Lives past the tree line with his little girl. Quiet type.”

You jot the name in the margin, right where the blank space begins. Not just because it might help your thesis - but because every strange rumor, every impossible story you’ve chased has been pulling you in the same direction.

Toward the place from your dream. Toward the people who might finally know who you really are.

---

You find him the next afternoon.

Not in some crooked teahouse or shadowed alley, but in a sunlit clearing behind a modest cottage. He’s kneeling in the frost-tinged grass, helping a girl with chestnut hair - Grace - adjust the chain on her bike.

He looks up before you speak.

And for a moment, he just… stares. Not long enough to be rude, but long enough for you to notice his eyes - sharp and pale, like they’ve seen more than they should. There’s a flicker there, almost wonder, almost recognition.

Then it’s gone. His expression smooths into something guarded, a faint smirk curling at one corner of his mouth.

“Whatever you’re selling,” he says, “I’m not buying.”

“I’m not selling anything,” you reply, holding up your hands. “I’m looking for someone who can take me to other realms.”

Something in his face shifts - a flicker, there and gone - but his smile is sharp when it returns.

“You and every other lunatic with a map.”

“This isn’t a joke,” you say, stepping closer. “I’m doing my thesis on-”

“Don’t care,” he interrupts. “And even if I did, I’m retired. No hat, no business. Go find your magic somewhere else.”

Grace looks between you, curious but silent. You want to push, but the set of his jaw says you won’t get far today.

You go back the next day anyway.

This time with a paper bag holding two steaming cups from the diner. You wait until he’s outside stacking firewood, and you hold it out.

“Peace offering.”

Jefferson eyes it warily, takes it anyway. “You think tea’s gonna change my mind?”

“No,” you admit. “But I thought it might buy me five minutes to convince you.”

He glances at the frost still clinging to the grass, then back at you. “Five minutes out here and you’ll be an icicle.” 

A beat. Then, reluctantly: “Come inside before you freeze.”

He leads the way up the steps, holding the door open just long enough for you to pass.

Inside, the air is warmer than you expected, touched with cedar and something faintly herbal - mint, maybe, or sage. It’s the kind of warmth that comes from a real fire, not central heating, and it wraps around you before you can stop yourself from relaxing.

Without a word, Jefferson takes the paper cups from the bag, sets them on the counter, and pulls down two ceramic mugs from the shelf - one chipped at the rim, the other painted with a fading chessboard pattern.

“I hate drinking from paper,” he says, pouring the tea into the mugs with practiced precision. “Makes everything taste like the cup.”

He slides one toward you, keeping the other for himself.

The walls are lined with shelves, some cluttered with books and glass jars, others stacked with fabric swatches and strange little tools - awls, ribbons, gears. It smells like wood shavings and old paper, with just enough tea in the air to make you think you’ve stepped into another time.

Your eyes find the mantle without meaning to. The hat is there. Tall, battered, rim frayed like it’s been worn through storms. The kind of thing that should be sitting in a shop window for decoration, except there’s something about it that doesn’t feel like decoration at all.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Was,” Jefferson corrects, holding his mug, the steam curling past his face. “Doesn’t work anymore.”

You step closer, drawn without thinking, fingertips brushing the brim. The fabric is softer than it looks, almost warm, like it’s been sitting in sunlight. And then..

A flicker. Not light exactly, but a ripple in the air, like heat rising off asphalt. The scent of cedar sharpens, and for the briefest heartbeat, the world tilts.

When it settles, Jefferson is staring at you like you’ve just set the room on fire.

“What did you do?” His voice is low, careful.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, though your pulse is still tripping over itself. “I just.. touched it.”

He takes a step closer, eyes narrowing. “It hasn’t responded to anyone in years.”

You glance down at the hat. “Maybe it likes me.”

His lips twitch like he’s holding back a smile - and not very successfully. “Don’t flatter yourself, Research Girl.”

Before you can reply, footsteps thump down the hall. Grace appears in the doorway, clutching a mug of cocoa and a lopsided scarf. “Dad, did you.. oh. Hi.” She looks between you, curious. “Are you one of the tea people?”

“The… tea people?” you echo.

“She means the ones who come around here asking for magic stories,” Jefferson says, shooting his daughter a look.

Grace shrugs. “You look nicer than the usual ones.” Then she disappears again, humming under her breath.

Jefferson’s gaze slides back to you. “Finish your tea. Then leave the hat alone.”

You lift your mug, meeting his eyes over the rim. “What if I don’t?”

His smirk returns, slow and deliberate. “Then I’m going to guide you to the door myself.”

The sound of Grace’s humming drifts in again, light and careless. She reappears, tugging a cardigan around her shoulders, her eyes flicking between the two of you like she’s watching a chess match.

“Dad,” she says, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re not actually going to make her leave, are you?”

Jefferson doesn’t answer, but you notice the corner of his mouth tick upward.

Grace sighs in the way only a daughter can. “You told me once that sometimes you help people because it’s the right thing to do, even if you don’t want to.”

“Grace -”

“She came here for a reason,” Grace interrupts, crossing the room and plucking the empty mugs from the table. “And you’ve been staring at that hat for years, waiting for an excuse.”

You glance at Jefferson, catching the faintest trace of discomfort - the kind that comes when someone has just been read perfectly in front of a stranger.

Grace sets the mugs down in the sink and turns to you. “If anyone can take you where you need to go, it’s him.” Then, back to her father: “And if you still know how.”

Silence hums between them, and you hold your breath, not daring to break it. Finally, Jefferson exhales through his nose, slow and reluctant.

“One trip,” he says, pointing a finger at you. “And then you disappear from my life.”

You smile. “Deal.”

He doesn’t smile back, but there’s something in his eyes - that same flicker from the clearing, the one he keeps trying to bury.

“Meet me here tomorrow morning,” he says, turning toward the mantle. “And don’t be late. Hats don’t like waiting.”

Grace smiled at that and turned to you, “By the way, what’s your name?”

You blink. “Y/n.”

Grace turns on her father. “Dad. You’ve had her sitting here all this time and didn’t even ask her name?”

Jefferson doesn’t look up from adjusting the hat on the mantle. “Names aren’t necessary if you’re not planning to see someone again.”

Grace folds her arms. “That’s rude.”

He finally glances at you, one eyebrow raised. “Y/n, then.” He says it like he’s testing the shape of it, rolling it slow in his mouth before turning away again.

You straighten a little, surprised at the way your name sounds in his voice - deliberate, like he’s trying it on to see if it fits. The faintest curl of warmth stirs in your chest, unwelcome but stubborn, as you slip your hands into your coat pockets.

“Well,” you say, stepping back toward the door, “thanks for… letting me in and agreeing to go with me tomorrow.”

Jefferson doesn’t answer, but Grace gives you a little wave from where she’s washing the mugs in the sink. “It was nice meeting you, Y/n. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, see you tomorrow, Grace,” you smiled.

You push the door open, winter air spilling in, and glance back just once. Jefferson is standing by the mantle, one hand resting on the brim of the hat - watching you from the corner of his eye.

You close the door softly behind you, carrying that look with you all the way down the path.

---

The next morning, frost rims every fence post, every bare branch, the whole town holding its breath under a pale winter sun. You follow the narrow path to Jefferson’s cottage, your boots crunching in the snow-crust.

He’s waiting outside, coat buttoned, gloves in one hand, the hat tucked under his arm. Grace hovers nearby, bundled to her chin, clearly determined to see you off.

“You’re on time,” Jefferson says, sounding almost disappointed.

You smirk. “Hats don’t like waiting. I was warned.”

His mouth quirks before he gestures to the patch of grass between you. “So, where is it you think you want to go?”

You hesitate, pulse ticking faster. “I… I don’t know if it’s real.”

“Doesn’t matter. Just tell me.”

You glance between him and the hat. “It’s a place I’ve only seen in dreams. I’m a baby - my mother’s holding me, my father’s close by. There’s light everywhere, like it’s moving through water.” You swallow. “I’ve had the same dream my whole life. It feels like… home. But I don’t remember enough.”

He studies you for a beat too long, his expression unreadable, before he hands you the hat. “Hold it. Picture every detail you can.”

The brim is softer than it looks, faintly warm against your palms. You close your eyes and pull the image into focus - the warmth of your mother’s arms, the blurred shape of your father, the shimmering light that makes everything feel suspended and safe.

When you open your eyes, Jefferson gently takes the hat back and sets it on the frost-tipped grass. It spins once, twice, sunlight catching on its battered edge. The air thickens, humming low, like a held note.

But the vision wavers in your mind. The hum stutters.

“Not strong enough,” Jefferson murmurs.

Before you can answer, the hat jerks, spinning harder. The hum deepens, the air around you rippling. Jefferson’s hand closes around your wrist.

“Hold on.”

The brim becomes a whirlpool of shadow and light, pulling everything inward - the ground, the air, your breath. And then you’re falling.

---

You land hard enough to jar your knees, the shock rippling through your bones. When you look down, the surface beneath you is smooth as glass, but your reflection wavers below, as if you’re standing on a frozen lake made of mirrors.

Jefferson straightens beside you, eyes scanning the horizon - an endless expanse of mirrored water, broken only by shards of what look like towers, suspended beneath the surface.

“Well,” he says, dusting frost from his coat, “we’re definitely not where you wanted to go.”

You turn in a slow circle, breath fogging the mirrored air. “Then… where are we?”

“The Glass Sea,” Jefferson says. “Step wrong here, and you’ll fall through into your own reflection. Trust me - you don’t want to find out where that leads.”

The mirrored expanse seems endless, the light bending in ways your eyes can’t quite keep up with. Shards of colored glass drift lazily in the air, catching the glow of an unseen sun and scattering it across the sea’s surface like a kaleidoscope.

And then, far ahead, something moves - a dark shape gliding across the glass.

As it draws closer, you see the hull: a ship, its sails made of silvered mirrors that tilt and catch the light with each shift of wind. The reflection of the ship beneath the surface is so perfect it makes you dizzy to look at.

Jefferson gives a short nod toward it. “Our ride.”

The crew - if you can call them that - are thin, reed-like figures with eyes like cut crystal. They don’t speak, only gesture silently as Jefferson leads you up the gangplank. The moment your boots touch the deck, the ship gives a gentle lurch, sliding forward across the glass.

You wander to the helm, your fingers brushing over the smooth surface. It’s warm, almost alive. Without thinking, you press your palm flat against it.

The glass beneath your hand ripples outward, bending the reflection of the sails until the mirrored sea becomes liquid, briefly swallowing the image of the ship whole.

Jefferson is at your side in an instant, his hand hovering just shy of your arm. “You shouldn’t do that.”

You look at him, startled. “I didn’t.. I just touched it.”

“That’s the point.” His gaze flicks to the helm, still pulsing faintly. “You don’t even know how strong your magic is, do you?”

You shake your head. “I’m not - I’ve never been -”

He cuts you off gently. “Magic doesn’t care if you believe in it. But you should learn how to keep it from swallowing you.”

You try to focus on the horizon instead, but his words sit heavy in your chest.

---

That night, the mirrored sails reflect a sky so full of stars it feels endless. A full moon hangs low, painting the glass in pale blue light. The crew moves silently below deck, leaving you and Jefferson alone on the open deck, wrapped in the quiet hum of the sea beneath.

You sit cross-legged near the railing, watching the way the moon’s reflections ripple in the glass. “I told you before I don’t remember much,” you begin, your voice low. “And I didn’t. Not until now.”

Jefferson glances over, brow furrowing.

“It’s… strange. Being here - it’s like something’s opening in my head. I can almost see it.” You close your eyes, leaning back against the railing. “There’s a forest. I think. And two moons. My mother’s holding me, but her face is… blurred. My father’s voice is close, but I can’t make out the words.”

When you open your eyes, Jefferson is still watching you, his expression unreadable.

“I’ve never really felt like I belonged anywhere,” you admit. “Not with my adoptive parents, not in the city, not even at school. That dream… it’s the only place that’s ever felt like home.”

Jefferson’s hands rest on the railing, gloved fingers tapping once. “And you think it’s real?”

“I don’t just think,” you say. “I know. It’s where the worlds touch.”

He tilts his head slightly, the barest flicker of something crossing his face. “Then maybe that’s where we need to go.”

You huff a quiet laugh, though your chest feels tight. “And you’ll just… know how to get there?”

“I’m very good at finding places people don’t want found,” he says, and the way his voice dips on the words makes your stomach turn in on itself in the most inconvenient way.

A shard of colored glass drifts down from the sky, landing on the deck with a soft chime. You reach for it without thinking, but it skitters toward the railing. Before it can slip into the Sea, Jefferson’s hand closes over yours.

It’s just a touch - warm, steady - but it freezes you in place.

“You don’t touch anything here without knowing what it is,” he says quietly, eyes locked on yours.

You swallow, pulse loud in your ears, unable to break his gaze.

His fingers curl slightly before he lets go, the faintest delay in the movement, as if weighing something unseen. “Careful, Research Girl,” he says, turning toward the helm. “This place has a way of keeping hold of things.”

You glance down at your hand, the ghost of his touch still warm against your skin, and tell yourself it’s just the air here making your heart beat faster.

---

The ship glides forward, the mirrored sails shifting with the faintest whisper of wind. The moons’ light is so bright now that you can see your reflection in the glassy sea below - clear, almost too clear.

You lean over the railing without thinking, your breath clouding the surface.

But your reflection doesn’t mimic you.

It’s still smiling.

You jerk back, the sudden movement rattling the railing. Before you can call for Jefferson, your reflection’s hand rises from the glass - a perfect, shimmering copy of your own - and grabs your wrist.

Cold. Bone-deep cold.

The deck tilts beneath you as the thing yanks, hard, trying to drag you down into the mirror-water. Your knees hit the wood.

Then Jefferson’s there, arms locking around your waist, his voice low and steady in your ear. “Don’t look at it. Look at me.”

You do. His eyes are sharper than any reflection, anchoring you as he plants his boots and hauls you back. The glass ripples violently, your double’s grip slipping. One final pull and you’re against his chest, the reflection vanishing into stillness as if nothing happened at all.

For a moment, neither of you moves. His coat smells faintly of cedar smoke, his heartbeat steady under your cheek.

When he finally eases his hold, there’s the slightest hesitation before he lets you go. “You can’t trust what you see in the Glass Sea,” he says, softer this time. “It will show you what you want most - or what you fear most - and make it look exactly like you.”

You steady your breath, trying to ignore the echo of his hold still lingering like a phantom weight. “That… felt like both.”

He glances at you, something unreadable in his expression. “Maybe it was.”

---

The wind shifts sometime after midnight, carrying a faint, crystalline hum across the deck. Jefferson moves to the helm, his coat snapping in the breeze, and you follow, careful to keep your balance on the shifting glass.

“We’ll be at the edge by morning,” he says, eyes on the horizon.

“The edge?” you echo.

He nods toward the faint shimmer in the distance - not a line exactly, but a rippling band of fractured light. “The Sea ends where the worlds touch. We’ll find another door there… if it’s still open.”

You glance at the mirrored surface beneath them, how it distorts the sky in impossible ways. “And if it’s not?”

He doesn’t look at you. “Then we make one.”

The earlier image of the two moons lingers in your mind, sharper now, as if the Glass Sea itself has worn down some internal wall.

By dawn, the shimmer has grown into a towering curtain of light, its base dissolving into shards of pale blue glass that clink softly against the hull. The ship slows as they approach, the mirrored sails catching only the smallest threads of wind.

Jefferson sets the hat under his arm and gestures for you to follow him toward the bow. “This is where you picture it,” he says, voice lower now, more deliberate. “The place you’re looking for.”

You close your eyes, focusing on the memory that’s been tugging at you since last night: the forest, the two moons, the blurred warmth of your mother’s arms, your father’s voice just out of reach. You cling to the sound, the feel of it, the way it makes your chest ache.

Jefferson tosses the hat into the air, and it spins as it falls - not down to the deck, but into the curtain of light itself. The brim catches, warping the shimmer like a pebble dropped in still water.

The ripple grows, until the light becomes a tunnel. Wind whips around you, pulling hard toward the opening.

Jefferson glances at you once - just long enough for you to catch the smallest flicker in his expression - and then you both step forward.

The Glass Sea disappears.

---

The light swallows you whole, pressing against your skin like warm water. Then, as abruptly as it began, the pull is gone.

You’re standing ankle-deep in grass.

Not ordinary grass - each blade glimmers faintly, like it’s holding the memory of starlight. The air smells green and sharp, threaded with something floral you can’t name. And above you… two moons.

Your chest tightens.

It’s exactly like the fragment you’ve carried for as long as you can remember - but the rest is new. The trees here are taller than cathedrals, their trunks carved with curling lines that glow faintly, like veins under skin. Between them, the air hums with low, distant music.

You’re so caught up in looking that you almost don’t notice Jefferson moving. He stepped in front of you without a word, scanning the tree line, his hand brushing the brim of his hat like a reflex.

“Is this it?” he asks finally, glancing back at you.

“I… think so,” you say, but your voice feels too small for the moment. “It’s the place from my memory.”

He studies you for a beat, the breeze lifting strands of his hair, before turning his attention back to the forest. “Then we stay alert. Things that look like home aren’t always safe.”

You want to tell him you can handle yourself, but something about the way he’s placed himself between you and whatever might be in those trees makes you keep quiet.

You take another step into the clearing, and the air changes. Warmer. Sweeter.

Almost immediately, something stirs under your skin - a faint hum that grows into a pulse. Around your boots, the grass straightens and deepens in color. Flowers push up through the soil, their petals unfolding in seconds instead of days. Vines curl lazily up the nearest trees, heavy with blossoms that weren’t there a breath ago.

Jefferson’s gaze sharpens. “That’s you.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you protest, though your pulse is quickening with each bloom.

“You are,” he says, quieter this time.

Before you can say more, he nods toward the far side of the clearing. Through the shimmer of sunlight, you see it - a house. Not quite like any you’ve seen before: pale stone walls veined with glowing patterns, a roof that looks like it’s woven from silver reeds. The air around it carries a faint, warm spice.

You exchange a look with Jefferson, and the unspoken agreement passes between you - you go together.

The path winds through trees, your magic still stirring the plants in your wake. But as the house draws closer, a low growl cuts through the air.

A dog steps out from behind a tree - or something shaped like a dog, its fur black as obsidian and eyes the color of molten gold. The hair along its spine stands rigid, and the growl deepens.

Jefferson moves in front of you without hesitation, one arm angled to keep you behind him. “Easy,” he murmurs, though his voice is tight. The dog steps forward, muscles bunching, teeth bared.

It lunges.

Jefferson shoves you back, catching the brunt of the leap with his shoulder, twisting to keep the snapping jaws away from you. You can hear the snarl vibrate through the air - and then, just as quickly, it stops.

The animal turns its head toward you, nostrils flaring. You freeze, every instinct screaming to step back, but something deeper roots you to the spot.

It sniffs once. Twice. Then, without warning, the growl melts into a high, excited bark. The creature pushes past Jefferson and bounds toward you, tail whipping back and forth, licking your hands and face as if you’ve just returned from a long trip.

Jefferson blinks at you, still catching his breath. “I’m guessing that’s not normal.”

Before you can answer, the door to the house swings open. A woman rushes out, her eyes wide, she is calling you with a voice you haven’t heard in decades but somehow recognize instantly.

“Y/n.”

Behind her, a tall man follows, his expression locked between disbelief and hope.

You don’t remember moving, but suddenly you’re wrapped in the woman’s arms, the scent of her - smoke, pine, something sweet - knocking loose something deep in your chest. The man joins the embrace, his hand cupping the back of your head.

When they finally pull back, both of them are smiling through tears.

“Come inside,” your mother says, her hand warm on your cheek. “We have so much to tell you.”

Inside, the air glows with a gentle amber light. The walls are carved from pale stone, etched with soft, glowing lines that pulse faintly like the heartbeat of the house itself. Shelves carved into the walls hold strange, delicate objects - a glass sphere with a storm trapped inside, a stack of paper so thin it’s almost transparent, a small music box that hums without being touched.

A fire crackles in the hearth, and on the low table between you sits a tall, slender pitcher filled with a swirling golden liquid. Your father pours it into delicate cups, each one a thin crystal shell that seems to shift color in your hands - gold to amber to rose.

The first sip is warm and effervescent, as though it’s made of captured sunlight. The flavor is impossible to name - sweet like ripe fruit, but with something deeper underneath, like the air before a storm.

Your mother sets her cup down and takes your hands in hers, studying you like she’s trying to memorize every line of your face. “We never wanted to let you go,” she says softly, her voice trembling. “Not for a moment.”

Your father sits forward, his gaze steady but shadowed with old pain. “But if you’d stayed here, you would have been found.”

You frown. “Found by who?”

“The Riftkeepers,” he says, his voice dipping lower, as if the name itself might carry weight. “They believe the old prophecy - that a child born under the Split Moons could open the Eternal Rift. A living key, they called you. The Threshold Child.”

Your mother’s grip on your hands tightens. “The Rift is not just a door, Y/n. It’s a tear in the fabric between realms. If they had opened it, it would have swallowed whole worlds. And you… you were the only one who could unlock it.”

Your father continues, “From the moment you were born, they watched. They would have taken you before your first year ended. And if they had… your magic would have been forced awake before you could control it. You wouldn’t have survived what they would have done to you.”

The fire pops softly in the silence that follows.

“So you sent me away,” you say quietly.

“To a place without magic,” your mother says, brushing your hair back like she’s done it a thousand times in her mind. “Where your powers would stay dormant. Where no one could sense you. Where you could be safe, even if it meant you didn’t remember us.”

“And we stayed here,” your father says, “keeping the Riftkeepers busy, letting them believe the Threshold Child was gone forever.”

Your chest feels tight, like the golden drink has turned to stone in your stomach. “You gave up everything.”

“We didn’t give you up,” your mother whispers, her eyes shining. “We gave you a chance.”

The words settle between you, heavy and impossible to untangle.

Behind you, Jefferson shifts, leaning against the hearth with his arms crossed - not intruding, but close enough that you feel his presence like a steadying weight. When you glance at him, there’s something in his expression you recognize. The understanding of someone who’s also had to let go of what they love, just to keep it safe.

The warmth of the fire feels heavier now, like the air itself knows what’s coming.

Your mother still holds your hands, but her grip changes - no longer tentative, now firm. “You can’t stay.”

It takes a second for the words to register. “What?”

Your father leans forward, his eyes shadowed. “The Riftkeepers will come for you if they know you’ve returned. They’ve waited decades for this. You’ve been safe only because you were in a realm without magic. Here, they’ll sense you.”

“They won’t find me,” you say automatically, but the conviction in your voice wavers.

“They will,” your mother says. “They always do. You were born under the Split Moons - the Threshold Child. You are the living key to the Eternal Rift. If they catch you…” She swallows, voice cracking. “They’ll use you to tear it open, and nothing in any realm will survive what comes through.”

Your father adds quietly, “That’s why we sent you away. To hide you. To save you.”

You glance at Jefferson, hoping for something - reassurance, a plan - but his face is unreadable, arms crossed, watching you and them in turn.

“I’m not a child anymore,” you tell your parents, your voice harder now. “I’ve spent my whole life not knowing who I am, not belonging anywhere. I’m not going to disappear again just because someone might use me. I can fight back.”

Your father’s mouth presses into a line. “This isn’t a fight you win by standing your ground. This is a fight you win by never being found.”

And then your mother adds something you didn’t expect. “It’s not just the Riftkeepers anymore. Now that you’ve crossed realms, your magic has awakened. You’ve bonded to someone -” her eyes flick briefly toward Jefferson, “- and that bond makes the old prophecy active again.”

Your stomach knots. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” your father says grimly, “if they get to you now, you won’t just be a key they force open - you’ll be drawn to the Rift yourself. It will pull at you, and you won’t be able to resist without training.”

It’s a different kind of weight than you’ve ever felt before. The danger isn’t only from them. It’s from you.

You take a deep breath. “Then I’ll stay. I’ll learn control. I won’t let them use me - and I won’t run away from my life again.”

Silence follows, thick enough to choke on, until your father leans back with a slow exhale. “Then we’ll need to make this place safe.”

From the corner, Jefferson shifts, his arms uncrossing. His gaze finds yours - steady, intent - but there’s a shadow there. Not doubt in you, but something heavier.

When the time comes for him to leave, you walk with him to the edge of the warded woods. The air is sharp and still, and every step feels like it’s cutting down something you don’t want to name.

At the boundary, he pauses, setting the hat down on the moss. For a long moment, neither of you says anything.

“I should go before the door closes,” he says at last, adjusting the brim. His voice is even, but you catch the faintest hesitation, as if he’s looking for a reason to wait.

You nod once. “Grace will be glad to have you back.”

Something flickers in his expression - a trace of a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He tips his hat, almost courtly, before stepping toward the spinning portal.

Just before it swallows him, he glances back. “See you around, Research Girl.”

And then he’s gone.

---

Weeks blur into months. You train with your parents, learning to anchor your magic instead of letting it surge uncontrolled. One crisp morning, you stand in the garden, hands outstretched, coaxing a portal into being.

It wavers, unstable - until something pushes back from the other side.

The shimmer deepens, and through the swirl steps Grace, a scarf tossed around her neck and a grin on her face. Behind her, Jefferson follows, a little out of breath, as if they’ve been rushing.

“Your portal works,” he says, faint smile tugging at his mouth.

You blink, stunned. “You-what-?”

Grace answers for him, cheerfully oblivious to the way your pulse is spiking. “Dad decided it was time for a change. We’re staying here for a while.”

Grace darts ahead toward the house, scarf streaming behind her, when a blur of black fur bounds out from between the trees. The obsidian-furred dog skids to a stop in front of her, tail whipping back and forth like it might launch itself into the air. With a delighted laugh, Grace drops to her knees, and the dog immediately covers her face in wet, happy licks.

You and Jefferson slow your pace, watching her wrestle with the overexcited creature, her giggles carrying across the clearing.

“She’s happy here,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” Jefferson says after a beat, his voice softer than usual. “She hasn’t laughed like that in a long time.” His gaze lingers on Grace before finally turning to you. “You know… most people would’ve run the other way when they found out what you are.”

You raise a brow. “And you didn’t?”

He shrugs, but the edge is gone from it. “Guess I’ve learned the right people are worth crossing a few worlds for.”

Something in your chest twists - warm and sharp all at once - and you hope he doesn’t notice the way your steps falter. You glance ahead toward Grace, using her laughter as an excuse not to meet his eyes, but the words settle anyway, looping in your head like a line from a story you’re not ready to close.

Grace straightens, waving for you both to hurry. The dog trots at her side, still bouncing with excitement. You and Jefferson fall into step together, the path winding toward the warm glow spilling from the house.

Just before you reach the porch, he glances down at you, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. 

“Looks like you finally found the place where the worlds touch,” he says softly. Then, after a beat, “Come on, Research Girl. We’re home.”

---

A/N:

Thank you to the person who initially requested this as a custom story for allowing me to post it to everyone :)

Do you want to read a story like this too but where HE says YOUR name? And where YOU can decide the vibe, plot and details? 

I'm opening limited spots for custom stories. Contact me for more details or visit my Ko-Fi

[sebstanaddict]

After The Storm

Bucky Barnes x You One Shot

Summary : When Bucky Barnes found you, the storm passed, and the pieces fit

Warning : none

Word count : 1037 words

Read more soft Bucky / Sebastian scenes in Scenes for The Soul (A series of soft, fluff scenes between you and Bucky / Sebastian to help you get through the day)

Read more of my stories here.

---

It hit you like a ton of bricks.

You were staring at the ceiling, eyes wide, mind wandering for the past hour or so, thinking sporadically about a lot of things.

Then you realized, you weren't thinking sporadically at all. Somehow your brain was showing you important events and moments that had been happening to you ever since.. ever since you lost everything..

And now they all clicked into place. Like a puzzle that took you five long years to complete.

A tear dropped down your face and you quickly wiped it away. 

Then you sniffled.

And he shifted.

You felt the bed creak and a warm hand circled your waist.

“Doll? Are you ok?” Bucky asked, voice deep and raspy.

“I’m fine.” You sighed, knowing he wasn't going to buy it.

But he didn't push you. His hand moved to yours and he rubbed it gently. As if telling you that it was okay to open up.

“Can’t sleep?” He asked again, his hand tightened on yours gently.

You shook your head.

“Do you want to talk about it or would you rather I just go and make you some warm milk?”

You couldn't help the smile from forming on the corner of your lips. 

You turned to him and said slowly “I just had an epiphany.”

“Epiphany huh? Do you mind telling me what it’s about?” His hand left yours and now gently caressed your cheek.

You stared at him, at his deep blue eyes and saw the love and care he felt for you, which strengthened the epiphany you felt earlier.

You took a deep breath, “I was thinking, about what has been happening in my life ever since.. Ever since I lost everything.” Your voice shook and Bucky held the side of your face, grounding you.

He didn’t say anything, just stared at you in quiet understanding.

You exhaled slowly and started again, “I thought it was a punishment, for my sins, for whatever it was I did. But I realized, it wasn’t. And I realized, my prayers have actually been answered. Maybe.. maybe not in the way that I had imagined or even not in the way I wanted to. But still answered nonetheless. And they were answered in an even better way. In a way that is safe for me.”

You paused, feeling your throat tighten.

“It feels like... like Someone was always guiding me here. Not punishing me. Just leading me. Patiently.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, but you felt his hand gently move to the back of your neck, grounding you, pulling you a little closer.

“I spent all these years in pain. Questioning why I had to lose everything. My family, my job, my home. Everything that I knew. And now.. I know why.”

“Why?” He asked, his breath seemed like it was caught a little.

“If I hadn’t lost everything, I wouldn’t be here.. “ You said softly, and Bucky blinked.

“Granted, I live in a worse place than I used to. Have a worse job. No family. At least not immediate ones. But, I feel more at peace than I ever had. Like.. this is it. This is where I’m supposed to be. With you.” You whispered at the end, like you were unsure of how Bucky would react.

He stared at you, unblinking, but you could see his mind, his soul, working behind them. Maybe wondering how best to respond to your sudden statement.

“I’m sorry.. That was heavy. I shouldn’t have..” You started but he put his index finger on your lip, silencing you.

“Doll.. no need to say sorry. I.. I just don’t know what to say. That was.. profound.” He blinked several times as if trying to stop himself from crying.

“Have you ever thought about it? Why do things happen the way they happened to you and if you could ever get the answer on why they happened to you?” 

Bucky sighed. “All the time. And you know what, what you said resonated with me. And I think you’re right. If I hadn’t fallen off the train, I wouldn't have become the Winter Soldier.. I might not be here.. With you..”

“So I guess we’re fated?” You asked slowly.

He smiled, “I guess so.”

“Well I’m glad.” You said simply and he laughed.

“That’s it? You’re glad?” 

“Well.. I’m happy, that’s for sure.” You smiled at him and cupped his cheek.

“And I’m happy too, doll. So happy.” He smiled and leaned closer.

And there it was again, your heart couldn’t help but beat faster as he came closer and brushed his lips on yours.

And as he kissed you softly, gently, reverently, you thought that there was no better place to be than here.

With him.

Hopefully forever.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. You could feel his breath, slow and steady now.

“You’re not alone anymore, doll,” he whispered. “You never have to carry it all by yourself again.”

Your chest tightened at his words.

“I know,” you whispered. “And I don’t want to forget that.”

He gave a small nod and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Then I’ll remind you. Every day if I have to.”

You smiled at him, tears slipping down your cheeks, but this time, they didn’t fall from pain but from love.

He pulled you closer into his arms and tucked you under his chin.

You held each other in the dark, listening to the sound of his heartbeat, the silence between words filled with something deeper than either of you could name.

Then, just when you thought the moment had passed, Bucky whispered, “Whatever brought you to me… I’m grateful for it. Even the hard parts.”

He kissed your forehead, then wrapped his arm tighter around you.

And in the stillness of the night, with nothing but the sound of his heartbeat in your ear, you felt it again.

Peace.

Not because everything was perfect.

Not because the pain was gone.

But because for the first time in a long time, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Safe. Loved. Home.

[sebstanaddict]

Unseen

A new original story inspired by Sebastian Stan

Summary :

Zoe Grace Harper is a tea-loving, color-coding, mildly neurotic assistant who pours her heart out to her journal Frankie, trusts in the universe's signs (like that one time a butterfly landed on her stapler), and firmly believes in old-fashioned romance - like handwritten letters and forehead kisses. She’s quirky, spiritual, hilariously self-aware, and very much not in love with her boss… unless you count the way she emotionally combusts every time he casually says her name.

Julian Langdon Hayes is Hollywood’s golden boy - charming, award-winning, and quietly disillusioned with his picture-perfect life. The only person who sees through it all? Zoe. But while she thinks he’s just being polite, he’s starting to think she might be the one person who could save him from himself.

Warning : None

Word count : 6.7k

Chapter List

---

Chapter 5 - The Fallout

---

Dear Frankie,

Remember when I thought I was emotionally spiraling? That was cute. Adorable, even.

Today, I reached new depths of humiliation - and I did it in flats and a tote bag full of throw pillows.

Let me walk you through it.

It was Saturday. I showed up at Julian’s condo - uninvited, might I add - because I didn’t know if assistants get weekends off and I was too much of a coward to ask. Also, I’d promised to bring cozy vibes to his emotionally frigid bachelor penthouse, and I had the scented candles to prove it.

The plan: Be helpful. Drop off the stuff. Ask if I was allowed to still be employed. What actually happened: I walked in. His girlfriend kissed him. I died. The end.

You’d think I would’ve remembered he had a girlfriend. You’d think that fact - one that’s been plastered across media outlets for two years - might have crossed my mind before I barged into his home with a cinnamon-scented candle and enough emotional delusion to power a CW drama.

But no. Because I, Zoe Grace Harper, possess the magical ability to conveniently forget any detail that contradicts my romantic denial fantasy.

Classic me.

America’s Sweetheart, they call her. Perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect red carpet etiquette. The kind of woman who doesn’t trip over lighting rigs or say things like “I like steam” to her boss.

They look good together. No. They look iconic. Like they were genetically engineered by a PR team and the gods of lighting.

And then there’s me. Holding Steve - the tiny potted plant, a woven wall hanging, and the shattered pieces of my dignity.

He saw me. Mid-kiss, mid-living-room, mid-me-unraveling. And something in his eyes shifted.

But it doesn’t matter. Because I saw everything I needed to see.

Game over, Frankie.

I’m going to need you to reset my heart, delete my search history, and possibly fake my death.

- Z

---

Zoe was fine.

Totally, completely fine.

She was also eating matcha ice cream straight from the tub in her mismatched pajamas at 3:14 p.m. while aggressively googling her boss and his girlfriend like it was her new full-time job.

But fine.

The spoon clicked against her teeth as she squinted at the screen. Search bar: julian langdon hayes madelineEnter.

Her phone, traitorous and fast, offered up pages of results. Red carpet photos. Candid shots. A Vogue cover from last year: “Julian & Madeline: Hollywood’s Golden Couple”

Zoe groaned and took another bite.

“Golden couple,” she muttered. “Great. Just what the world needs. Gold-plated perfection and his equally glowy soulmate.”

She scrolled faster. There was Madeline - Madeline Blair, her brain offered unhelpfully. Star of three award-winning dramas. Owner of a skincare line that probably cured sadness. Legs for days. Hair that belonged in a shampoo commercial.

And, apparently, the kind of woman who could kiss Julian Langdon Hayes in a sunlit condo and not spontaneously combust.

Zoe zoomed in on one of the photos. There he was - Julian - arm around Madeline, smiling with that same easy charm he gave everyone. But somehow different. Tighter. More posed.

Zoe blinked. Paused. Zoomed in again. She couldn’t explain it, but something in his eyes didn’t match the grin.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Hope wearing denial’s cologne.

She’d just about convinced herself to stop scrolling when her thumb accidentally tapped on a Variety headline:

"Julian Hayes & Madeline Blair: How Hollywood’s Sweethearts Keep It Grounded"

Published six months ago.

Perfect. Vintage heartbreak.

She clicked anyway. Of course she did.

“We try to tune out the noise,” Madeline says with a graceful smile, her hand resting gently on Julian’s knee. “At the end of the day, it’s just about being with someone who understands the pressure. Who sees the real you beneath it all.”

Zoe froze mid-bite.

“She’s been my rock,” Julian says. “We’re both figuring things out in the spotlight. It helps having someone who understands that.”

The spoon dropped into the tub.

Her heart didn’t just ache - it folded in on itself, like a sad little origami swan that had flown too close to the sun.

“Do you see yourselves settling down anytime soon?” the interviewer asks.Madeline laughs. “We’ve talked about it. But right now we’re just enjoying the ride.”

Enjoying the ride.

Zoe shut her phone like it had personally offended her.

“What ride?” she muttered. “The one where you crash into unsuspecting assistants who thought this was a slow-burn rom-com, not a psychological thriller?”

She pulled a pillow onto her chest and yelled into it.

Not loud. Just a little scream. A cute, respectful scream.

She sat there in silence, ice cream now soup in her lap.

There was no universe in which she and Julian belonged in the same sentence. Except, apparently, in her imagination. And that was the most dangerous place of all.

She stared blankly at the ceiling.

Which, to its credit, didn’t collapse on her. Unfortunate.

Her spoon leaned sideways in the melted puddle of matcha. The throw pillow lay limply on her chest, its fibers full of betrayal and failure and quiet judgment.

Zoe reached for her phone again. Opened her Notes app. Scrolled past grocery lists and chaotic reminders like “ASK OWEN IF PR LADY HAS A NAME” and “Find out if Steve needs misting???”

Then opened the one labeled:

RESIGNATION. for real this time. no jokes.

The draft blinked at her like it knew.

Julian,Thank you for the opportunity to work alongside you and the team.I’ve learned a great deal and am proud of the experience…

She stopped. Deleted the last part. Rewrote it.

I’ve learned a lot. Mostly about the limits of human dignity.

Still too dramatic. She sighed and slumped deeper into the couch, typing mechanically.

I’m stepping down from the assistant role, effective immediately.Thank you again.All the best.

 – Zoe Harper

Short. Clean. Brutal.

She reread it five times. Hovered her thumb over “Send Email.” Imagined his face when he read it.

Imagined him blinking once, then shrugging. Saying something like, “Huh. I liked her. Wonder what happened.”

The thought made her want to dissolve into the couch cushions and become part of the furniture.

She closed the draft.

Reopened it.

Changed “All the best” to “Take care.”

Then closed it again.

Coward, she thought.

“I need to get a grip.”

She was about to open it and finally send it when her phone buzzed.

A text message just came through.

She blinked at it like it had just barked. Because there was no way - 

JULIAN HAYES

Hey. Just wanted to say thank you for the things you left earlier. Didn’t realize how sterile the place felt until it… didn’t. The throw pillows are already on the couch. The plant has taken over the corner like he owns the place. That candle smells like danger and leather, and I’m weirdly into it. And the wall hanging is definitely making the room 73% cooler.

You’ve got a strange kind of magic, Harper.

Could you bring something else on Monday? Something that adds more… vibe.

Zoe stared at the screen.

Heart: ???

Brain: !!!!!!!!!!!

Spoon: still melting in matcha soup.

She read it again. And again. And a third time, out loud, because maybe if she heard it spoken, it would make more sense.

“You’ve got a strange kind of magic.”

Was he serious? Was he trying to be funny?Was this the part where she passed out and her landlord found her in three days covered in Post-Its that said 'vibe’?

Her mind went back to the moment when she saw him with her.

Not the press version. Not the red-carpet, arm-around-the-waist, camera-ready pose she’d just hate-scrolled past.

The real-life version. Late morning light spilling across the condo. Julian in a soft gray t-shirt. Madeline’s fingers in his hair. Their mouths - very much occupied.

Zoe had frozen in the doorway, clutching a bag full of throw pillows, a potted plant named Steve, and an absurd amount of misplaced emotional hope.

The door had been unlocked. He told her to come anytime. So she did.

Because she wanted to help. Because she thought - 

No. Stop it.

The tote strap slipped from her shoulder. Steve tilted like even he couldn’t handle the drama. A pillow slid out and hit the floor with a soft, traitorous thud.

That’s when Julian looked up.

Pulled back. Eyes widened.

“Zoe?” he said, breathless, like the sound of her name had startled him more than the kiss.

Zoe’s brain exploded. But her mouth? Her mouth decided to try being helpful.

“I - I just came to drop these off,” she blurted. “You said to surprise you. So. Surprise.”

Madeline turned then. Elegant. Effortless. Half a smile on her lips like this was the world’s most boring commercial break.

“Oh,” she said, gaze flicking from the bag to Zoe, to Julian. “Hi?”

Julian started to say something else - something like, “Wait, let me introduce - ”

But Zoe was already halfway out the door.

“No need,” she said too quickly. “You’ve got... a good vibe going already.”

And then she was gone.

The door clicked shut behind her. The hallway blurred. She didn’t stop walking until she hit the elevator and stabbed the button like it owed her money.

And now, a couple of hours later, he was texting her about vibes. Calling her magic. Thanking her for a candle while she was still trying to scrape the ghost of his girlfriend’s lip gloss off her corneas.

Zoe stared at her phone.

For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then, calmly - like someone fully unhinged but pretending to be normal - she typed:

Sure. I’ll bring a small ceramic duck and a lamp shaped like a pineapple. Vibe: upgraded.

What she didn’t type:

Why did you kiss someone who’s not me and then compliment my woven wall hanging. Are you trying to kill me?

She hit send. Then immediately turned off her phone and buried it under a couch cushion.

She should resign.

But how could she when the Julian Hayes said she has a strange kind of magic.

---

Monday morning 

Zoe showed up twenty minutes early.

Not because she was eager. Not because she was trying to impress anyone.

But because if she walked in late and saw them kissing again, she might combust on the spot.

Also, Starbucks had a new shaken espresso that tasted like anxiety and self-delusion, and she needed both in high doses.

She hovered near the edge of the soundstage, clipboard in hand, tote bag filled with the pineapple lamp and ceramic duck hanging around her shoulder. She pretended to review logistics for the afternoon shoot.

But really, she was waiting. Bracing.

Because today was the day  -  the long-scheduled, already-hyped Love on Set feature for Screen & Stage, starring Julian Hayes and Madeline Blair.

Photoshoot. Joint interview. Some light, camera-ready PDA.

A fan-pleasing PR moment designed to remind the world that they were not only beautiful and talented but also, unfortunately, in love.

Zoe stared down at the laminated schedule like it might grow teeth and bite her.

She didn’t even notice he was approaching until he said her name.

“Zoe.”

She looked up.

Julian walked towards her, in jeans and a crisp white T-shirt, one hand holding a paper bag and the other swung casually beside him, hair just slightly windblown in that deliberately effortless way. He looked relaxed. Like the last time she saw him hadn’t been a softcore emotional crime scene involving throw pillows and public heartbreak.

“Hey,” he said, flashing her that lopsided, unbothered smile. “Thanks again for the stuff you dropped off. My place feels… less haunted now.”

Zoe’s heart skidded sideways in her chest.

She gave him a smile. A safe, tight one.

“Glad the plant’s adjusting. He seemed like the type to silently judge your furniture choices.”

Julian laughed. “He’s doing great. Took over the corner like he’s hosting an art exhibit.”

Zoe nodded. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to die or throw her clipboard at a wall.

You kissed her.And then you texted me about a candle.

She reached into her tote bag and pulled out a wrapped bundle.

“By the way,” she said, “as promised.”

She handed over the ceramic duck and the pineapple lamp. “Ceramic chaos and tropical ambiance. You said ‘more vibe.’ You didn’t say tasteful.”

Julian’s smile widened, boyish and amused. “You actually brought them.”

“I’m nothing if not deeply committed to the bit,” she said.

He set the items gently on a nearby bench..

“Good,” he said, “because I brought something too.”

Zoe blinked. “You - what?”

He handed the paper bag to her.

Inside: a sleek tea infuser shaped like a fox, and a tin of loose-leaf tea labeled For Spirals. Emotional and Otherwise.

Her breath caught in her chest.

“You remembered that I stress-brew tea,” she said, a little too quietly.

Julian gave a soft shrug. “You stress-brew three times before noon. It left an impression.”

Before she could reply  -  or completely melt into the floor  -  she heard it:

Heels.

The kind of sharp, expensive heels that signaled you didn’t walk so much as glide across marble floors.

Madeline appeared, her stylist and a personal assistant trailing behind her, dressed in cream linen pants and a silk halter that looked aggressively effortless.

She slipped into Julian’s side with the familiarity of habit.

“Jules,” she said, touching his arm. “We’re due at makeup in ten, and they want a few pre-shots by the floral wall. Ugh. The photographer's obsessed with florals this week.”

Julian nodded. “Right. I just wanted to thank Zoe real quick.”

Madeline followed his gaze and spotted her. Her smile flickered politely.

“Oh, right. The assistant. Hi again.”

Again.Zoe had seen her for three seconds and a soul-crushing kiss. Apparently, that qualified.

“Hi,” Zoe replied, forcing her voice into its chipper setting. “You look great. Love the top.”

“Thanks,” Madeline said, glancing at the items Julian had just set down. She picked up the pineapple lamp, lips twitching into a not-quite-smile.

“What is this, a yard sale? Very... Etsy sorcery,” she said lightly. “Cute though.”

Zoe felt it like a static zap behind her ribs. Not mean. Not even intentional. Just one of those throwaway comments people made when they didn’t realize someone was listening a little too closely.

Julian didn’t say anything at first.

Then, quiet but sure: “I like it.”

Madeline didn’t respond. She was already turning toward the makeup tent.

She left the faintest kiss on Julian’s cheek  -  the kind meant more for the camera than the skin  -  and disappeared in a swish of curated elegance.

Julian watched her go, then turned back to Zoe.

Something unreadable flickered behind his expression.

“You okay?” he asked. “You look a little…”

“Over-caffeinated?” she offered, too brightly. “I had three shots of espresso and an internal crisis before 8 a.m. So… business as usual.”

He smiled. “Still my favorite type of chaos.”

Zoe’s fingers curled tighter around the tea infuser.

“Thank you for these and, uh.. break a leg at the shoot,” she said, stepping back. “Or, you know. A cheekbone. For symmetry.”

She turned before he could respond.

And as she walked away, she could feel the heat of his gaze on her back.

But she didn’t turn around.

Because if she saw that same casual softness on his face  -  the one he’d given Madeline on the couch  -  she might actually fall apart in front of a camera crew.

And today?

Today was not the day for falling apart.

---

Later That Morning – Wardrobe Room

Zoe had no business being in wardrobe.

Her tasks were done, her walkie was turned low, and no one had asked her to inventory anything. But the rolling racks and the scent of starch and fabric softener felt vaguely safe. Neutral. Linen-colored emotional Switzerland.

She perched on a low bench between a suit bag labeled HAYES, J. and a rack of backup jackets no one had touched in weeks, scrolling absently through fake emails she’d opened just to look busy.

In reality, she was thinking about the fox-shaped tea infuser.

And the tin of spiraling tea.

She had not planned for him to give her anything.

And certainly not something so… thoughtful.

He noticed.He remembered.He matched the fox to her.

Who did that?

It would’ve been easier to shrug off if he’d handed her a branded mug or a leftover muffin. Something generic. Forgettable.

But no. He’d picked items that said I see you.And now she was sitting next to a garment bag with his name on it trying not to die inside.

Why would he do that? Because he’s nice? Because he gives everyone tea-themed care packages? Because he didn’t want to feel outdone by a duck and a lamp?

She didn’t know.

And that’s what made it worse.

Because a part of her  -  the part she tried very hard to smother with logic and sarcasm  -  wanted it to mean something. Wanted to believe that maybe she wasn’t imagining things. That maybe she wasn’t just a background character with a clipboard and misplaced hope.

The sounds of the photoshoot echoed faintly from down the hall  -  music, fake laughter, flashbulbs.

She didn’t need to see it. She’d already seen enough.

Julian and Madeline, camera-ready, gliding through an art-directed wonderland of curated intimacy. The photos would be everywhere by tomorrow. Headlines like “Still Swooning: Hayes & Blair Serve Chemistry On and Off Set” or “The Hollywood Romance That Feels Realer Than Fiction.”

Zoe didn’t need to witness it live.

Not when her heart was already tap dancing in a blender.

But fate  -  or more specifically, Owen  -  had other plans.

The door creaked open.

“There you are.”

Zoe jumped like she’d been caught stealing.

Owen raised an eyebrow, arms crossed.

“You do realize you’re supposed to be on set for the Screen & Stage shoot, right? The one in bold red letters on the schedule you helped print?”

“I just - ” Zoe started, too quickly. “I thought I’d… make myself scarce. You know. Let PR breathe. Less chaos.”

“You are the chaos,” Owen deadpanned. “Now move.”

She opened her mouth, closed it again, and mutely followed him out  -  fox infuser still rattling around in her tote bag like it knew too much.

---

Photoshoot Set - The Floral Wall

It was worse than she thought.

Julian and Madeline were standing under a cascade of artfully arranged peonies and golden vines, backlit like the sun itself had a crush on them.

He wore a soft gray sweater. She was in an ivory slip dress. They looked like a perfume ad come to life. Like royalty on their day off.

Zoe stood just outside the frame, clutching her clipboard like it might stop her from combusting.

The photographer directed them into a pose  -  Julian behind Madeline, arms gently around her waist, both of them looking just off-camera with matching half-smiles.

She watched Julian say something. Saw Madeline laugh  -  one of those breathy, practiced giggles she’d probably mastered on the red carpet.

Zoe looked away.

They’re perfect. They know they’re perfect. God, is that what he wants?

She didn’t know what hurt more  -  that they looked good together, or that he didn’t look unhappy about it.

Another flashbulb went off. Someone from PR called out a cue. Madeline tilted her head, leaned it lightly against Julian’s. He let her.

Zoe forced herself to breathe.

It’s fine. This is fine. You're the assistant. You’re literally paid to be invisible. He asked you for vibes, not feelings. You gave him a plant. She gives him headlines.

She told herself not to care.

She stood a little straighter.

And when Julian caught her eye across the set  -  just briefly, just a flicker  -  she did what any emotionally fragile, semi-humiliated assistant would do.

She smiled.

Professional. Painless. Just this side of believable.

Then looked away before he could see through it.

Moments later, the lights needed adjusting.

Something about the shadows on Julian’s jaw not matching the “warm intimacy” vibe the photographer was going for.

So the team took five.

Madeline stepped off to sip from a green juice and re-gloss her lips. Julian stayed behind near the floral wall, stretching one arm overhead, looking so relaxed Zoe wanted to kick something.

Zoe stood a few feet off, pretending to inventory props she didn’t even touch.

A stylist brushed lint from Julian’s sweater while the lighting tech adjusted a softbox and grumbled about golden hour being “too golden.”

Someone from PR joked, “Guess it’s not true what they say about actors needing drama.”

Julian grinned.

“Speak for yourself. I once had to fake-cry in a Subway commercial. Couldn’t eat Italian herbs and cheese for a year without sobbing.”

There was a beat of silence - 

Then laughter.

Not polite laughter. Real laughter.

The grip laughed. The lighting guy chuckled behind his rig. Even the director cracked a grin.

Zoe smiled before she could stop herself. That was Julian’s thing  -  low-effort delivery, dry timing, just left of center. The kind of joke that snuck up on you and left you charmed before you realized it.

But when Zoe’s gaze drifted toward Madeline - 

Nothing.

No smile. No flicker of amusement.

She just checked her phone. Scrolled. Sipped her juice.

Julian looked at her.

Only for a second.

Just a blink of expectation, like maybe he thought she’d look up. Laugh. Acknowledge the moment.

She didn’t.

And Zoe saw it.

The way his posture shifted  -  only slightly. The quiet drop in energy. The way his fingers tapped once against his leg, like he was recalibrating.

Then he pasted on a new smile and said nothing at all.

Oh, Zoe thought.

That hurt him.

It was barely there. A moment small enough to ignore.

But she didn’t.

Because she would’ve laughed.

She would’ve seen him.

And for the first time since Saturday, the ache in her chest changed shape.

---

Lunch Break - Catering Tent

The catering tent smelled like grilled vegetables, chicken skewers, and performance anxiety.

Zoe had grabbed a sad-looking salad and a cookie she wasn’t sure she’d earned, then parked herself at a table near the back under the illusion of “needing to work.”

In reality, her tablet was off, and her eyes were not-so-casually fixed across the tent.

Julian and Madeline sat two tables over, surrounded by an orbit of crew and assistants. She was laughing at something one of the hairstylists had said. Julian was mid-story, gesturing with his fork.

“ - and then the script supervisor realized the entire flashback was shot with the wrong shoes. So we spent six hours reshooting three scenes just to make my character wear the same scuffed boots. No one noticed. Except Reddit, obviously.”

A few people around them laughed. Julian looked faintly pleased. He reached for another roll and added:

“I actually still have those boots. They’re wrecked, but I kind of love them.”

Zoe almost smiled.

She didn’t get the chance.

Madeline made a face.

“Oh God, please don’t tell me you’re still hoarding your tragic Toronto wardrobe.”

Her voice was light, teasing. Playful, even. But something in the way she said hoarding made Zoe’s stomach twist.

Julian blinked. “I mean… yeah. I kept a few pieces. The boots, the jacket…”

Madeline cut in, sipping her sparkling water.

“You know stylists literally exist so you don’t have to dress like an off-duty Civil War reenactor, right?”

Another ripple of polite laughter.

Not cruel. Not sharp.

Just… dismissive.

Zoe watched Julian’s face. The way his smile froze just slightly, then smoothed into something practiced. Controlled.

“Noted,” he said with a faint chuckle, looking down at his plate.

But Zoe saw the shift.

The way his hand stilled next to the fork. The way his shoulders settled  -  not relaxed, but smaller somehow. The way he stopped talking after that.

She felt it in her chest like pressure building behind her ribs.

And then Owen appeared, sliding into the chair beside her like he’d been summoned by the sheer force of secondhand discomfort.

He dropped a water bottle on the table. Matte black. Blocky silver letters printed on the side read:

SHUT UP AND DRINK ME.

Zoe snorted. “Okay, Alice in Hydrationland. Bold choice.”

Owen shrugged. “Julian gave it to me.”

Her stomach dropped. “What?”

“He’s like that,” Owen said casually, twisting the cap off. “Random gifts. Usually weird. Sometimes perfect. Always unexpected. Honestly, I’m probably one plant short of a restraining order.”

Zoe blinked. “So… that’s just a thing he does? He gives people stuff?”

“Yup. Back on The Keeper, he gave our lighting guy a stress ball shaped like a screaming possum. Because, and I quote, ‘You seem like you need to scream, but quietly.’”

Zoe stared at him.

“Also gave me a neon-orange beanie once because he said my regular one made me look like a depressed mushroom.”

Owen sipped dramatically. “He was right.”

Zoe didn’t reply.

Because her brain was doing somersaults inside her skull.

So he gives gifts to everyone.Cute, weird, thoughtful things. Always has.Of course he gave me tea-related things.It’s not because he sees me. It’s just what he does.

Her salad wilted silently in its compostable bowl.

Across the tent, Julian reached for a napkin. Madeline leaned over and whispered something in his ear  -  soft and brief.

He didn’t smile this time. He just nodded, slow and small.

Zoe didn’t know what she said.

But she felt the crack widen anyway.

She looked at her untouched salad.

Then picked up her cookie and took a massive, defiant bite.

Because someone had to.

Owen glanced over as she chewed.

“By the way,” he said, like it was nothing, “you’re on the list for next week’s location shoot.”

Zoe stopped chewing. “What?”

“Yeah. You’re coming with us to Titlis. The glacier summit near Engelberg? It’s cold, ridiculously high up, and apparently still snowing in July. Also, there's a mild-to-moderate risk of being crushed by nature.”

Zoe blinked. “Why am I going to a glacier country?”

“Because Julian asked for you. Said he’d be more efficient if someone who actually knows the schedule comes along.”

Zoe stared at him.

Owen added helpfully: “Also, Madeline’s skipping it for a fashion thing in Milan. So... fewer variables. Less drama. Except for the occasional ice slide.”

Zoe took another bite of her cookie like it was a life raft.

Because that sound you just heard?

Was her sanity evacuating her body.

---

Day One - Titlis Glacier Shoot

The summit of Titlis looked like something out of a snow-globe nightmare. 

White. Wide. Blinding. The kind of snow that felt personal - like it knew you weren’t built for this altitude.

There were no trees this high up. Just jagged ice, hard-packed drifts, and snowfields that stretched out in every direction like nature’s very dramatic blank canvas. The air was razor-thin and sharp, the kind that bit your lungs if you so much as breathed wrong. The wind screamed intermittently through the crevices, like it had opinions.

The sky was painfully blue. Offensively blue. Like it was trying to distract everyone from the fact that no one had slept in 48 hours and two grips had already lost feeling in their ears.

Zoe pulled her scarf tighter and scanned the call sheet through half-frozen eyelashes.

Day One. Exterior. Julian’s character emerging from the whiteout. One tracking shot. One emotional monologue. Twelve chances for hypothermia.

She was trying to fix a note on the schedule when Julian walked past.

“Hey,” he said, voice muffled by a black knit neck gaiter. “Did you eat?”

Zoe blinked. “What?”

He pointed to the clipboard in her hands. “You’ve been out here longer than the camera crew. Just making sure you didn’t forget you’re a human being with internal organs.”

“I’m good,” she said, caught off guard. “Just working.”

Julian nodded, like that explained everything.

Then he reached into his coat pocket and handed her something: a hand warmer packet. Already cracked and warm.

“You were shivering,” he said. Then, to make it lighter: “And Owen said I’m not allowed to let the assistant die of frostbite this time.”

Zoe blinked down at it. “Thanks. That’s… thoughtful.”

He shrugged. “Don’t make it weird.”

Then he was gone, walking toward set, greeting the gaffer with a grin, throwing a quick joke over his shoulder at a grip.

Charming. Kind. Easy.

He’s like this with everyone, she told herself. He’s generous. He’s warm. He probably gave Owen a thermal neck wrap and a joke about his circulation by now.

But even as she tried to rationalize it, she watched the way Julian moved through the crew  -  polite, friendly, always a good sport  -  but never quite lingering the way he did when he checked in on her. Never watching the way she sometimes caught him doing in between setups, his gaze sliding toward her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

During the next take, he came off set for a reset and stopped beside her again.

“Water?” she offered, holding up a bottle.

Julian reached for it but didn’t take it right away. He just smiled  -  tired, wind-chapped, but somehow still boyish.

“Do you always carry three of these?” he asked.

Zoe looked down. She had one in her hand, and two spares in her bag.

“…I prepare.”

“You hoard like you’re prepping for the hydration apocalypse.”

“Says the man who brought six different scarves.”

Julian chuckled, finally taking the bottle.

“Touché.”

She caught him glancing at her again as he turned away - and this time, it lingered.

Long enough to burn a little.

And Zoe stood there, her scarf too tight, her heart too loud, and her brain already rewriting the whole moment into something it probably wasn’t.

You’re staff.You’re background.You are not the girl who gets the scarf jokes and hand warmers and quiet little smiles that last just a second too long.

But… she kind of was.

And that was the problem.

---

Day Two – Titlis Glacier Shoot

Snow fell overnight.

Soft. Heavy. The kind that erased edges and muffled sound. Everything looked freshly built in high-definition.

Except Zoe, who looked like she’d slept inside a snowplow.

She was wearing two layers of thermals, one parka, and exactly zero patience. Her boots were soaked. Her gloves were missing. Her walkie crackled every five seconds with updates no one listened to. And her hair had done that horrible half-frozen thing that made her feel like a sentient icicle.

And somehow, Julian Hayes still looked like a cologne ad in motion.

He was standing near the camera rig, casually sipping from a thermos. His cheeks were pink from the cold, and his hair was just messy enough to look windswept, not wild.

Zoe pretended to be very invested in adjusting the strap on her bag.

“Zoe,” he called, already walking toward her.

She turned. “Yeah?”

He handed her a to-go cup with a lid. Steam was rising from the vent hole.

“Tea,” he said, handing it over. “Black. Not that sleepy herbal stuff from yesterday.”

Zoe blinked. “You… brought me tea?”

Julian shrugged, hands tucked back into his coat pockets. “Asked the kitchen what wouldn’t taste like sadness. Told them to make their best guess for you.”

She frowned. “You gave them… a tea vibe?”

His mouth quirked. “Something like that. They handed me this and said, ‘This feels like a Zoe.’”

She took it slowly, like it might explode.

“…Thanks.”

He smiled. “Don’t burn your tongue. You get snippy.”

And then he was gone.

Zoe stared at the cup like it had confessed its love for her. Then looked up in time to see Julian helping a PA carry a tripod through the snowbank  -  kind, friendly, warm  -  but that smile he’d just given her?

It had been softer.

More real.

No. Nope. Absolutely not. That’s not what this is.You’re just cold and tired and emotionally compromised.He’s nice to everyone.He’s Julian. That’s the brand.

But later, during a break, it happened again.

She was juggling her clipboard and her scarf and a rogue call sheet that the wind had yanked free, and without a word, Julian bent down to pick it up for her.

He didn’t hand it back immediately. He looked at the scribbled notes she’d made in the margins.

“Color codes?”

She nodded. “Pink is PR chaos. Yellow is weather panic. Red means someone cried.”

Julian smirked. “You’re terrifying.”

She reached for it, but he didn’t let go right away.

Their hands brushed.

Just barely.

Just enough.

Zoe stepped back. “Don’t you have a scene to cry in or something?”

He grinned. “Oh, I save my real tears for Tuesday.”

Later still, someone from makeup handed Zoe a heat pack and said, “Julian said you forgot to grab one again.”

And that’s when she knew:

He was paying attention.

Not just polite.Not just thoughtful.But tuned in.

To her.

Specifically.

And it was wrecking her entire internal operating system.

By the time they wrapped that day, she’d developed six new theories for what was happening:

He was just being nice.

He was being too nice.

He was trying to make her job easier.

He was accidentally flirting and didn’t realize it.

He realized it.

She was imagining all of it and needed to be hit with a snow shovel.

She watched him walk back to basecamp, snow in his hair, script tucked under one arm, talking to a producer  -  still smiling.

And for a second, she let herself think:

Maybe it’s not nothing.Maybe he sees you too.

Which was, obviously, the most dangerous thought of all.

---

Days 3 to 5 – Titlis

By day three, Zoe had accepted one undeniable truth:

Julian Hayes was still being nice to her.

Too nice. Consistently nice. Suspiciously nice.

He fetched her gloves when she forgot them at breakfast.

Walked a few steps ahead of her, then glanced back and said, “Watch your step,” just as she nearly hit the ice. Like he knew exactly where she was about to slip before she did.

Caught her clipboard midair when the wind snatched it and handed it back with a dry, “You’re going to lose this one day, and someone’s going to publish your notes under Chaos: A Memoir.”

He smiled when she passed him water.

Said thank you every time she handed him a call sheet.

Listened - actually listened - when she muttered something under her breath about the boom mic schedule being cursed.

None of it was big enough to be inappropriate. None of it could be called out without sounding... unhinged.

But it was constant. And it was messing her up.

He’s just polite.He’s considerate.He’s observant.He’s an actor with emotional range and good lighting.That’s all this is.

On the morning of day four, she found a pack of hand warmers in her coat pocket.

She didn’t remember putting them there.

Taped to the front was a small Post-it note in handwriting that looked suspiciously familiar:

Backup warmth. Just in case. –J

She stared at it for five full minutes.

He gives gifts to everyone.He gave Owen that ridiculous water bottle.He once bought someone an otter mug.This is not... anything.Right?

By day five, it got worse.

During a midday reset, he quietly set up a second space heater beside her chair and plugged it in - like it was no big deal that she looked one icicle away from giving up on life.

Later, walking back to base camp through shin-deep snow, he slowed to match her pace.

“I think you’re starting to like it here,” he said.

“Absolutely not,” she replied. “My bones are frozen. I haven’t felt my ears since Tuesday. And I’m emotionally unraveling in the shape of a cinnamon roll.”

He grinned. “So... thriving.”

She laughed. Unfortunately. Without thinking.

And for two full seconds, she forgot to hate herself for it.

Then she panicked. Spiraled. Spent the rest of the day convincing herself he was just doing what he always did: keeping morale up, team spirits high, everything smooth and easy.

For the crew.For the camera.For the performance of being Julian Hayes.

But still - 

He looked at her sometimes.

Too long. Too soft.

He noticed things other people missed. Like when she was cold. Or overwhelmed. Or on the verge of crying into her clipboard.

Maybe she imagined it.Maybe it was always there and she just hadn’t dared look before.Or maybe - 

Maybe it was real.

And that was the most dangerous possibility of all.

Because if he kept looking at her like that - If he kept being kind, and thoughtful, and Julian - She was going to crack.

And there was no hand warmer big enough to stop it.

---

End of Day Five – Titlis

They were supposed to leave that afternoon.

The shoot had wrapped early. Gear was packed. The last crew photo had been taken in front of a very fake snowdrift. The sky was overcast, but nothing dramatic  -  just that flat, steel-colored stretch that made everything feel vaguely existential.

And then the mountain decided it was done being cooperative.

A low rumble started just before lunch  -  subtle at first, like someone dragging furniture across the sky. Then louder. Sharper. Somewhere between a glacial shift and a small avalanche.

By the time Zoe made it to the staging area, a crew member was already yelling into the radio, boots half-buried in fresh powder.

One of the access trails near the lower cable station had been hit. A chunk of snowpack and loose ice had slid straight across the only safe route off the glacier. No one was hurt. But no one was getting out either.

Cable car: halted. Trail: closed. ETA for reopening: unknown. Cell reception: tragic. Morale: frayed.

By sundown, production had surrendered to the inevitable: they were stuck.

Someone broke out a bottle of Prosecco from the craft services cooler like it was a hostage negotiation tactic.

Lodging was reassigned on the fly. Most of the crew cabins had already been cleared out that morning. The main lodge was full. Backup bunks were being arranged with a level of desperation not seen since the early pandemic.

Zoe stood outside the equipment truck, blowing into her gloves while Owen typed something furiously into the shared logistics spreadsheet.

“This is the part where you tell me I’ve been upgraded to a cozy suite with underfloor heating and complimentary sanity,” she said.

Owen didn’t look up. “This is the part where I tell you you’re sharing a cabin with Julian.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry - what?”

“We lost the key to yours,” Owen said flatly. “Long story. There was a goat at the mid-station that thought your key card was a carrot. Don’t ask.”

She blinked harder. “Owen  - ”

“I tried to fix it,” he said, still typing. “And by fix it, I mean I asked if Julian minded, and he said  -  and I quote  -  ‘Yeah, that’s fine.’ Very chill. Like this wasn’t the setup for a fanfiction tagged: snowed in, one bed, emotionally repressed, slow burn.”

“There’s not one bed,” she muttered automatically.

Owen finally looked up.

“...Is that the part you’re worried about?”

Zoe groaned, yanked her scarf over her face, and tried to disappear into the nearest snowbank.

---

One Hour Later - The Cabin

It was too nice.

That was her first thought.

The cabin - technically a high-altitude lodge unit at the mid-station - was infuriatingly cozy. The kind of place a holiday movie heroine would inherit from a great-aunt who wrote mountain poetry and believed in destiny.

It had a fire already going. Sturdy wool throws. Pine-paneled walls. A little tray of emergency chocolate on the counter like this was a wellness retreat and not a film crew’s survival bunker.

And of course..

One bed.

One. Very. Large. Bed.

Julian dropped his bag by the door like this was all perfectly normal.

Zoe remained frozen on the threshold, clutching her tote like it was a talisman against this fanfic-flavored nightmare.

“This is a horror movie,” she whispered.

Julian turned. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He walked to the fireplace, knelt to prod the logs with the metal poker, and said, “I can take the couch.”

She glanced at it.

“That’s not a couch. That’s a decorative bench for emotionally fragile marmots.”

He grinned. “I’m flexible.”

“You’re six-foot-two. You’ll wake up with spinal regrets and revenge fantasies.”

“Better than waking up with you accusing me of stealing the blanket.”

Zoe’s brain short-circuited. “Don’t talk about the blanket.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. “Copy that.”

Silence fell - awkward, itchy, and full of thoughts no one should be having in a shared heated space.

She cleared her throat. “We could rotate. I take the bed tonight. You tomorrow.”

Julian nodded. “Fair.”

He stood, brushed ash from his hands, and added, “We could also build a pillow wall. If that helps.”

Zoe blinked. “You’ve done this before.”

“Press tour in Prague. My co-star snored like a malfunctioning foghorn. I became very skilled in pillow barricade strategy.”

“Wow,” she muttered. “All your relationships sound so romantic.”

He smirked but didn’t answer.

She finally stepped inside fully, shutting the door behind her. The latch clicked.

And then.. The lights flickered.Once. Twice. And then.. Blackout.

The heater sighed off. The overhead bulb gave up. Silence, thick and immediate, settled over everything except the fire’s soft crackle.

Zoe’s heart dropped straight into her damp wool socks.

Julian, now lit dramatically by firelight like the emotionally confusing lead in a glacier romance novel you read against your better judgment, turned slowly to look at her.

He said nothing. Just looked.

Zoe’s mouth opened. Closed.

And then..

“Oh no.”

---

A/N:

Thank you so much for reading Chapter Five of Unseen.. and it's the last free chapter.

If you've been spiraling right alongside Zoe (same), this is where things start to shift. The glances get softer. The setting gets colder. And the stakes? Let's just say... they're no longer hypothetical.

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[sebstanaddict]

Please Stay

Bucky Barnes x You One Shot

Summary : When Bucky Barnes stays with you through the darkest time in your life

Warning : suicidal thoughts

Word count : 636 words

Read more soft Bucky / Sebastian scenes in Scenes for The Soul (A series of soft, fluff scenes between you and Bucky / Sebastian to help you get through the day)

Read more of my stories here.

---

You don’t cry.

Not at first.

You just sit there, staring at nothing. Knees to your chest. The air is thick and quiet in the apartment, like the whole world has stopped spinning and no one told you.

Everything feels too heavy. Too much. Like trying to breathe through wet concrete.

You’re so tired.

Of trying. Of pretending. Of holding yourself together with duct tape and desperate hope.

A thought creeps in - quiet, cruel, convincing.

“Maybe they’d be better off without me.”

That’s when the door opens.

Not dramatically. No dramatic bang or heroic crash. Just a soft click, a familiar step. Bucky always knocks, but today… today he must’ve sensed something. Some shift in the wind.

He steps inside.

You don’t look at him.

"Hey, doll," he says softly, like you’re fragile porcelain. Not the kind that cracks - 

The kind that’s already shattered on the floor.

Still, you don’t move. Your voice is a ghost when you speak.

"I don’t want to be here anymore."

A silence falls.

A long, careful silence.

Then, the sound of footsteps. The weight of him settling down beside you on the floor. His warmth is immediate - radiating off him like a quiet hearth. You don’t look, but you feel him there.

"I know," he says. Just that. No lectures. No false cheer. Just truth. Raw and gentle.

You blink, and the tears come fast. Hot. Angry. You bury your face in your arms.

“I’m so tired, Bucky. Soo tired. I feel like every bad thing known to man are happening to me at once. Like I tripped, fell down, then the ceiling crashed over me and the whole house crumbled to the ground. Burying me in it. I can’t - ”

Your voice breaks. “I can’t do this anymore.”

He doesn’t rush to fix it. Doesn’t fill the silence with empty promises.

Instead, his hand finds yours. Big and scarred and warm. He threads his fingers through yours like an anchor.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says, his voice a whisper of steel and sorrow. “You’ve got me. Always. I’m not going anywhere.”

You shake your head, choking on your breath. “You don’t get it. I feel like I’m drowning. Like I’m screaming inside and no one hears me.”

His other hand lifts, brushing gently through your hair, resting at the back of your neck like he’s trying to hold you here - to tether you to this earth.

“I hear you,” he murmurs. “I hear every scream. Every silence.”

Your walls begin to crumble.

“I’m broken,” you whisper.

“So am I,” he says.

And there it is. That crack of truth. That scarred vulnerability in his voice, in his grip. It breaks something inside you - breaks the isolation.

“I don’t want to die,” you sob. “I just want the pain to stop. I just want.. peace.”

He pulls you into his arms then. No hesitation. You collapse into him, and he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispers against your hair. “I know. But please stay. Just one more minute. One more hour. One more night. Stay with me.”

His voice trembles.

“If you go, where do I go? I don’t - ” he stops, breath shuddering. “You’re my home.”

You cry harder.

But for the first time in a long time, the crying feels like release. Not punishment.

You stay in his arms until the shaking stops. Until the darkness ebbs just enough to breathe again. Until the idea of one more day doesn’t feel quite so impossible.

And when he pulls back to look into your eyes, his own are shining.

“We’ll get through this,” he says. “Not because it’s easy. But because you’re not alone anymore.”

And you believe him.

Because for the first time in forever - you’re not alone.

[sebstanaddict]

The Way He Says Your Name

Bucky Barnes x You One Shot

Summary : They trained together. Then he disappeared. Now they're snowed in, low on patience - and the walls are getting closer. Some things get said when there's nowhere left to run.

Warning : none, just a tense enemies to lovers vibe

Word count: 1.4k words

Read more Bucky Barnes and Sebastian Stan one shots here.

Check out my master list here for more Bucky and Sebastian stories.

---

You really shouldn’t have come.

You knew it the second the quinjet door hissed open and the wind off the Baltic Sea hit your face like a warning slap. You knew it when you saw him standing at the edge of the dock, arms crossed, hair tied back like he hadn’t changed since the last time he ruined your life.

“Y/l/n,” he says, voice flat.

“Barnes,” you reply, matching his tone like muscle memory.

He’s not surprised you’re here. Of course not. SHIELD - or what’s left of it - loves to stir old ghosts for missions like this. He trained you once, when he was still more Winter than Soldier. You learned to fight under his gloved hand, bled under his steel gaze, and somewhere in the chaos of it all, you almost learned to trust him.

Until he vanished.

And came back.

---

The safehouse is a one-bedroom cabin with a broken radiator and exactly one bed. Of course it is. Fury's sick sense of humor hasn't dulled with age.

Bucky tosses his duffel into the corner like he owns the place. You place yours neatly on the lone chair.

He glances over. “You still organize everything like you’re running a military nursery.”

You smile sweetly. “And you still smell like regret and engine grease.”

He snorts.

There’s tension, sure - but it’s not new. You’ve lived in this strange purgatory with him before. The not-quite-friends, not-quite-strangers territory. Somewhere between a memory and a mistake.

It’s familiar. Which makes it worse.

---

The first night, you sleep on the floor. The second night, he sleeps on the floor. The third night, you both end up on the floor in the middle of a stupid argument about cereal.

“I swear to God, Bucky..”

“Y/n,” he growls, low and warning.

Your breath catches. He rarely says your name. When he does, it’s sharp and clipped, like he’s afraid it’ll soften in his mouth. This time, it does.

You blink.

He stares.

And then you both realize he’s pinning you to the floor because you tried to slap him with a box of expired Frosted Flakes. His hand is warm around your wrist. His face is stupidly close.

"Get off," you mutter.

"Say please."

"Bucky."

"...fine."

He lets go, but not before his fingers hesitate - just for a second - against your pulse.

---

By week two, you’ve seen him shirtless, heard him mumble your name in his sleep, and witnessed him fail to open a jar of pickles with his right hand (which you will never stop mocking him for).

“You really gonna bring that up again?” he grumbles, holding his coffee like it personally betrayed him.

“You trained me to kill a man with a pen, Barnes. You literally have a vibranium arm that can pick up cars. And yet you surrendered to a pickle jar like a little bitch.”

“Y/n…”

The way he says it this time - tired, almost fond - does something uninvited to your chest.

You sip your tea before it scalds you twice.

---

The mission goes sideways, obviously.

You’re cornered, low on ammo, and bleeding from a gash in your thigh when he crashes through the window like some discount Batman and takes out four men in five seconds.

He kneels by your side, jaw clenched. “Y/n. Hey. Look at me.”

“I’m fine,” you hiss, slapping his hand away as he tries to inspect the wound.

“You’re not. You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”

“Wow. Romance really isn’t your strong suit, huh?”

He rips his shirt to wrap your leg. “You’re one to talk. You flirt like you’re giving a TED talk on emotional unavailability.”

That makes you laugh - actually laugh - and then wince because, yeah, it hurts.

He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real.

“Still think I smell like regret?”

You look up at him. “Less engine grease now.”

His lips twitch.

---

Back at the safehouse, he doesn’t leave your side.

You try to sleep, but his voice cuts through the dark.

“Y/n.”

“Mm?”

“I should’ve come back. When it ended.”

You open your eyes. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed. Shoulders hunched. Hands clasped like he's holding something fragile.

You want to be angry. You want to throw every bitter word you’ve ever swallowed.

But instead, you sit up, knees brushing his. “You should’ve,” you say quietly. “But you didn’t.”

He nods. “I was scared. Of what I’d feel. Of what I already felt.”

“And now?”

He turns to you slowly, like the truth might break him.

“I still feel it.”

You reach out, fingertips barely grazing the metal of his arm. He flinches - not from pain, but memory.

You hold his gaze anyway.

He whispers your name like it’s an apology. Or maybe a promise.

“Y/n.”

This time, you let him say it. Let it settle between you like a truce.

Maybe this isn’t the ending.

Maybe it’s the beginning you never got the first time.

---

Two weeks laterSomewhere in the AlpsSnowed in. Obviously.

It starts with a blizzard and ends with him shirtless, again.

But you’re getting ahead of yourself.

The mission’s over - sort of. Your contact went dark. Your comms are fried. The quinjet’s buried under three feet of snow and sarcasm. SHIELD says it'll be at least 72 hours before extraction.

Which leaves you stuck in another cabin. One room. One bed. No heating.

You swear someone in ops is shipping you.

You’re wearing three layers. Bucky’s wearing a thermal shirt and an expression that makes you want to punch something, preferably his mouth. He’s pacing, brooding, and doing that thing where he mutters under his breath like you’re not right there.

“I can hear you, Barnes.”

“Good,” he snaps. “Then maybe you’ll stop pretending nothing’s going on.”

Your pulse stutters.

You set down your mug. “What’s going on?”

He stops. Turns.

“You know what I mean.”

You don’t answer. You wrap your arms around yourself instead, like you’re cold. (You are. But not from the weather.)

He runs a hand through his hair. Frustrated. Beautiful. Doomed.

You hate how easily he gets under your skin.

“Y/n.” His voice drops. Low. Rough. Warning.

“Don’t say my name like that,” you murmur.

“Like what?”

“Like it means something.”

“It does.”

That shuts you up.

The silence stretches - crackling, heated, unbearable.

He finally speaks again, quieter now. “You drive me insane.”

You smirk. “Good. That’s mutual.”

He takes a step closer.

You take one back. Only it’s a wall behind you now, and he knows it. Of course he does. He trained you to notice escape routes. But he’s between you and all of them, standing too close, breathing too steady for someone who's unraveling.

He braces a hand on the wall beside your head. Not touching you. Not yet.

“Y/n,” he says again, softer this time. “I’ve tried not to. God knows I’ve tried. But.. I like you.”

Your heart drops.

Then lifts.

Then slams against your ribs like it’s trying to break out and do a little victory dance in the snow.

You blink up at him. “You like me?”

“I like you,” he repeats. “Which is… inconvenient. For a dozen reasons. And probably a terrible idea. But I do.”

You stare.

He stares.

Somewhere outside, a tree creaks under the weight of the snow.

Then you say, “It took a snowstorm and one bed to make you confess?”

“I’ve liked you since you threw a knife at my head in Morocco.”

“That was two years ago.”

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “It’s been a long two years.”

Your lips curve before you can stop them. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I thought you hated me.”

You hum. “I did. Still do. A little.”

“Fair.”

He doesn’t move. Just looks at you with something raw in his eyes. Something almost… terrified.

So you do it for him.

You lean up, slowly, deliberately, and brush your lips over his - once, soft.

He exhales against your mouth. His metal hand curls into a fist against the wall.

Then you pull back, just enough to whisper, “Don’t make me throw another knife at you.”

He finally smiles.

“You’re really bad at being romantic.”

“I was trained by a brainwashed assassin. What do you expect?”

“Fair.”

Then.. he finally kisses you like the storm outside doesn’t matter. Like two years of tension can finally burn.

And when he whispers your name again - “Y/n” - it sounds like the start of something.

Something that just might be worth surviving for.

---

A/N:

Thank you to the person who initially requested this as a custom story for allowing me to post it to everyone :)

Do you want to read a story like this too but where HE says YOUR name? And where YOU can decide the vibe, plot and details? 

I'm opening limited spots for custom stories. Contact me for more details or visit my Ko-Fi

[sebstanaddict]

Unseen

A new original story inspired by Sebastian Stan

Summary :

Zoe Grace Harper is a tea-loving, color-coding, mildly neurotic assistant who pours her heart out to her journal Frankie, trusts in the universe's signs (like that one time a butterfly landed on her stapler), and firmly believes in old-fashioned romance - like handwritten letters and forehead kisses. She’s quirky, spiritual, hilariously self-aware, and very much not in love with her boss… unless you count the way she emotionally combusts every time he casually says her name.

Julian Langdon Hayes is Hollywood’s golden boy - charming, award-winning, and quietly disillusioned with his picture-perfect life. The only person who sees through it all? Zoe. But while she thinks he’s just being polite, he’s starting to think she might be the one person who could save him from himself.

Warning : None

Word count : 5.7k

Chapter List

---

Chapter 4 - Steam and Consequences

---

Day Five began with Zoe praying for a sign.

Not a big one. She wasn’t asking for thunder or burning bushes or a sudden voice through her Bluetooth speaker. Just… something. Something soft. Gentle. Specific enough for her very tired Pisces soul.

She sat cross-legged on her bed, journal open in her lap, heart still heavy from yesterday’s spiral. The kind of heavy that made your bones ache and your hope feel like it needed a nap.

“God,” she whispered, “if I’m not supposed to do this job - if I’m just a walking hazard in cute boots - please give me a sign. Kindly. Preferably without fire.”

She opened her eyes.

And right then, her bedroom ceiling gave a creaky sigh. A single post-it note fluttered off the corkboard, drifted through the air like divine sarcasm, and landed facedown in her half-full teacup.

Zoe blinked, reached for it, and turned it over.

It read: “When the light feels too bright, maybe it’s not your place to shine.”

“Oh,” she muttered. “Rude. But fair.”

By 6:43 a.m., she was drafting her resignation text.

ZOE: Hi Owen. I don’t think I’m cut out for this. I’ve deeply embarrassed myself, the crew, the walkie-talkie industry, and possibly the entire state of California. Please tell Julian I’m grateful and sorry and that I will be removing myself from all situations involving microphones. Or him. Or smiling. Or boot changes.

She hit send. Then threw her phone under a pillow and curled into a defensive burrito.

It buzzed a few seconds later.

OWEN: Absolutely not.

Then again:

OWEN: Julian asked if you’re coming. He said, and I quote, “I need Zoe today.”

Zoe made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a scream.

He needed her?

Needed?? Needed in what way?Professionally? Romantically? Spiritually?? For tea???

She dramatically launched the pillow across the room and retrieved her phone just in time for Owen’s third message to come in.

OWEN: Today’s schedule: Gym at 10. Brunch at 11:30. Interview and photoshoot after. You’re expected to accompany him throughout.

She stared at the screen like it had insulted her ancestors.

Gym.As in: muscles. Proximity. Sweat.And then brunch. As in: seated eating. Casual conversation. Potential emotional vulnerability.And then photoshoot. Which required… standing there. Watching him be stupidly attractive.

This was not a job. This was emotional warfare in pastel lighting.

But she couldn’t say no now. Not when he’d said he needed her. Not when she’d secretly… maybe… possibly needed to see him too.

Zoe threw on an outfit, forgot deodorant, remembered it mid-shoe, and sprinted out the door with her tea mug clutched to her chest like a holy relic.

—

The elevator at his condo dinged with all the serenity of a funeral bell.

Zoe adjusted her collar, clutched her tote, and whispered to herself, “You are calm. You are capable. You will not burst into flames at the sight of a bicep.”

The doors slid open.

Julian Langdon Hayes stood at the far end of the entryway, leaning against the kitchen island like some kind of casually summoned demigod.

White T-shirt. Grey sweatpants. Hair tousled just enough to look accidental but probably wasn't. Holding a smoothie like he’d just invented nutrition.

Zoe short-circuited.

Her brain tried to form words, something like “Good morning,” but all she managed was a sound halfway between a gasp and the AOL dial-up tone.

Julian looked up. His smile was slow, sleepy, and unfairly gentle. “Morning, Zoe.”

“Yep,” she said. “Confirmed. Morning.”

He walked over, handed her a second smoothie. “Banana, oats, hint of cinnamon. Thought you might need fuel.”

She took it like it was a live grenade.

“You okay?” he asked, tilting his head. “You look… like you ran through a wind tunnel and maybe wrestled with three deadlines and a haunted blender.”

“Thank you,” she said, unsure why. “I mean - yes. Fine. Just… cardio of the soul.”

Julian grinned, opened the door, and gestured for her to follow. “Let’s hit the gym. I promise I don’t do CrossFit. You won’t have to watch me flip tires or scream at a medicine ball.”

“Great,” she said, sipping the smoothie and immediately choking on cinnamon.

The gym, as it turned out, was inside the building.

Private. Glass-walled. Beautiful. And populated by absolutely no one except Julian, Zoe, and an elliptical machine that stared at her like it knew she had trust issues.

Julian moved through a warm-up with quiet focus, greeting the staff with friendly nods, wiping down equipment after each use. He wasn’t showing off. He wasn’t posing. He wasn’t even looking in the mirror.

He was just... disciplined. Intentional. Kind.

And annoyingly magnetic in a white t-shirt that clung like it was in love.

Zoe made the grave mistake of watching him reach for a barbell - muscles shifting, jaw set in quiet determination - and suddenly needed to revisit her entire moral compass.

Was that a bicep or an emotional crisis?

She sat on a bench near the window, flipping through her clipboard like it was a magazine, sneaking glances when she thought he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed.

“Taking notes?” he asked mid-set, not even winded.

She looked up, caught. “What? No. I was just… observing. For scheduling purposes. You know. Patterns.”

“Patterns.”

“Your routine. So I can... better assist you. Like, if there’s a preferred grunting window or hydration interval - ”

Julian laughed, soft and low. “You’re unbelievable.”

She flushed. “In a good way?”

“In an absolutely chaotic, bafflingly competent way.”

Zoe blinked. Julian Langdon Hayes just called her competent.While doing pull-ups. In a t-shirt that had no business clinging like that.

She nearly fell off the bench.

Julian stepped off the mat and grabbed a towel. “You ever try the rowing machine?”

Zoe blinked. “The what-now?”

He pointed. “That one over there. Great for clearing your head. You want to give it a shot?”

“Oh - I don’t want to interrupt - ”

“You’re not,” he said, smiling. “Besides, if you pass out, I’m trained in basic CPR.”

Zoe blinked. Her brain blue-screened. Did he just say CPR? As in mouth-to-mouth? As in rescue breathing in sweatpants?

She let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a mild stroke. “Oh. Comforting.”

Comforting?! That was the best she could do?

She stood up, legs operating on a four-second delay, rising with all the grace of a startled baby giraffe. Her thoughts were ricocheting between Is he joking? and What if I actually did pass out? and No. Do not pass out. That would be too on-brand.

He’s not flirting, she told herself. He’s just casually charming and medically prepared.

Which, somehow, was worse.

He showed her how to sit, adjust the foot straps, grip the handles. She tried to focus, she really did - but his voice was low and close and his cologne should be illegal.

“Here,” he said, crouching beside her, reaching to adjust her grip. His hand brushed over hers.

Just once.

Warm. Solid. Nothing dramatic.

But her heart still went full drumline.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. He was right there. Right there.And she was pretty sure this was how planets felt when moons got too close.

“There,” he said softly, letting go. “Perfect.”

She nodded like her brain hadn’t just been wiped clean. “Yep. Rowing. Sport. Movement. Totally nailing it.”

Julian grinned and stood, grabbing his water. “You’re a menace.”

She gave the machine one awkward pull and immediately drifted sideways. “I prefer the term ‘untrained asset.’”

He laughed - again - and Zoe decided this might actually be the best day of her life.

—

By the time they wrapped up the gym session and rode the elevator back to his condo, Zoe was high on endorphins, electrolytes, and dangerously delusional optimism.

She told herself she’d be fine. That she’d survived the gym without passing out, throwing up, or accidentally confessing her love. That she could handle whatever came next.

Julian unlocked the door and stepped inside, tossing his towel onto a hook with fluid, practiced ease.

“Feel free to shower too, if you want,” he said, already heading down the hallway. “Guest bathroom’s stocked. Towels are in the cabinet.”

Zoe blinked. “Oh! Uh - no. I’m good. Totally good. Showered before I came.”

Technically true. Spiritually? A mess.

He glanced back with a smile. “Suit yourself. I’ll be quick.”

And then he disappeared - into the bathroom, into the steam, into her fragile emotional ecosystem.

Zoe stood motionless in the hallway, heart sprinting.

He offered me his shower. He offered me a towel. This is not a drill.This is intimate. This is polite. This is probably normal in assistant-world but also possibly foreplay.I don’t know anymore. I live here now. In confusion and citrus-scented agony.

—

Ten minutes. That’s how long he’d been in the shower.

Zoe had spent those ten minutes pacing the condo’s hallway, reciting calming affirmations, and absolutely not imagining Julian Langdon Hayes naked under hot water.

She was better than that. (Actually, she wasn’t.)

She was just about to sit down on the edge of a very expensive-looking leather bench when she heard the bathroom door open.

And then he appeared.

Hair damp. White towel slung low around his hips. Another towel in his hands, which he was using to dry his hair in slow, maddening circles.

Steam clung to him like it had abandonment issues. His skin was flushed from the heat. One drop of water trailed down the line of his collarbone and Zoe nearly filed for early retirement.

That’s it. That’s the final straw. I’ve been murdered by hydration.

“Sorry,” he said casually, walking past her like this was normal. “Shower ran long. Didn’t mean to make you wait.”

Oh, take your time, she wanted to say. Please, live your best spa life.

What she actually said was: “No problem. I… like steam.”

LIKE STEAM???

He paused in front of a cabinet, grabbed a t-shirt, and pulled it on - slowly, like the fabric needed to kiss every inch of his existence. The towel stayed around his waist for an unreasonably long time. Until, mercifully (or tragically), he disappeared down the hallway to finish getting dressed.

Zoe stood there, gripping the countertop, internally screaming.

He was just damp. He was just a man. Who happened to smell like cedar and ruin.This was not a crush. This was… heatstroke. Gym-related. Perfectly normal.

By the time Julian returned - fully dressed and humming like he didn’t just emotionally vaporize her - Zoe had arranged herself at the kitchen island and was pretending to scroll through emails  like a woman not in crisis.

He stepped into the kitchen and opened the fridge like nothing happened. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” she croaked, swallowing her pride and the last traces of her sanity.

“So,” she said casually, “where are we eating? Is there a Michelin-star chef hiding in the guest bathroom?”

“You’re looking at him.” He replied.

Zoe froze. “You cook?”

He pulled out eggs, spinach, sourdough, and some unreasonably photogenic avocados. “It’s brunch. Not alchemy.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t trust that sentence. People who say cooking isn’t hard are either liars or… you.”

He shrugged. “My mom taught me. She said it builds character. Also muscle control.”

Zoe sat at the kitchen island, utterly betrayed by how attractive it was to watch a man chop vegetables like he meant it.

It wasn’t even flashy. No show-off moves. Just confident, practiced efficiency. A pinch of this, a flick of salt, the way he cracked eggs one-handed like it was nothing.

Dear everyone I’ve ever dated, she thought. Do better.

Julian glanced over his shoulder. “You okay over there?”

“Hm? Yep. Just enjoying the smell of competence. It’s rare.”

He smirked and went back to sautéing like it was a casual Tuesday and not the scene of her slow emotional collapse.

A few minutes later, he set down two plates - toast topped with soft scrambled eggs, greens, and roasted tomatoes. Minimalist, balanced, borderline insulting in its perfection.

Zoe stared at it like it was art. Or a trap. “Okay, but is this legal? You’re telling me you can act, look like that, and make eggs that aren’t weirdly wet?”

Julian sat down across from her, amused. “You haven’t even tried them yet.”

“I don’t need to. I can smell my abandonment issues melting.”

He laughed and took a bite. “Eat, Zoe.”

She obeyed, fully prepared to find a flaw - and immediately made a small sound of betrayal. “Okay. Rude. Why is this so good?”

He tilted his head. “I told you. Character-building. Also, I panic-cook before press tours.”

Zoe snorted. “You panic-cook. I panic-organize my spice rack alphabetically. Same thing.”

Julian leaned back, watching her. “You’re different.”

Zoe looked up, mid-bite. “Different how?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave a small smile. “Most people I work with... they don’t see me like you do.”

Zoe blinked. “Like a man who seasons his food?”

His laugh cracked open something warm between them.

And for a second, everything felt light. Settled. Like they were two real people in a kitchen, not a celebrity and his assistant playing house in some alternate reality.

Then his phone buzzed.

Julian glanced at it. His eyes flicked across the screen - just once - but his smile faltered. Barely. Almost imperceptibly.

He locked the screen without answering and set the phone face-down on the counter.

Zoe didn’t ask. And he didn’t offer. But something shifted in the air between them - just slightly. Like a curtain moved and let in a draft she couldn’t name.

She took another bite of toast, more for distraction than hunger.

Then, without really planning to, she blurted, “I was going to quit this morning.”

Julian looked up, surprised. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” She laughed softly, self-deprecating. “Had a whole resignation text typed out at 6:43 a.m. Sent it to Owen. Told him I wasn’t cut out for this job.”

His expression shifted - gentle, focused. “What changed your mind?”

“Owen texted back and said I wasn’t allowed to quit. That you asked if I was coming in today.” She glanced at him, then quickly back at her plate. “Said you needed me.”

A beat of silence. She immediately regretted every choice she’d ever made.

Julian sat back in his chair, arms crossed loosely. “I did. I had a long day coming up. Gym. Press stuff. Shoots. And I figured… if I had to deal with all that, I’d rather do it with someone who doesn’t pretend.”

Zoe blinked. “I - what?”

“You’re just… you,” he said, shrugging like he hadn’t just casually detonated her nervous system. “You don’t tiptoe or flatter or edit yourself. It’s refreshing. Also, I like your tea. I didn’t expect to, but… here we are.”

She stared at him. Tea? Honesty? Refreshing?

What does one do with this information?Frame it? Print it on a pillow? Call the authorities?

Julian raised an eyebrow. “Was that the wrong answer?”

“No,” she said too fast. “I mean - yes. I mean, no, it’s fine. That’s… cool. Super chill. I’m fine. Definitely not going to spiral about this later or anything.”

He looked like he was trying not to laugh again. “You’re very bad at lying, Zoe.”

“And yet here I am. Employed.”

He lifted his mug in a mock toast. “To emotional chaos and unexpectedly good brunch.”

Zoe clinked hers against his. “May we survive both.”

—

After they (mostly her) survived brunch, they headed to the shoot location - a sleek downtown studio with exposed brick, oversized lights, and the kind of minimalistic furniture that made Zoe nervous to touch anything.

Julian greeted everyone like he’d known them for years. Makeup artists, photographers, the assistant who brought the wrong smoothie - he smiled at all of them, asked how their weekends were, made everyone feel seen.

Zoe stayed tucked near the craft table, pretending to check her notes while mostly watching him.

It started with the interview.

Julian sat on a stool in front of a small video crew, relaxed but alert. The interviewer, a woman in a linen blazer with sharp red nails, asked standard questions - career milestones, upcoming roles, inspirations. But his answers…

His answers were not standard.

“I’ve always loved characters who feel stuck between versions of themselves,” he said, eyes thoughtful. “People trying to outgrow who they were without losing the pieces that mattered.”

Zoe’s heart did something inconvenient.

Okay, philosopher king. Calm down.

He continued, voice smooth but never rehearsed. “Acting helps me make sense of that, I guess. It gives me permission to explore sides of myself that don’t always fit in real life.”

Zoe, holding her tea like a lifeline: Please stop talking about identity like that. I’m emotionally fragile.

When they asked about fame, he paused longer than she expected.

“It’s strange,” he admitted. “The more people recognize you, the less they actually know you. Sometimes it feels like being seen from a distance - but never up close.”

He didn’t say it bitterly. There was no edge to his voice. Just a kind of quiet, almost clinical sadness, like someone explaining the shape of a bruise they’d had for so long, they forgot it wasn’t supposed to be there.

And that was it. Right there. The first crack in the Golden Julian Armor.

It was so subtle you might miss it. But Zoe didn’t.

Her chest tightened before she could stop it - this quiet, uninvited ache that bloomed somewhere between her ribs and her rational brain.

Because she knew that feeling. Not the fame part, obviously - unless her high school yearbook’s “Most Likely to Own Thirty Pens” counted - but the distance. The aching stretch between how people saw her and who she really was.

He wasn’t just charming. Or hot. Or weirdly good at eggs.

He was… lonely. And Zoe, who had spent most of her life spiraling quietly in the background of everyone else’s spotlight, suddenly didn’t feel so far away from him.

Which was, frankly, alarming.

Absolutely not, her brain whispered. You are an assistant. A tea-providing goblin. You are not supposed to relate to your boss’s soul-level wounds.

But the ache didn’t leave.

And for the first time since she’d met Julian Langdon Hayes, she didn’t feel like she was spiraling from attraction.

She felt like she was understanding him.

Which was somehow worse.

—

Then came the photos.

Julian disappeared into wardrobe and emerged in a simple white t-shirt and worn jeans that looked like they’d been tailored by the gods. No suit. No high fashion. Just casual devastation.

Zoe blinked.

Oh no. That’s illegal. That’s actually illegal.

He looked like someone had plucked him from a 1970s road trip film and added soft lighting for emotional trauma. James Dean with a therapy degree. He ran a hand through his hair - just once - and it was somehow more dramatic than a full movie montage.

Then came outfit number two. Black Henley, sleeves pushed up. Zoe nearly dropped her clipboard. Outfit number three? A grey hoodie and dark joggers that made her want to submit a formal complaint to whatever higher power allowed this man to exist.

And it wasn’t just the clothes. It was him.

The way he carried himself. The stillness in his gaze. The quiet intensity that didn’t need to try to be charming because it already was. He didn’t pose - he settled into each shot, like his bones just knew what the camera wanted.

Zoe tried to look anywhere else. She failed.

It’s fine, she told herself. Just observe. Be professional. He’s your boss. You are the wind. You are invisible. You are - 

Julian glanced over his shoulder mid-shot and caught her staring.

And winked.

Winked.

Zoe made a noise that might’ve been a hiccup or a small internal explosion.

Abort. Shut it down.

We’re in a Code Lavender Emergency.

She immediately turned to a nearby rack of coats and pretended to be deeply interested in a beige windbreaker.

But it was too late.

The man was magnetic. And worse, he knew it - not in an arrogant way, but in a quiet, devastating, yeah-I-saw-you-looking kind of way that made her want to fall into a vat of lukewarm soup and disappear.

She spent the next twenty minutes trying to un-witness it.

—

The car ride back to Julian’s condo had been quiet in that oddly comfortable way - city lights flickering past the tinted windows, soft music playing low, and Zoe doing everything in her power not to think about the fact that she’d just witnessed her boss wink at her while dressed like a Calvin Klein ad from another dimension.

By the time they stepped into the elevator, her brain was just beginning to un-melt.

Then he leaned against the mirrored wall, glanced at her with that infuriatingly casual ease, and said, “So… what’d you think of the shoot?”

Zoe blinked. Her soul momentarily left her body.

“I - uh.” She cleared her throat. “It was… very professional.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. “That’s the word you’re going with?”

“Extremely professional,” she nodded. “Like, offensively so. I’ve never seen anyone wear a grey hoodie with that level of… professionalism.”

He grinned. “You mean ‘hotness’?”

She let out a strangled noise. “That’s subjective.”

“I was wearing sweatpants.”

“Exactly. Offensive.”

He laughed, a warm, full sound that echoed off the elevator walls and made her knees rethink their function.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, still smiling.

“You winked!” she blurted, then instantly wanted to walk into the elevator panel and disappear through the wiring.

He tilted his head. “You noticed?”

“No,” she said too fast.

Julian looked entirely too pleased. “You were staring.”

“Again, subjective,” she muttered. “I was making sure your shirt didn't wrinkle. Very assistant of me.”

“Diligent as ever.”

The elevator dinged. The doors opened. Zoe took a breath like she’d been underwater.

As they stepped into the condo, she was still red-cheeked and internally combusting, while Julian - Julian was humming.

Which felt unfair.

—

The condo was quiet when they stepped inside, the hush of the city muffled by triple-pane glass and too much money.

Zoe hovered awkwardly by the door, still unsure if she should just… leave. Her tote bag was slung over her shoulder. Her clipboard was tucked under one arm. She was halfway through saying a polite goodbye when Julian’s voice stopped her.

“You want tea?” he asked, already walking toward the kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Zoe blinked. “I - sorry. Did you just ask me if I want tea?”

He turned and flashed a small grin. “Well, I was going to say ‘a drink,’ but you strike me as someone who would absolutely judge my whiskey collection.”

She lifted her chin. “Only if it’s alphabetically disorganized.”

Julian chuckled. “Tea it is.”

He opened a cabinet, picked up two mismatched mugs, and set them on the counter.

Zoe stared.

One mug was sleek, black, and minimalist  -  with the words “Discipline. Focus. Grind.” printed in aggressive Helvetica.

The other was a faded yellow with a chip on the handle and bold pink letters that read: “I’m just a little guy. Don’t yell.”

She immediately reached for that one.

Julian noticed and grinned. “That one was a wrap gift from a director who said it ‘reminded her of my soul.’ Still not sure if I’m flattered.”

Zoe held it like it was her emotional support chalice. “This mug gets me.”

He chuckled and turned to the shelf again, opened another cabinet, then froze. “Okay, confession: I just realized I don’t actually own any tea.”

“You don’t?” she said, mock-gasping.

“I’m a coffee guy,” he said, mildly sheepish. “But I’m ready to expand my worldview. Do you have your emergency tea arsenal?”

Zoe, naturally, did. From her bag, she produced a small zippered pouch and laid it on the counter like she was presenting fine jewelry.

“Today’s options are: lemon ginger, sleepy lavender, vanilla rooibos, and a blend called Moonlight Bloom, which tastes like depression and lavender soap.”

Julian peered at them like they were rare artifacts. “Let’s do lemon ginger. It sounds the least emotionally complicated.”

She prepped the mugs with practiced ease, pouring hot water over the bags and handing him the Serious Mug.

“To gastrointestinal clarity,” she offered, raising hers.

“To tea that doesn’t taste like regret,” he replied.

They clinked gently.

He took a sip. Paused. Blinked.

“This is… weirdly comforting.”

Zoe smiled into her cup. “You sound surprised.”

“I expected it to taste like grass,” he said. “But it’s like drinking a hug.”

Her brain short-circuited somewhere between drinking a hug and Julian Hayes sipping tea out of a mug that says ‘Grind.’

If this was spiritual awakening, she wasn’t ready. But her tea definitely was.

Minutes later, they were sitting on opposite ends of his absurdly sleek leather sofa - Julian with the mug that screamed ‘discipline,’ and Zoe with one that just screamed."

Zoe took a sip and peeked at him over the rim. “So. Do you always invite assistants to hang out after hours for tea?”

Julian leaned back, one hand cradling his mug, the other rubbing absently at the edge of his jaw. “No. Just the ones who survive the walkie talkie incident and don’t run screaming from my gym.”

Zoe smiled. “High bar.”

They sat like that for a moment - quiet. Not awkward. Not strained. Just still.

Then he said, almost too casually, “You know, sometimes I wonder what people would think if they saw me like this.”

Zoe tilted her head. “Like what?”

He shrugged, eyes still on his tea. “Not on set. Not dressed up. Not… performing.”

She didn’t say anything. Just waited.

He glanced up, and for once, didn’t smile. “People think they know me. They see the version that’s lit well and edited. But off-camera? I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like a ghost in my own life.”

Zoe’s fingers curled tighter around her mug.

Okay. So we’re doing this.Soul talk. Tea-fueled vulnerability.Dangerous.

She inhaled slowly. “Can I tell you something kind of weird?”

He looked at her, curious. “Please.”

“I don’t think you’re a ghost,” she said. “I think you’re more like a lighthouse.”

He blinked.

“You shine for everyone else. Constant. Reliable. But you’re also alone up there, watching storms roll in.”

Julian was still. Like something in him had stilled to listen.

Zoe sipped her tea to fill the silence. “And I think maybe… you’re so used to being seen from far away, you don’t even realize when someone’s close enough to knock on the door.”

Another beat of quiet. And then, gently:

“You knocking, Zoe?”

Zoe nearly choked on her tea. “I’m just saying your lighting could use a dimmer. You run at ‘emotional high beam’ all the time.”

He laughed again, but it was quieter this time. More real. Like something had shifted.

Then he said, not quite looking at her, “It’s strange. I can stand in front of a hundred people, say someone else’s words, and feel invincible.”

He turned his mug in his hands. “But the second someone actually sees me - really sees me - I feel like I’m about to fall apart.”

Zoe’s heart clenched.

Oh.Okay.Well.That’s going to live in my chest rent-free forever.

Julian finally looked at her, and the air between them felt impossibly still.

“I guess I’ve just never known what to do with someone who doesn’t want the version of me that gets applause.”

The words hung in the air like something heavier than either of them had expected.

Julian looked down at his tea, turning the mug slowly in his hands. His posture shifted - just slightly - like something inside him had slouched. Like he'd stepped off a stage and didn’t know where to stand next.

“It’s always been the goal,” he added, voice lower now. “The noise. The lights. That moment where everyone’s looking and clapping and - ” He exhaled, almost a laugh, but it didn’t quite make it. “But lately… I don’t know. It feels like I’m on the outside of something I built.”

Zoe didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Not when he looked like that - raw and golden and slightly unmoored.

And for a second, it felt like the whole condo tilted. Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would notice. Just enough for something inside her to shift.

She watched him - really watched him - for the first time without the safety net of chaos or caffeine or clipboard-induced panic.

He looked... lost.

Not in the dramatic, stormy-eyed actor way. But in that real way. The kind that crept in during the quiet hours, when no one was watching and applause couldn’t reach.

And it hit her then - he didn’t say it to impress her. He wasn’t trying to be profound.

He was just… telling the truth.

Oh no, her brain whispered. He’s not just hot. He’s haunted.

And somehow, that was worse. Worse because now she cared. Worse because now she saw it.

Her eyes flicked around the condo - his impossibly clean, expensive, minimalist condo - and suddenly it all made sense.

The matte black finishes. The untouched cookbooks. The furniture that looked like it belonged in a catalog for emotionally distant architects.

It was beautiful. But cold.

Like it had been designed for photos, not for living.

Like it was curated to match his image, but not his soul.

She tilted her head. “Can I say something without getting fired?”

Julian’s mouth twitched. “That depends.”

“Your place is…” She hesitated. “Kind of cold.”

His brows lifted.

“Not in a bad way!” she added quickly. “Just… like it’s waiting for someone to actually live in it.”

He looked around, then gave a half-smile. “I never really had time to make it feel like anything.”

Zoe’s voice softened. “Then maybe you should.”

Julian studied her for a long moment. “You offering to interior decorate now?”

“I organize tea like it’s a religion. You don’t want me near your color palettes.”

“But I trust your instincts.” He sipped his tea. “So… if you want to bring a little chaos into the feng shui, go for it.”

Zoe blinked. “Wait. Really?”

Julian nodded. “Throw pillows. Weird candles. Something that smells like a bookstore in autumn. Surprise me.”

She stared at him, heart stuttering.

He didn’t mean anything by it. Probably. And yet… That kind of trust? That kind of permission?

It felt intimate.

Dangerously so.

They sat there in the stillness, tea cooling in their hands, eyes not quite looking away.

And for a brief, breathless moment, Zoe felt like maybe - just maybe - this was the start of something.

Something soft.

Something real.

Something she wasn’t ready for… but already wanted more than she should.

—

The next morning, Zoe stood in front of Julian’s condo building clutching a paper bag filled with color. Throw pillows, a tiny potted plant named Steve, one of those candles that somehow smelled like “mystery and masculinity,” and a woven wall hanging she may or may not have panic-ordered at midnight.

It was Saturday. Technically, the weekend. But Owen hadn’t said anything about days off. And Julian hadn’t either. And really, how off could a weekend be when your boss was a walking emotional paradox with zero regard for conventional boundaries?

You’re not here because you miss him, she told herself. You’re here because your Virgo moon refuses to let his condo go another day without warmth.

She breezed past the downstairs receptionist, offering a friendly wave as she headed to the private elevator.

“Miss Harper - ” the woman started.

“Just dropping something off!” Zoe called, pressing the elevator button. “I’ll be quick!”

The receptionist opened her mouth, hesitated, then sat back down with a slow blink that probably meant you really shouldn’t do that.

Zoe ignored it.

Because surely, if she were being unprofessional, someone would’ve told her by now. And besides - Julian said to surprise him.

So she did.

—

The elevator ride felt endless. She adjusted the strap of her tote. Practiced her “is-this-too-much” smile. Wondered if she should’ve added a plant mister.

She didn’t expect to walk into his living room and hear laughter.

She definitely didn’t expect to see her.

Tall. Effortlessly stunning. The kind of woman who wore silk pajamas like they were couture. She was curled up on the couch, her fingers in Julian’s hair, his smile softer than Zoe had ever seen.

Then - just before Zoe could backpedal, just before her lungs remembered how to breathe - they kissed.

Not polite. Not vague. Warm. Familiar.

And Zoe stood there, framed in the open doorway, clutching a bag full of homemade cozy and heartbreak.

Julian looked up.

His eyes met hers.

And something in him shifted.

She didn’t know what.

And that’s when she knew.

She should’ve resigned yesterday.

---

Thank you so much for reading Chapter Four of Unseen.

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---

Chapter 5 >

[sebstanaddict]

Unseen

A new original story inspired by Sebastian Stan

Summary :

Zoe Grace Harper is a tea-loving, color-coding, mildly neurotic assistant who pours her heart out to her journal Frankie, trusts in the universe's signs (like that one time a butterfly landed on her stapler), and firmly believes in old-fashioned romance - like handwritten letters and forehead kisses. She’s quirky, spiritual, hilariously self-aware, and very much not in love with her boss… unless you count the way she emotionally combusts every time he casually says her name.

Julian Langdon Hayes is Hollywood’s golden boy - charming, award-winning, and quietly disillusioned with his picture-perfect life. The only person who sees through it all? Zoe. But while she thinks he’s just being polite, he’s starting to think she might be the one person who could save him from himself.

Warning : None

Word count : 3.8k

Chapter List

---

Chapter 3 - The Sky Is Falling

—

Dear Frankie,

Okay. I made it through Day One.

Barely.

I don’t know how I got hired. Maybe Julian Hayes is running a secret kindness cult. Maybe I blacked out and charmed him with my clipboard aura. Maybe he had a stroke mid-decision.

Point is: I’m still employed.

And now it’s Day Two. And I am absolutely convinced I’m going to ruin everything.

What if I mess up his schedule? What if I order the wrong coffee and he spirals into an existential crisis about foam? What if I knock over a camera and bankrupt the studio? What if I’m the reason he stops believing in hiring weird assistants with lavender tea and emotional baggage?

What if I disappoint him?

I know he’s just a guy. A guy with great hair and stupidly nice eyes and a face that probably has its own lighting rig. But he’s also kind. And calm. And somehow made me feel like I wasn’t a total disaster yesterday.

Which is why I’m terrified. Because I am a total disaster. And what happens when he finds that out?

Anyway. I’ve packed extra pens, three kinds of tea, and one emergency banana.

If I survive the day, I’ll consider it a miracle. If not, please erase my search history and bury me with my clipboard.

Love, Zoe “Possibly Unqualified” Harper

— 

Zoe Harper was sprinting through the set like her clipboard was on fire.

Which, honestly, wasn’t entirely impossible. She had definitely passed a pyro tech on the way in, and she was carrying a thermos of hot tea, Julian’s special cup of cappuccino, two granola bars, and what was supposed to be a neatly printed and stapled copy of Julian Langdon Hayes’s revised scene sides.

But in her defense?

It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.

The plan had been simple: print the new script pages, staple them, slide them into her folder like a fully functioning adult.

But then Julian had needed his coffee. Someone in props had asked her about a missing cable. Owen texted her three times in a row with mysterious frowning emojis. Somewhere in the chaos, she had apparently tucked the freshly printed - but not yet stapled - pages into her bag and forgot all about the “staple” part.

So when she pulled out the folder near the props tent, what she expected was a tidy, secure stack.

What she got… was page carnage.

One sharp breeze hit, right on cue like the universe had read the scene notes and said, Let’s do this dramatically, and twelve unbound pages launched into the air like confetti cannon at a toddler’s birthday party.

A page flew past her ear like a paper ninja star.

Another spiraled dramatically into the air like it was auditioning for Swan Lake: Stationery Edition.

“No - no no no - COME BACK!” she shouted at the script like it could hear her.

Heads turned. A lighting guy ducked. Someone laughed.

Zoe bolted past a camera dolly, windmilling her arms and muttering “OhGodohGodohGod” under her breath while trying not to trip over a cable. Her hair had fully betrayed her, her shoes were squeaking, and she was 90% certain one page had just landed in a food truck.

And then - of course - one sheet soared like a majestic, traitorous falcon straight toward Julian Langdon Hayes.

Julian had just stepped out of his trailer, wiping sweat from his temple with a towel, calm and glowy and stupidly attractive in that unbothered way that made everyone else around him look like they were glitching.

The paper struck him directly in the face.

Smack.

It stuck there for a beat. Just stuck. Bold. Dramatic. Unapologetic.

Julian didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Just peeled it off his face, looked at it, then looked up at her.

She skidded to a stop five feet away, one hand still raised, mid-sprint, like she’d been trying to summon the force.

He stared.

She blinked.

“…Scene nine?” he asked, dry as the Mojave.

“I believe in immersive delivery,” she gasped. “Also? Surprise face scripts are very popular this season.”

Julian blinked once. Then - God help her - he started laughing.

A real laugh. Shoulders shaking. Eyes crinkling. The towel dropped. The kind of laugh that made the entire morning’s horror almost worth it.

Zoe pressed her clipboard to her chest. “Okay. That’s one way to start Day Two.”

He handed the page back. “If the rest of the scene hits this hard, we’ve got an Emmy.”

Zoe stared at him, stunned - halfway between cardiac arrest and inappropriate delight. Of course he was handsome and funny. Of course he took being ambushed by rogue stationery with the composure of a man who got surprise-attacked by paper weekly.

Julian was still laughing as Zoe scrambled to collect the rest of the airborne pages with the grace of a caffeinated squirrel.

One had lodged itself dramatically in the crook of a director’s chair. Another had been stepped on by a man dressed as a medieval guard. The one she feared lost forever was fished out of a potted plant by a stunt double named Rico, who handed it to her with a solemn nod and said, “I respect your passion.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, clutching the page to her chest like it was a wounded comrade.

She bent to grab another, only to find Julian already crouched beside her, scooping up the one that had been taped (by chaos and gravity) to a power box.

“You know,” he said, handing it over, “you’re definitely more exciting than my last assistant.”

“Oh?” she said, winded, “Was she less... airborne?”

“She never made the script perform interpretive dance across the set, if that’s what you mean.”

When she finally succeeded in gathering them all, windblown and flushed, she tried to stand taller.

“Pages retrieved. Crisis moderately contained.” she announced in front of Julian.

He accepted the stack with an arched brow, flipping through them with casual elegance - like he hadn’t just been ambushed by scene nine to the face.

“All present?”

Zoe double-checked the corners. “Minus one coffee stain and one boot print, yes. The boot might have improved the monologue’s intensity.”

Julian grinned. “I’ll let the director know it’s a bold artistic choice.”

She exhaled and pushed her hair behind her ears - only to realize too late that a paperclip had somehow wedged itself into her hair.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

She tugged it free like it was totally intentional. “That’s... my antenna. Helps me find Wi-Fi.”

Julian’s laugh came softer this time. Warmer. Like he was trying to rein it in - and failing.

“You’re a bit of a walking storm, Zoe.”

She winced. “A gentle storm?”

“More like a hurricane with a well-labeled clipboard.”

Before she could spiral into the sun, a crew member jogged past with a walkie talkie and called out, “Hayes, five minutes to reset!”

Julian gave her a nod and started walking backward toward the trailer, script pages in hand.

“Thanks for the delivery. Try not to knock out anyone important on the way back.”

“No promises.”

She stood there a moment longer, hair askew, heart loud, a paper still fluttering somewhere in the background.

Then, very quietly, she muttered, “Frankie, I may have just face-slapped my boss with scene nine.”

—

Day Three was... suspiciously smooth.

To be fair, she prayed all night so that she would ace day 3. 

And she did.

Zoe didn’t trip over a single cable.

She didn’t spill tea on any walkie talkies. Her hair even cooperated, which, statistically speaking, should have been impossible.

But somehow, against all odds and the laws of her own personality, she crushed it.

She had Julian’s coffee - exactly the way he liked it.

(Not just “black with oat milk,” but from the right barista, the one who added that weird cinnamon foam he never admitted to liking.)

She handed him his script updates before he asked for them.

She caught an error in the call sheet that would’ve had him in wardrobe two hours early for the wrong scene. (Owen: stunned. Zoe: quietly vibrating with pride.)

And when one of the interns panicked during a schedule shuffle, Zoe had already drafted two alternate versions - color-coded and tagged by department - ready on her clipboard.

Julian took the updated sheet from her hands, blinked once, then said, “You... scare me a little.”

“Professionally?” she asked.

He looked down at the perfect column alignment. “Deeply.”

She grinned “I’m a confusing but highly functional system, like a printer that only works when you whisper to it.”

Julian stared at her, then let out a low laugh.

“That might be the most accurate self-diagnosis I’ve ever heard.”

A few hours later, he caught her at craft services, deep in battle with a rogue granola dispenser. She finally won, narrowly avoiding a nut avalanche, and turned to find him watching her with a half-smile.

“You’re weirdly good at this,” he said, voice low, amused.

“I have two modes,” she replied. “One is anxious chaos. The other is spreadsheet sorcery.”

Julian tilted his head. “So today is... sorcery?”

She shrugged. “I’m trying something new. Competence.”

He nodded like he was filing that away, eyes warmer than usual. “Looks good on you.”

Zoe walked away feeling like she’d just been handed a rose and a trophy and maybe a legally binding soulmate agreement.

The day continued suspiciously drama-free.

Zoe kept checking the sky, half-expecting a meteor to crash through set just to balance things out. But no. Everything went according to plan.

Until the mug.

It was sometime in the late afternoon lull - post-rehearsal, pre-lighting reset. Julian had just come off a scene, sipping his usual lukewarm coffee, and sat on the folding chair beside hers under the awning, towel draped over his shoulders, script resting on his knee.

Zoe stood nearby, sipping from her favorite travel mug - the blue one with a constellation design and the faint scent of minty dreams and mild panic.

Julian tilted his head toward her. “You’re still drinking that mystery tea?”

“It’s not mystery,” she said, defensive. “It’s mint, chamomile, and rose. Calming.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Sounds like it tastes like floral regret.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t knock it till you - ”

Julian reached out and took the mug straight from her hands, mid-sentence.

And took a sip.

From. Her. Mug.

Her actual, lip-having, emotionally-attached, carried-it-to-bed-once mug.

Zoe’s brain blue-screened.

She stared, mouth slightly open, hands mid-air like she was trying to catch a fragile idea.

Julian paused, considering the taste. “Hmm. Weird. But not in a bad way.”

Then, with the casual confidence of a man who’d never caused a personal crisis via beverage, he handed it back to her.

“Sorry,” he said, offhand. “I don’t have any communicable diseases. Probably.”

“Okay,” she said, voice two octaves higher. “Okay okay okay.”

Julian gave her a curious smile. “You good?”

“Absolutely,” she squeaked. “Perfectly calm. Tea-like calm.”

He tilted his head. “That tea has you spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” she lied. “I’m steeping. There’s a difference.”

Julian chuckled and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a brief moment of rest.

Meanwhile, Zoe stared at her mug like it had just proposed marriage.

Julian had taken a sip of her tea - her tea - from her mug.

That mug was never getting washed again.

And if anyone needed her, she’d be in a corner, emotionally combusting.

She tried to reset herself that night. Meditated. Journaled. Lit a candle that smelled like sanity and forest rain. 

You’re doing great, she told herself. He probably forgot by now. Or shared mugs with everyone. Totally normal.

By morning, she’d almost convinced herself she could act like a functioning adult.

Almost.

—

Day Four should’ve come with a warning label.

Something like: “Caution: All internal monologues are now external broadcasts. Proceed at your own peril.”

Because up until ten-thirty that morning, Zoe Harper had been doing pretty well.

She was in early. She’d prepped Julian’s coffee and backup coffee. She’d reprinted scene sides before anyone noticed the typo. She was practically glowing with competence.

So when Owen handed her a walkie-talkie and said, “You’re ready. Hayes likes having direct contact - keep it on Channel 4.” 

“Copy that.” she took it with pride.

She was part of the inner circle now. The real-deal assistant. Clipboard. Headset. Power stance. Zoe 2.0.

Except.

There was a button.A small, innocent-looking switch that she absolutely should have double-checked. Because Channel 4 was for Julian.

And Channel 1 was for - literally everyone else on set.

She lifted the walkie, thumb hovering. Just say it. Just press the button and say it. Easy. Professional.

Zoe took a breath and muttered under her breath, “Okay, Zoe. You can do this. Just tell him about the boot change. Not about how his smile makes your stomach feel weird.”

A pause.

Then… laughter.

A wave of it. From the lighting rig to the props tent.

Zoe blinked. What was so funny?Then Owen’s voice crackled through the walkie talkie. “Zoe. You’re on Channel 1.”

Her soul tried to evacuate through her pores.

She scrambled to switch channels, pressing buttons like she was trying to defuse a bomb. There was static, then - 

“For the record,” Julian’s voice came through, warm and amused, “I never intended to make you feel weird, Zoe.”

Dead. She was dead. This was her funeral now.

She lowered the walkie talkie with the slow, horrified grace of someone handing over state secrets. A second later, she knocked over a water bottle that rolled directly into a lighting tech’s foot. She mouthed “sorry” while internally Googling: “how to fake your own death and start over in Iceland.”

Later that day, she passed Julian near wardrobe. He didn’t say a word. But his eyes sparkled with barely restrained laughter, and the corners of his mouth curled - just enough to completely undo her.

Naturally, she walked into a pillar.

The crew didn’t even flinch. Someone handed her an ice pack. Someone else said, “Again?” She saluted them with what dignity she had left and kept moving.

Hours later - once the mortification levels had dropped below critical - she was on her way back from wardrobe after delivering a revised call sheet. Clipboard clutched like a riot shield, she was mentally reciting affirmations (“You are competent. You are employed. You are no longer a walking disaster… mostly”) when she slowed near the side of Julian’s trailer.

Voices.

Low. Clipped. Unmistakably tense.

Zoe paused. Not close enough to mean to eavesdrop, but close enough to definitely hear.

She slowed.

The voice was coming from behind Julian’s trailer, where a small shaded nook was nestled between production crates. She wouldn’t have noticed it if she hadn’t dropped her pen ten minutes ago and taken the scenic route back while low-key talking herself out of another spiral.

She stopped.

Julian’s voice. Calm, quieter than usual. And someone else - female. Sharp. Professional. Not Owen.

Ellie, she realized. His publicist.

“I’m just saying,” Ellie’s voice carried, “she’s a hazard.”

Zoe froze.

“Ellie..” Julian started, but she cut him off.

“She’s sweet, I get it. But sweet doesn’t look good next to you in the press. She’s awkward, she’s fidgety, she nearly took out a lighting rig the other day. Do you know how fast that would go viral?”

A pause.

Zoe ducked slightly behind a stack of crates, her heart hammering against her ribcage like it was trying to claw its way out. She shouldn’t be listening. She knew she shouldn’t. But her feet refused to move.

Ellie continued, brisk and polished, like she was reading a headline: “Julian Langdon Hayes, award-winning actor and media darling, nearly decapitated by his own assistant in a freak wind-and-paper incident. Not the vibe we want.”

Zoe winced. Okay, yes, the script-launching incident had been bad. But “decapitated” felt a little dramatic.

“You’ve worked too hard to keep this image,” Ellie pressed. “Charming. Untouchable. Sophisticated. You don’t need a chaos gremlin trailing you with tea and color-coded emotional spirals.”

Zoe’s breath caught.

She had been called a lot of things in her life - but chaos gremlin? That was… honestly fair, but deeply rude.

There was a long pause.

And then Julian’s voice, quiet. Not defensive. Not angry.

“I’ll think about it.”

Zoe didn’t hear anything after that.

She backed away, pulse roaring in her ears, eyes stinging for no good reason at all. It didn’t matter. It was fine. He hadn’t said yes. He hadn’t said anything, really.

Just that he’d think about it.

And somehow, that hurt worse.

—

Zoe didn’t remember walking. But somehow, she ended up behind the sound tent, sitting on a dusty folding chair that may or may not have once hosted a raccoon. Her clipboard rested in her lap, untouched. Her heart? Still in Julian’s trailer, flattened somewhere under Ellie’s designer heels.

She rubbed her eyes. Maybe if she pressed hard enough, she could reset the day. Or her whole personality.

Footsteps crunched behind her.

“Didn’t peg you for a lurker,” Owen said, holding out a bottle of water.

Zoe took it and squinted up at him. “Didn’t mean to lurk. Just… spiraling in the shade.”

He dropped into the chair beside her with a grunt. “You heard them?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

Owen exhaled through his nose. “Ellie’s blunt. That’s her brand.”

“Yeah, well, my brand is apparently chaos gremlin.”

He snorted. “Could be worse. She called one of Julian’s last assistants a ‘walking HR incident.’”

Zoe gave a dry laugh. “Comforting.”

They sat in silence for a beat. Somewhere in the distance, someone yelled about a fog machine. Zoe twisted the water bottle cap until it squeaked.

“I’m not trying to be a mess,” she said quietly.

Owen glanced at her. “I know.”

“I really am trying.”

“I know that too.”

Another pause. Then he added, almost offhand, “Julian’s been... lighter. Since you got here.”

Zoe blinked. “Lighter?”

“I don’t mean like he’s floating away on a breeze,” Owen deadpanned. “Just... I haven’t seen him laugh this much in a while. Or smile, really.”

She frowned. “Pretty sure that’s just the chamomile talking. One sip and he’s suddenly Mr. Enlightenment.”

Owen gave her a sideways look. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s the assistant who came in like a storm and reorganized his life by color code and chaos.”

Zoe flushed. “I’m not chaos. I’m - structured spontaneity.”

“Right,” Owen said, smirking.

Zoe looked down at her hands. “Do you think I should quit?”

“Not my call.”

“But if it were?”

He paused. “I think... if you leave now, you’ll regret it. Not because of what she said. But because you’ll always wonder what might’ve happened if you stayed.”

Zoe stared ahead, the hum of the set muffled behind the trailers.

“I don’t know if I belong here,” she said finally.

Owen leaned back. “No one does. Not really.”

Another pause.

Then, softly: “But you’re doing better than most.”

Zoe didn’t say anything. But she tucked that sentence somewhere quiet in her chest. Somewhere it might matter later.

That night, she couldn’t even bring herself to organize her sock drawer. Not even alphabetically.

She just curled into her blanket, stared at the ceiling, and wrote it all down.

—

Dear Frankie,

I was right. I’ve ruined everything.

Four days in and I have: - launched paper at my boss’s face

 - walked into a pillar

 - accidentally broadcasted a crush confession to the entire film crew

 - watched him drink from my mug like we were in a slow-burn BBC period drama

 - called chaos gremlin by his publicist who instructed him to fire me

I think I’m dying. Emotionally. Spiritually. Possibly neurologically.

Owen told me I’m “doing something right.” Which is weird, because I also tripped over a lighting cable and apologized to a potted plant today.

But still. He said Julian’s been different since I showed up. Lighter, whatever that means. Which sounds sweet until you realize it just means I’m the circus act making the brooding actor smile.

I know I’m weird. I know I lead with jokes and spiral at the first sign of human emotion. I know I act like none of it matters.

But it does. It’s starting to.

And the worst part? It’s not the screw-ups. It’s the quiet, stupid in-between moments. The ones where he looks at me like I’m not a disaster. Like I belong here.

And I’m terrified he’s wrong. Because if he is... I’ve already let myself hope. And that might be the biggest disaster of all.

I don’t know if I can keep doing this. I don’t know if I want to.

I just… don’t know.

- Z

---

Thank you so much for reading Chapter Three of Unseen.

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---

Chapter 4 >

[sebstanaddict]

Unseen

A new original story inspired by Sebastian Stan

Summary :

Zoe Grace Harper is a tea-loving, color-coding, mildly neurotic assistant who pours her heart out to her journal Frankie, trusts in the universe's signs (like that one time a butterfly landed on her stapler), and firmly believes in old-fashioned romance - like handwritten letters and forehead kisses. She’s quirky, spiritual, hilariously self-aware, and very much not in love with her boss… unless you count the way she emotionally combusts every time he casually says her name.

Julian Langdon Hayes is Hollywood’s golden boy - charming, award-winning, and quietly disillusioned with his picture-perfect life. The only person who sees through it all? Zoe. But while she thinks he’s just being polite, he’s starting to think she might be the one person who could save him from himself.

Warning : None

Word count : 3.4k

Chapter List

---

Chapter 2 - Welcome to the Circus

---

Dear Frankie,

I got the job. I got the job. I GOT. THE. JOB.

I also may have blacked out in front of Julian Langdon Hayes, because he smiled at me and said I was “the most entertaining candidate he had ever interviewed,” which is hilarious, considering I was approximately one eye twitch away from astral projecting.

He has dimples, Frankie. DIM. PLES.

No one warned me about the dimples. Or the way he says my name like it’s something warm. Or the fact that he smells like.. okay, no, we’re not doing that again.

Anyway, I work for him now. Which is fine. Totally fine. I am emotionally prepared for this. (This is a lie.)

He’s my boss. I’m his assistant. This is a completely manageable situation and not the plot of a romantic tragedy where I fall hopelessly in love while panic-organizing his sock drawer.

I’ll be aggressively diffusing lavender, whispering ‘everything is fine’ until I believe it.

- Z

---

Zoe Grace Harper was not mentally prepared for the circus.

Technically, it was a film set. But as far as Zoe could tell, it operated on a precise mixture of caffeine, adrenaline, chaos, and duct tape. The lot was already buzzing when she stepped out of the rideshare, heart pounding, brain spinning, and clutching a notepad like it was a holy text.

Her phone had six alarms labeled “Don’t Screw This Up.” She’d worn her most practical boots. She’d even packed a full Ziploc of emergency tea sachets - peppermint, lavender, vanilla chamomile - because if her nerves were going to unravel, she’d at least have options. Which, in hindsight, might’ve been a bit much for her second day. But she wasn’t here to be normal. She was here to be prepared. Or at least caffeinated. Preferably both.

Except now she was standing in the middle of the lot, surrounded by bustling crew members and distant yelling, and she had no idea where to go.

A golf cart zipped past her. Someone shouted, "Where’s the fog machine guy?!" and another voice yelled back, "We are the fog machine!" - which felt existential.

Zoe turned in a slow, panicked circle.

Where was Julian?

Where was Owen?

Where was literally anyone who could tell her what trailer to walk toward so she didn’t get arrested for loitering near craft services?

“Are you lost?” a voice asked behind her.

She whirled around - 

 - and Julian Langdon Hayes stood in front of her like he’d been edited in post-production.

Backlit by the morning sun, wearing a soft white t-shirt like it had been tailored by angels and holding a script in one hand like a prophecy, he looked less like a person and more like the final shot of a very expensive perfume commercial.

His smile was lazy and lethal. His hair did that wind-swept, poetic-hero thing completely unprovoked.

This had to be a hallucination. Like, a very expensive, slow-motion kind with background music and glitter lighting. There was no way he was real.

He stopped in front of her and tilted his head, amused. “Lost?” he asked again. “Or just deeply committed to caffeinated wandering?”

Zoe blinked. Was English… still a language?

“Uh - both?” she managed.

Julian laughed. It was a warm, surprisingly human sound, like someone had just told him the world wasn’t on fire for five whole seconds.

“Fair,” he said. “Come on, I’ll show you around. I’d offer you coffee, but I’m down to the weird cinnamon-flavored one. Unless you brought emergency tea again?”

She had. Of course she had.

“Vanilla chamomile,” she blurted. “For calm. And maybe 6 other flavors.. Just in case.”

He grinned like she’d handed him a golden ticket. “Perfect. You’re already better at this than Owen.”

And just like that, he turned and walked toward the set, motioning for her to follow - leaving Zoe to sprint after him with the unmistakable feeling that she’d just been hit by a one-man rom-com trailer.

Julian didn’t so much walk through the set as he glided, Zoe trailing behind him like a slightly panicked assistant duckling, her notepad flapping under one arm and her dignity somewhere near craft services.

“Morning, Rob!” Julian called out, high-fiving a man balancing a boom mic on one shoulder. “Hey, Em, tell your kid congrats on the science fair, rocket launch looked awesome.” “Jeff, I swear I didn’t touch your yogurt, it was the lighting guy.”

Every ten feet, he was greeting someone. Remembering names. Making jokes. Asking real questions. At one point, he crouched down to tie his shoe and somehow ended up helping a camera assistant rewrap cable while talking about poetry.

Zoe blinked. Multiple times.

She’d expected… she didn’t know. Brooding. Silence. The occasional sunglasses-and-airpods energy.

What she got was golden retriever energy in a Greek god’s body.

“Hey, Marcus, you okay?” he called out to a gaffer crouched behind a monitor. “You look like you lost a bet and also your will to live.”

The guy grinned. “Kids had a stomach bug. Two hours of sleep.”

Julian tossed him a protein bar from his back pocket. “Emergency dad snack. Go hydrate.”

Zoe blinked. Why did he have a protein bar in his back pocket? Why did that make her knees feel weird?

He turned again - this time toward a makeup artist. “Maria, please tell me we’re doing less eyebrow contour today. Yesterday I looked like a Bond villain who journals.”

“You looked hot,” Maria shot back. “Regretfully.”

Julian winked. “Still counts.”

And then he was back at Zoe’s side like none of that had just happened, like her brain wasn’t quietly short-circuiting. Like someone had opened too many tabs in her consciousness and now everything was buffering under Julian Langdon Hayes.

They rounded the corner where a few tents had been set up for lunch, but Julian gestured beyond them - past the main craft table, to what could only be described as a mini international food court.

“And here,” Julian said, gesturing with a grand sweep of his arm like he was presenting a feast to royalty, “is the food truck court. I may or may not have bribed production to let me bring in extra ones on Fridays.”

Zoe stopped short.

There were five trucks. Five.

Thai, vegan tacos, gourmet grilled cheese, something with an espresso machine, and one that just said “Dessert. Don’t Ask.” in Comic Sans.

Julian smiled at her like he hadn’t just casually curated a Michelin-star street food festival.

“Everyone works long days. Least I can do is keep ‘em fed,” he said, completely sincere.

Dear Frankie, I have a type. It’s emotionally stable food gods with good cheekbones and a suspicious amount of empathy.

Out loud, she said, “Right. Of course. Very standard assistant experience. Gourmet taco diplomacy.”

He laughed again. “That’s what I should’ve named the truck.”

Zoe followed him to a picnic table where two crew members were arguing about the best way to hold a boom mic in the wind. Julian joined the conversation like he wasn’t a literal Oscar nominee.

“He’s holding it wrong,” Julian said mildly. “You gotta angle the arm like a praying mantis. No offense.”

The boom guy blinked. “Dude. That’s exactly what my sound prof said.”

Julian grinned and looked at Zoe. “One semester of film school. Then I dropped out. But I kept the praying mantis trick.”

Of course he did.

Zoe could feel her heart trying to climb out of her chest and climb into his lap.

She stood very still.

If she moved, she might say something unprofessional like “are you legally allowed to be this good?”

She watched him walk ahead to greet an extra like they were old friends, and it hit her like an iced tea to the face:

Julian Langdon Hayes wasn’t just kind. He was consistently kind. And worse - he was kind when no one was watching.

As if to prove her point, he slowed down as they passed a cluster of folding chairs and equipment cases, then crouched beside a stand-in whose ankle was wrapped in ice.

“Hey, Elle,” Julian said gently. “How’s the foot? You good to stay off it?”

The woman blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah, I’m fine. They brought me this little stool.”

He tilted his head. “That stool has a visible crack in it.”

She looked down. “I mean, yeah, but..”

Julian stood up, looked around, and without fanfare, grabbed his own fancy director-style chair from under the shade tent and brought it over.

“Use this,” he said simply. “They only let me have it because it has my name on it. Not because I earned it.”

Elle looked stunned. “You’re… sure?”

Julian winked. “It’ll give me an excuse to hover dramatically during scenes.”

Then he turned back to Zoe like nothing had happened.

She didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Because that hadn’t been performative. That had been instinct.

No cameras. No photos. No fuss. Just him.

And suddenly she was very aware of the fact that her heartbeat had taken up permanent residence in her face.

Julian glanced over and caught her staring. “You okay?”

Abort. Shut it down. Change your name and flee the country.“Yes! No. I mean-yes. I’m fine. Just… mentally cataloging all the taco trucks. For future reference.”

Julian smiled like she’d just handed him a personal essay titled I’m Spiraling but Also Deeply Committed to Logistics.“Smart,” he said. “That’s what I like about you.”

Zoe died.

Just right there, next to the taco truck and the broken folding chairs.

RIP Zoe Grace Harper. Taken too soon by good cheekbones and casual decency.

–-

Exactly ten minutes later Zoe finally got to assist. Like, actually assist.

She was handed a clipboard, a phone with seventeen alarms set by Owen, and instructions to coordinate Julian’s script pages, lunch break, and wardrobe changes.

Zoe nodded. Smiled. Internally chanted you are capable, you are calm, you are a highly competent cucumber.

And for five whole minutes… she thrived.

She found the right trailer. She handed off the new script pages. She even navigated the espresso cart without crying.

And then?

Then the trousers happened.

Specifically, Julian’s backup wardrobe trousers.

Zoe had been told - clearly - to take the freshly steamed pair from the wardrobe tent to the changing trailer. But somewhere between her trying to memorize the schedule, hold her phone, balance a cup of mint lavender tea, and respond to a group text from Owen that included only cryptic emojis and the words “no grilled cheese today!!”… she’d grabbed the wrong pants.

Not just the wrong pants.

The bright orange backup stunt trousers. The ones meant for a fire scene. With reinforced padding in the thighs. And a questionable zipper.

She didn’t realize until it was too late - Julian was already halfway changed.

She stood there in the corner of the trailer, hands over her mouth, blinking as he emerged from behind the curtain… wearing pants that made him look like a safety cone with abs.

Julian looked down slowly. Then up at her. Then down again. “…These are… bold.”

“I BROUGHT YOU THE WRONG PANTS,” Zoe confessed, her voice at full volume. “I’m so sorry. I grabbed the wrong hanger. I had tea in one hand and my phone in the other and Owen texted something about grilled cheese and..”

Julian held up a hand, laughing quietly. “Zoe.”

She froze mid-spiral. “Yes?”

He gestured down at himself. “I mean… they’re comfortable. Kind of breezy.”

She stared.

“You’re not mad?” she asked, incredulous.

Julian shrugged. “You just gave me an excuse to wear padded pants and call it rehearsal. Plus, I now get to tell wardrobe that my assistant thinks I’d look great in traffic cone couture.”

Zoe made a wheezing sound.

“I swear I’ll never mess up again,” she vowed, even as she knocked over his water bottle while trying to retrieve the right pants. “I’m a professional. This is just a.. hiccup. A fabric hiccup.”

Julian caught the bottle before it hit the ground and handed it back to her with an easy smile. “I trust you,” he said simply.

Two words.

Two unfair words.

Zoe swallowed hard. She’d just turned an Oscar nominee into a pumpkin-colored meme. And he trusted her?

She was 97% sure she’d just emotionally imprinted on her boss. Like a baby duck. A very panicky, highly flammable duck wearing office shoes and carrying a clipboard.

—

Forty minutes later, Zoe was feeling… cautiously victorious.

Julian was back in normal pants. The tea situation was stable. She hadn’t spilled anything in thirty-six minutes and had managed to reply to Owen’s cryptic emoji messages with only one accidental “thumbs-up” reaction.

Which was, in her book, a solid win.

Her final task before lunch? Hand Julian his printed schedule for the afternoon scenes. Simple. Easy. Something a person with opposable thumbs and half a brain could do.

Which is exactly why Zoe didn’t triple-check what she was handing him.

Julian glanced over the paper she gave him. “Great. Scene 21B, rooftop sequence. Got it.”

He gave her a smile, grabbed his script, and disappeared toward the soundstage.

Zoe exhaled and mentally high-fived herself.

Until ten minutes later, when a production assistant came sprinting toward her with the kind of expression usually reserved for natural disasters and pop-up surprise concerts.

“Why is Julian on the rooftop?”

Zoe blinked. “Because that’s… where he’s supposed to be?”

The PA held up a bright orange folder. “This is the actual schedule. Scene 21B was rescheduled. He’s supposed to be in the sound booth for the voiceover pick-ups!”

Zoe’s soul left her body.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

Cut to: Julian being politely escorted off the roof by two very confused grips while Zoe power-walked toward him with the apologetic energy of a woman approaching a friend whose houseplant she’d just accidentally set on fire.

Julian raised an eyebrow. “Was I hallucinating or did you, in fact, send me to the roof for no reason?”

“I… might have printed you the stunt schedule.”

He blinked. “So no rooftop fight scene today?”

“Nope. Just a nice quiet voiceover booth. And… um… a possible sunburn.”

Julian laughed. Again.

Not a haha you’re an idiot laugh - worse. A you’re doing your best and I still like you anyway laugh.

Zoe groaned. “I swear, I’m not trying to sabotage your career. It just keeps happening organically.”

He shook his head. “This is already my favorite version of the schedule mix-up.”

“You’ve had more than one?”

“Oh, absolutely. One assistant once sent me to a vet’s office instead of a stylist. I got a rabies pamphlet and a free tennis ball.”

Zoe choked. “That’s… that’s worse, right?”

Julian smiled, slow and warm. “I don’t know. You gave me tea and a rooftop view.”

Julian could probably walk into a burning building and compliment the fire for its ambiance. And somehow, she was supposed to work near him without combusting? Impossible.

She forced a smile, nodded like her internal organs weren’t currently performing jazz solos, and followed him back toward the set.

It was fine. Everything was fine. She’d already survived one full morning of professional humiliation and hadn’t been fired yet.

Which meant: she could not screw anything else up.

She told herself - quietly, firmly, repeatedly - that one more mistake would be the end.

She’d already delivered traffic-cone trousers. She’d sent an A-list actor to the roof. She was one clipboard slip away from getting banned from all craft tables for life.

So, naturally, fate responded: Bet.

It started innocently enough.

Julian had asked her to double-check his props for the next scene - a quiet emotional beat where his character gives his mother’s old necklace to his niece. Easy. The necklace was in a small black velvet box labeled “Prop 9C,” sitting right next to another box labeled “Prop 9D.”

Zoe, very confident, grabbed the box. Double-checked the label. Gently handed it to the props assistant.

Everything was fine.

Until they filmed the close-up.

Julian opened the box. And instead of a dainty heirloom necklace…

It was a pair of comically oversized costume fangs.

There was a beat of total silence on set.

Then the director leaned in. “...What kind of childhood trauma are we implying here?”

Julian stared at the fangs. Then at the camera. Then, slowly, at Zoe - who was standing off to the side already halfway to cardiac arrest.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Oh my God oh my God oh my God.”

Someone yelled “CUT!” and Zoe was already moving, hands flapping, voice too high-pitched to be legally acceptable.

“I GRABBED THE WRONG BOX I’M SO SORRY IT WAS NEXT TO THE RIGHT ONE AND THE LABELS WERE SMALL AND I THOUGHT - ”

Julian held up the fangs between two fingers, inspecting them with mock seriousness.

“Should I keep them?” he asked. “Might spice up the next awards season.”

Zoe nearly wept. “Please fire me. I’ll understand. I’ll even write the letter for you.”

He walked over slowly and handed the fangs to the props guy with a quiet chuckle.

“Zoe,” he said gently, “do you think I’ve never handed a love interest a live ferret on stage before?”

She blinked. “That can’t be real.”

“Oh, it is. Regional theater. Shakespeare. Ferret escaped during Act Three.”

And then - he grinned. Full grin. Dimples and everything.

“You didn’t ruin anything. You just made today memorable.”

Zoe stared at him. At his patience. At his kindness. At the way he somehow meant it.

And then, slowly, she nodded-face hot, heart pounding, already composing another journal entry in her mind.

Dear Frankie,I almost got fired because of vampire teeth. I’m 99% sure I’m developing feelings for this man’s capacity for grace under chaos. Or maybe just for him. Please advise.

—

Zoe didn’t know what she expected when she stepped into his trailer at the end of the day.

An awkward silence, maybe. A politely professional brush-off. A man too busy or too perfect to notice her mistake-addled spiral.

But instead..

The trailer was blissfully quiet.

Dimmed lights. A faint scent of cedar and something citrusy. A half-empty mug sat on the table. A hoodie draped over the back of the couch. It felt less like a celebrity’s dressing room and more like a really expensive studio apartment inhabited by someone who still did his own laundry.

Zoe hovered near the door, gripping her clipboard like it might fly away. Her blouse had a tea stain near the hem, and her left shoe squeaked slightly every time she shifted.

Julian sat on the couch, holding the tiny prop necklace from earlier - the correct one this time. His fingers rolled it absently between his knuckles.

He looked up as she stepped in, eyes soft. “Hey.”

Zoe cleared her throat. “Hey.”

A pause.

“I just… wanted to say I’m really sorry for..”

“If you apologize again,” Julian said gently, “I’ll have to make you a sign that says ‘I’m trying my best, please ignore the vampire teeth.’”

Zoe blinked. “I just… I mean, I really am.”

He smiled, leaned forward, and set the necklace down on the coffee table.

“You got my coffee order right,” he said. “Which honestly puts you in the top ten percent of people I’ve worked with.”

She snorted. “The bar is that low?”

“Oh yeah. One guy used to bring me lavender lattes for a year. I never had the heart to tell him I’m slightly allergic.”

Zoe stared. “You drank them anyway?”

“I’m a people-pleaser,” Julian said with mock solemnity. “And also - he looked so proud. Like it was his legacy.”

She shook her head, smiling despite herself, and finally sank into the chair across from him, legs folding awkwardly beneath her.

For a moment, the quiet settled between them - not awkward, not tense, just… real.

It was the kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled.

Zoe looked down at her hands, then up at him. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”

Julian’s brows lifted, but not in offense - more like curiosity. “No?”

She gave a small, lopsided shrug. “I don’t know. I thought you’d be polished. Distant. Aloof. Maybe kind in a scripted, PR-safe way, but not - ” She stopped herself before she could say human. That felt too intense.

Julian smiled, understanding anyway. “Well, I’ve had media training. But I skipped the aloof part.”

Zoe smiled back. And for one flickering moment, something passed between them - something quiet and mutual and just a little bit unspoken. Like two people recognizing the same thing at the same time and pretending not to.

She broke the tension with a half-laugh. “I’ll do better tomorrow. Try not to start a fire. Or replace any props with fangs.”

“You’re doing better than you think,” Julian said softly. “And for what it’s worth… you made today easier.”

Zoe looked at him, pulse fluttering. “I did?”

He nodded, and his voice dropped just slightly. “Yeah. You really did.”

The moment stretched, sweet and strange and not quite safe.

Then Julian leaned back with a light smile. “I think we’re gonna make a great team.”

Zoe, blinking too much, nodded. “Yeah,” she said, voice a little hoarse. “Me too.”

But what she really meant was: Dear Frankie, help me, I’m already in too deep.

---

Thank you so much for reading Chapter Two of Unseen.

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---

Chapter 3 >

[sebstanaddict]

Anchor

Bucky Barnes x You One Shot

Summary : You hit the floor before your shoes even came off. The weight of life - of everything - finally broke you. But then Bucky was there. Steady arms, whispered words, grilled cheese chaos, and an unwavering promise: You’re not alone in this. A quiet, healing love story where Bucky doesn’t try to fix you - he simply stays.

Warning : none just pure fluff

Word count : 1.055 words

Read more soft Bucky / Sebastian scenes in Scenes for The Soul (A series of soft, fluff scenes between you and Bucky / Sebastian to help you get through the day)

Read more of my stories here.

---

You barely made it through the door.

The weight of the day - of all the days leading up to this one - crashed down on your shoulders the moment the lock clicked behind you. Like the air outside had been holding you together, and inside, it all came undone.

Shoes still on, jacket half-off, your knees hit the floor.

Too much. Everything was too much.

Deadlines. Missed calls. Family worries. That awful thing your boss said. The way your chest tightened at every email notification, like they were gunshots instead of pings. The way you hadn’t really breathed in days, only survived.

Now, your hands trembled. Your breath came in shallow gasps, stuttering like a broken engine, your vision blurring with tears you hadn’t even noticed falling.

Panic.

You were drowning in it.

And then - him.

You didn’t hear Bucky come in. But suddenly, his arms were around you. Gentle, steady. Warm. He said your name like it was something sacred, something strong.

"Hey, hey, sweetheart. I’m here. I’ve got you."

You tried to speak, to tell him you were sorry, that you didn’t mean to break down like this. But your lips wouldn’t form the words. Just a choked sob escaped.

"Shh, it’s okay. Just breathe with me. You’re safe now. Just follow me, alright? In…and out."

His hand found yours, cold metal grounding you as his thumb moved in slow, steady circles against your skin. The rhythm of his voice was a rope thrown to you in the storm. You clung to it.

"I know it feels like too much," he whispered against your hair. "But you don’t have to carry it alone. Not with me here."

Your breathing hitched, then slowly - slowly - began to even out. His presence was like gravity, pulling you back to earth. Back to now. His arms tightened around you every time you trembled.

After a while, when your body had stopped shaking and the tears had dried sticky on your cheeks, he lifted you into his arms as if you weighed nothing.

"You should rest," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "Let me take care of you for a little while."

You wanted to protest - you didn’t deserve this kind of kindness, not after crumbling like that. But you couldn’t speak. Could only lean your head against his chest and listen to the steady beat of his heart.

He carried you to bed, tucking the blanket gently around you like he was afraid you might break.

Then he lay down beside you, still fully clothed, one arm under your shoulders and the other draped protectively over your waist.

“You’re not alone in this. Not ever,” he said softly. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

His hand found yours again beneath the covers. The warmth of him surrounded you. His scent - cedar and something soft - calmed your racing mind.

And finally, with him there beside you, breathing slow and steady, you closed your eyes.

And slept.

---

You woke up to the sound of rain tapping softly against the window.

The room was dim, cast in that quiet blue-gray of a late afternoon storm. You blinked slowly, the weight in your chest lighter than before. Not gone - but quieter.

And then you realized he was still there.

Bucky.

Lying beside you, his arm still around your waist, his fingers still loosely curled into yours like they never let go. His other hand rested under his cheek, metal fingers glinting faintly in the soft light.

You shifted a little and felt him stir. His eyes opened - those clear, sea-glass blues - and when he saw you awake, he smiled.

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” he rasped, voice low and warm. “I was about to check if you were alive or just really committed to the bit.”

You let out a weak laugh, voice scratchy. “You stayed?”

“Of course I stayed,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You think I’d just leave you to wrestle your demons in peace? Not a chance.”

You gave him a look. “I drooled on your arm.”

“Yeah,” he smirked. “Could’ve waterboarded someone with the amount, but I’ll live.”

Another laugh bubbled up - small, but real.

Then he sat up suddenly, eyes gleaming with a kind of mischievous determination. “Okay, here’s the deal. You stay in bed. I’m making dinner.”

Your eyes widened. “Bucky-”

“Don’t argue,” he said, holding up a finger. “I’ve watched at least three YouTube videos since my last kitchen disaster. I’m basically Gordon Ramsay now. Except, you know, less British. And less angry.”

“Bucky, last time you tried to cook, you almost set the stove on fire with cereal.”

“That was an experiment,” he declared. “Science takes risks.”

Before you could stop him, he was already out the door.

You lay back, listening to the clatter and occasional ow! and dammit from the kitchen, torn between dread and fondness. Mostly fondness. Honestly, it was the most comforting noise you'd heard in days.

Fifteen chaotic minutes later, he reappeared - triumphant - with a tray in hand.

“Voila,” he grinned. “Gourmet dinner, Barnes-style.”

It was two grilled cheese sandwiches, slightly uneven, with tomato soup in mismatched mugs and two spoons for some reason.

You stared at it.

He looked so damn proud.

“It’s…perfect,” you said softly, and meant it.

You sat cross-legged on the bed, and he climbed in beside you, balancing the tray between you like it was a treasure chest. As you both dipped your sandwiches into the soup, he made a show of explaining how “melting cheese evenly is an art form” and how “burn marks add flavor,” and somehow, your chest didn’t feel so tight anymore.

You laughed. You ate. You leaned against him as the rain kept falling outside.

And for a moment - a real, living moment - everything didn’t feel so impossible.

The problems were still out there. They’d still be waiting for you tomorrow. But right now, in this small, soft world of warm food, tangled blankets, and his arm once again around you…

You felt stronger.

Because Bucky had stayed.

Because he’d made it better in the only way he knew how - not by fixing anything, but just by being there.

And sometimes, that was everything.

[sebstanaddict]

You Were Never Small

Bucky Barnes x You One Shot

Summary : When your confidence takes a hit and your couch turns into a crash site, Bucky Barnes shows up - armed with a threadbare henley, emotional precision, and the kind of slow-dance therapy that should be prescribed. Turns out, feeling small doesn’t stand a chance against a man who remembers every reason you never were.

Warning : none just pure fluff

Word count : 982 words

Read more soft Bucky / Sebastian scenes in Scenes for The Soul (A series of soft, fluff scenes between you and Bucky / Sebastian to help you get through the day)

Read more of my stories here.

---

You barely manage to get the key in the lock before your fingers slip. Twice.

When the door finally swings open, the weight of the day walks in with you - heavy, bitter, and sitting right between your shoulder blades. You drop your bag by the door like it personally offended you and kick your shoes off without ceremony. They bounce into the wall, but you don’t care.

Bucky looks up from the kitchen, spatula in hand, wearing that threadbare henley that should be illegal. He takes one look at you - and freezes.

“Hey,” he says, voice cautious, soft. “What happened?”

You try to wave him off, muttering, “Nothing, just a long day.”

But he sees right through you. Of course he does. He was a sniper. He reads the silence as easily as a scream.

You make it to the couch and collapse like you’ve just come back from war.

He follows, sits beside you, close enough that his warmth seeps in, but not touching yet.

You stare blankly ahead. “One of the guys at work said I don’t take initiative. That I fade into the background. That I’m not leadership material. In front of my manager.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “They said that? To your face?”

You nod. “I laughed it off in the moment. Tried to act cool. But I don’t know… it got in. I keep replaying it. I feel… small. Like I’ve been faking being capable and now everyone’s starting to notice.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “You want me to go scare him a little? Just a mild intimidation. No broken bones. Maybe one.”

You almost smile. Almost.

“I’m serious,” he says, gently tilting your chin so you’ll look at him. “Do they know what you’ve done? What you’ve overcome? The crap you’ve put up with to get where you are? They have no idea, doll.”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. I just feel like a loser. Like I’m running and running, and everyone else is already at the finish line, sipping protein shakes and posting about it.”

Bucky sighs and sits back, stretching his arm across the back of the couch. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

You blink. “Do what?”

“The part where I remind you that you’re awesome and they’re blind.”

You roll your eyes. “Bucky - ”

“Nope. You don’t get to stop me. Let’s start with the time you got promoted twice in a year. And the time your boss trusted you to onboard the entire new team, alone, because you’re the only one who actually knows how anything works.”

You exhale. “That’s - ”

“Shhh,” he hushes, holding up a finger. “I’m not done. You also took night classes while working full-time. You advocated for a better mental health policy at your office. And you once comforted a crying intern in the bathroom stall with nothing but your voice and a stick of gum. I’m sorry, if that’s not leadership, I don’t know what is.”

Your throat tightens.

“And also,” he adds with a tilt of his head, “You still somehow make time to text your mom, remember your friends’ birthdays, and keep me alive - even when I forget how to properly use the toaster.”

You huff out a small laugh, brushing at the sting in your eyes. “You’re being too nice.”

“I’m being accurate.” He leans forward, brushing a thumb gently across your cheek. “You’re not small. You’re not background noise. You’re the kind of person people remember long after you leave the room. And if someone’s too dense to see that? That’s not your failure - it’s their limitation.”

You swallow, trying not to cry because if you start, you’re not sure you’ll stop.

He reaches for the remote, clicking on the speaker. A soft oldies track starts playing - something from the '40s with a slow swing beat, warm and dreamy.

You raise an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“C’mere,” he says, standing and offering his hand. “Dance with me.”

“Bucky…”

“Humor me. For old times’ sake. And because I love you.”

You hesitate. Then you take his hand.

He pulls you close, one hand on your waist, the other holding yours like you’re made of glass and gold. You move slowly, swaying in the soft light of your apartment. No steps to follow, no fancy turns. Just two people finding rhythm in each other.

The weight in your chest lightens, just a little. Enough to let some air back in.

You close your eyes and breathe him in - warmth, safety, a hint of aftershave and the chocolate he probably stole from the kitchen. He hums along with the music, cheek resting against your temple, swaying with that impossible calm he always seems to find for the both of you.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and warm in your ear, “if they saw you dance like this, they’d rethink everything.”

You blink up at him. “What do you mean?”

He smiles. “Confident steps. Excellent posture. Mysterious allure. A+ execution of the gentle sway.”

You laugh, cheeks flushed. “Gentle sway?”

“Hey, don’t knock it. The gentle sway is criminally underrated. It says, I am elegance. I am power. I can run a department and also make lasagna from scratch.”

You snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re mine,” he says, giving you one last spin - just a little one, more of a guided shuffle - before pulling you back into his arms.

You rest your head on his chest again, grinning quietly to yourself.

Maybe the world felt sharp today. Maybe people were careless with their words.

But in Bucky’s arms - in the middle of your small living room, to a song older than either of you - the edges feel softer.

And for the first time all day, you remember who you are.

Not small. Not background.

Just… deeply loved.

Exactly as you are.

[sebstanaddict]

Life Update: I'm trying to hold on

I never thought I had to do this.. but yesterday, our office flooded.

After months of holding everything together - barely - acting as if nothing is wrong - even launching my very first original story - this one broke me.

I’ve always stayed quiet, kept going, kept creating. But this is too much. And as much as I hate to admit it, I may need some help.

If you’ve ever connected with my writing or this little world I’ve built, and you’d like to help - there are now a few quiet ways to do that.

🧡 Join my membership 🫂 Donate if you can

Click this link and you'll find more info there.

If you can't help with the above ways, just reblogging this post would be really appreciated.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for being here.

With love, Tia

[sebstanaddict]

Your Mirror is A Liar

Sebastian Stan x You One Shot

Summary : When your mirror picks a fight with your self-esteem, Sebastian steps in - armed with damp curls, emotional wisdom, and just enough chaos to win. Turns out, your reflection doesn’t stand a chance against a man who’s ready to fight it and stage a flash mob just to make you smile.

Warning : none just pure fluff

Word count : 634 words

Read more soft Bucky / Sebastian scenes in Scenes for The Soul (A series of soft, fluff scenes between you and Bucky / Sebastian to help you get through the day)

Read more of my stories here.

---

Your Mirror is A Liar

When Sebastian wins the mirror fight.

You’re standing in front of the mirror, arms crossed, jaw tight, wearing that frown he knows all too well-the one that only shows up when you’re silently arguing with your reflection.

Sebastian walks in, towel slung around his shoulders, damp curls a little messy, eyes immediately scanning the room like he walked into an emotional crime scene.

He pauses. Takes one look at you. Then points at the mirror. “Okay. Who hurt you. Was it this guy again?”

You snort softly but don’t look away. “Don’t.”

He walks over slowly, carefully, like the mirror might explode if he moves too fast. “Alright. What are we thinking today? Too bloated? Not toned enough? A random pimple that thinks it’s the main character?”

You shrug, avoiding his eyes. “I just… I don’t know. I don’t feel good in my skin today. I feel big. Or weird. Or off. I just - hate it sometimes.”

Sebastian’s face softens instantly. “Okay, first of all, hate is a strong word. That body got you through today. That body got out of bed when it didn’t want to. That body made tea for both of us this morning and also carried all six grocery bags like an actual beast.”

“I dropped one.”

“And heroically recovered it with zero casualties.”

You shake your head, but your lips twitch. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” He moves closer, slipping his arms gently around your waist, hands resting on the soft part of your sides. The part you always try to hide.

“I love this body,” he says quietly. “Because it’s yours. And because it holds the mind I adore. The laugh that makes me feel like I’ve done something right with my life. The heart that somehow chooses me every day.”

You feel your eyes sting a little. “But what if I never look the way I want to?” you whisper. “What if I keep changing, or gaining, or feeling… uncomfortable?”

He leans in, brushing your nose with his. “Then I’ll love every version of you. Every inch, every curve, every season. Your body isn’t meant to stay the same forever-it’s meant to carry you through life. And that’s exactly what it’s doing.”

A beat. Then.. “Also,” he adds, “your butt? Still elite. I did a double take when you bent over for the remote earlier. Nearly walked into the fridge.”

You snort. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m just observant.”

You lean into him, resting your forehead against his shoulder. He squeezes you tighter, gently swaying you like you’re dancing to a song only he can hear.

“When you talk about yourself like that,” he murmurs, “like you’re broken or not enough… it hurts. Because I wish you could see what I see.”

You nod, not trusting your voice yet.

“And if it helps,” he adds after a pause, “I’ve had days where I hated the way I looked too. Even with all the... abs and interviews and cameras.”

You look up at him, surprised. “Really?”

He grins. “Sweetheart, I once googled ‘how to de-puff face before press junket’ while eating a taco in bed. I am just a man.”

You laugh through a sniffle. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours.” He kisses your forehead again, lingering there. “And if I need to remind you that you’re beautiful with a handwritten PowerPoint presentation and a flash mob in the living room - I will.”

You grin. “Please don’t do a flash mob.”

“Oh, it’s already in motion,” he whispers. “There are matching outfits.”

“Sebastian.”

“You brought this upon yourself.”

And just like that, you’re laughing again. Soft and whole and real.

And your reflection? Well… maybe it doesn’t look so scary anymore. Not when you’re held like this.

Not when you remember you’re loved - exactly as you are.