#Glow Ups by Colleen | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sellasstories · 1 year ago

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CLOSE (II)

word count: 4.9k

pairing: paige bueckers x azzi fudd

⚠️warnings⚠️:

slightly explicit themes, light angst, swearing

prompts:

what happens when two best friends with strong, undefined feelings quarantine together (part 2: paige)

in other words, the pazzi covid fic

Azzi gazes at the girl beside her, taking in Paige’s long lashes and the way the sun streaming in from the window is practically making the blonde glow.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” Azzi says softly, leaning in and placing a hand on Paige’s arm. She realizes too late that she doesn’t know if her best friend is awake yet.

“Fuck, Az, not so loud,” groans Paige, not bothering to open her eyes.

Azzi jerks her head back in disgust. “Your breath smells awful!” She ignores the other part of herself that fixated on how the words sounded coming out of her best friend’s mouth. “Sorry, I just need to know what you did with the bottle,” she whispers, a hint of anxiety piercing her voice.

Paige only gets closer. Seemingly unbothered by Azzi’s concern, she buries her face in the dark-haired girl’s neck. “It’s hidden, we’re good.”

After the night she’s had, the feeling of Paige’s lips on her neck (which, she quickly realizes, has never happened before) is entirely too much for Azzi to deal with.

“Paige, tell me.”

“Closet. Hamper, under clothes.” Her head falls back onto the pillow and it seems like the blonde falls asleep almost instantly.

Azzi bites her bottom lip almost hard enough to draw blood. And since she already seems to be in her own personal hell, she admits to herself that Paige may have had a hand in (or entirely been the cause of) the sudden swooping sensation in her stomach.

Looking around for her phone, Azzi takes two photos. The first shows the curtain of blonde hair doing little to hide all the points of contact between Paige’s face and Azzi’s neck. The second shows the pale hand nearly digging into Azzi’s exposed side, the pushed up hoodie (she’d always recognize it as Paige’s) making it look even more suggestive.

She knows it’s a bad idea, maybe even a terrible one, but she tells herself that she’s going to use them for something productive, like sending them to Imani (whoever she is) and telling her to back off. It doesn’t even sound convincing to her. She’s fucking ridiculous.

Reluctantly, Azzi pulls herself out of her best friend’s tight embrace, only managing to do so as the blonde appears to have completely knocked out again. She gives her head a firm shake but instantly regrets it as she feels her headache worsen.

Sighing, she stands up and makes her way to the bathroom. Soothed by the familiar morning routines of washing her face and brushing her teeth (the bitter aftertaste in her mouth taking a while to go away), Azzi is able to look at her reflection without wanting to scream.

Making fun of herself has always been her best defence mechanism, so she does a stupid pose in the mirror and takes a stupid photo of herself in Paige’s hoodie and posts a stupid ‘Who wore it better?’ poll on her private story. She’s been sitting on the counter brainstorming what to do with the bottle for less than three minutes when a FaceTime from Colleen covers her phone screen.

Azzi is quick to answer, not even getting a greeting in before her friend blurts out, “So what’s up with you and Paige?”

Eyes widening, Azzi hops off the counter to find headphones, frantically mashing the volume button down before Colleen can say anything else.

“What are you even talking about?” She whispers once she’s settled back in the bathroom.

The other girl shrugs. “Did something happen between you two?”

Azzi still doesn’t get it. “Like, a fight? We’re fine, I promise. Why are you asking, though? Did Paige say something to you?” She hopes her voice doesn’t sound as paranoid as she feels. It’s been a long 24 hours.

“Your story? It looks a bit… y’know,” Colleen smirks. “I figured it was only a matter of time, but I didn’t think you’d post it like that. I have to say, though, I thought Paige would be the type to leave hickies. Unless they’re just somewhere el-”

“SHUT UP!” Azzi shrieks, immediately slapping her hand over her mouth. “How are you getting all of this from a photo? We’ve never even kissed!”

Colleen has the decency to look slightly apologetic. “Sorry, I guess you wouldn’t see it that way. Look at the photo again, Az. Try to understand, because I promise I’m not the only one.”

“Fine.” Azzi clicks on her story. Shit. Her hair is messy, her tongue is out in what she realizes now looks like a smug smile, and Paige’s hoodie is hanging off her in a way that makes it look like she’s not wearing anything else. Colleen is totally right.

“Oh, my god.” Her reaction is so genuine that Colleen finally drops the teasing.

“You really didn’t know, huh? Look, forget I said anything, but you might wanna think about taking it down if you’re worried about what people could say.” There’s an awkward silence as Azzi sits with her head in her hands.

Suddenly, she raises her head, eyes narrowed accusingly. “Care to explain what the fuck ‘a matter of time’ is supposed to mean? Does everyone know something I don’t?”

Colleen fails to suppress a giggle as she raises her hands in the air. “I was never gonna assume anything, but I figured you two wouldn’t be able to spend that much time together without… figuring it out. Apparently,” she rolls her eyes, “I was wrong.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re seeing, but I can’t deal with this right now,” Azzi squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath. “I’m so hungover, and I still have to deal with P and my parents.”

“You’re WHAT?!” Colleen’s screech of disbelief nearly sends Azzi falling off the counter a second time. “You don’t even drink… what the hell happened last night?!” It’s really more of a statement than a question, and Azzi has no choice but to explain.

Briefly, she considers telling Colleen everything, but she’s given up enough secrets recently, and it hasn’t gotten her anywhere good. The other girl believes her when she claims to have forgotten a large part of the night, and the story is apparently more interesting than the original subject of the call, of which Azzi is very grateful.

Miraculously, Paige is still asleep when Azzi hangs up the call and goes back into the blonde’s bedroom. She really needs to focus on making sure that she doesn’t get in a massive amount of trouble, but she can’t stop her eyes from continually drifting to her best friend’s sleeping form.

Telling herself that she and Paige can come up with a lie if worst comes to worst, she finally allows herself to do what Paige definitely can’t help her with — process the previous night. The cold wall against her back grounds her as she sifts through her feelings.

In hindsight, her best friend being queer isn’t all that surprising (Azzi does have eyes, after all), and really neither is Paige liking a girl. Even when it comes to Paige, Azzi tries to be logical and reasonable, but she’s only human. She can’t help but imagine all the girls that must be throwing themselves at the blonde (her brain conveniently chooses to ignore the fact that she doesn’t even know if Paige is out), and the jealousy sits heavily in her stomach.

Paige must be used to it, then, and according to Colleen, it looked like Azzi was one of the aforementioned girls. She cringes internally. Was it really that obvious? The problem is, though, that it must look like Paige has been reciprocating this hypothetical, unintentional flirting in some way. Azzi can’t think of any other reason for what Colleen had told her, and her friend had been very clear about it being something with both of them. She thinks about the way Paige held her while she cried, and she thinks that she might understand.

Azzi can’t tell if her head hurts from the hangover or the absurd mental gymnastics she’s undertaking, and she hasn’t even considered the dream yet. Wanting Paige is nothing new for her, but she’d broken too many of her own rules the previous night. She’s never messed up with Paige like that before, and she worries that it’s only going to get worse.

As her thoughts drift back to her conversation with Colleen, Azzi realizes that she never actually deleted the photo on her story. Maybe it speaks to how far she’s fallen, but it fills Azzi with a sick sense of pride as she looks at it with new perspective. Maybe she wants people to see this- maybe she wants Paige to see this, wants to know how her best friend would react.

Shutting her phone off, Azzi feels like she’s just made a pivotal choice, one she knows she wouldn’t have made a few months ago before Paige was living with her, and she’s going to have to make another purposeful concession to keep her sanity. Rationalizing once again, Azzi reasons that flirting with Paige just a bit wouldn’t be all that bad. The older girl might just be oblivious if Colleen is to be believed and they already have that outward dynamic.

Maybe her sudden feeling of giddiness is preventing her from seeing the obvious flaws of the idea, but the more she thinks about it, the more Azzi likes it. While there’s no guarantee that it will make her life any easier, it’s something that she can control, and she hasn’t felt in control of anything when it comes to Paige for years now.

By the time Paige wakes up, Azzi has two plans: the first one being another secret that she’s going to have to keep, and the second being something that she immediately goes to share with the other girl.

Paige is groggy and hungover, but somehow she gets past the rambling and mild panic in Azzi’s voice to understand what she needs to do. They’re able to sneak craft supplies onto the back deck, and Paige even manages to keep a straight face when she runs into Jose with the bottle under her hoodie.

She nods dutifully as Azzi explains the smashed bottle to her parents as a simple accident while trying to do a TikTok trend, and the girls escape with nothing more than a request to ask before taking anything else after promising to clean up the mess.

“You’re scary good at that,” Paige remarks as they’re squatting on the deck with dust pans in hand.

“At what? Lying?” Azzi asks absently. Smiling brightly, she picks up a big piece of glass and makes a heart out pink and purple glitter on it. The gesture makes Paige melt.

“No, at solving problems. You’re incredible, Az.”

The dark haired girl gives her a look. “Is this what you’re like hungover? All sappy and shit?” Her judgemental tone is offset by the fact that she’s currently making a second heart on another piece of glass.

“I’m like this all the time, what do you mean?” Paige pouts. “I know you love it anyway.”

“Mmm,” Azzi’s busy adding the finishing touches to her masterpieces. She carefully places them on the table before turning back to Paige.

Their gazes cross briefly and Azzi thinks maybe she sees something that looks like love. As she goes back to sweeping up the glass, she has to physically shake her head as she tells herself to get it together. She figures she must still be drunk or something.

But Azzi isn’t seeing things. Paige is lucky that the younger girl is distracted, because the lovestruck gaze that she’s failing to hide is the least of her worries. Since she woke up, there’s been a feeling that she just can’t shake, and she’s run out of explanations of what it could be.

Except for one, that is. Waking up tangled in Azzi’s arms this morning had felt different, and so, so right. Paige wouldn’t hesitate to say that Azzi was the person she was the most comfortable with, but never before had she considered the feeling that they belonged together.

That feeling had only intensified when Paige had accidentally brushed her lips against her best friend’s neck and then compounded it by holding Azzi’s side like she belonged to her.

Sure, that would’ve looked really bad. But what felt worse — not worse exactly, just… new and kind of scary — was when Paige, still drifting in and out of consciousness, heard Azzi’s anxious demands and found them only endearing.

Not long ago, she would’ve found herself getting annoyed, but even with the stress of covering their tracks pushing Azzi into her controlling state, the fondness in Paige’s heart still hasn’t dissipated. Does this mean Paige… has a crush on her best friend?

There, outside on the deck, Paige metaphorically gives Azzi her heart as the younger girl gives Paige a physical one. Paige thinks the broken glass that is the medium of Azzi’s creation makes a pretty good metaphor for her perception of their friendship. Shattered, splintered, permanently altered.

Trying not to say anything too sappy (or too insane for that matter, she has no idea how she came up with the broken glass thing), Paige elects to admire the methodical way that Azzi is now checking for missed pieces of glass.

When they finally go back inside, the first thing Paige does is place the glass heart on her night table so she can look at it every day. The second thing she does is open Snapchat, which is apparently a terrible decision. As soon as she clicks on Azzi’s story, that weird feeling is back, but it’s less surprising.

Azzi wears Paige’s clothes all the time, but she doesn’t normally draw attention to that fact the way this story so clearly is. Has the dark-haired girl always looked so good in Paige’s hoodies? Probably. Somehow, Paige had just been blind to it. She wishes desperately that it was still the case, because it would definitely be weird to ask her best friend to share clothes more often.

Groaning, Paige throws her phone onto the bed before flopping facedown after it.

“Whatcha doing, Paigey?” says Azzi in a singsong voice from the doorway.

Paige rolls over, not bothering to open her eyes. “I’m sleeping- or at least I was,” she says exasperatedly.

“Can I join you?” Azzi’s sounds seductive in Paige’s ears, and she has to open her eyes to confirm it’s just in her imagination. Fuck.

Azzi’s still wearing her sweater, and there’s definitely a slight smirk on her face as she stands with her arms crossed and her head tilted to the side.

“You look good in my sweater,” Paige mumbles sleepily. Shit, shit, shit. There’s no way she just said that out loud. Throwing her arm over her face to hide her blush, Paige misses Azzi’s smile widening.

“I know I do,” Azzi is closer now. She traces a finger down Paige’s bicep. “You didn’t answer my question, though.”

“Just come here,” Paige whines. She moves her arm so Azzi can rest her head on it. At the younger girl’s sigh of contentment, Paige has to squeeze her eyes shut. She is so, so fucked.

•••••

‘Fucked’ is maybe an understatement. Paige doesn’t know what to do anymore. She really wishes she was able to keep her thoughts locked away. She knows Azzi would be able to.

At first, they’d been manageable and fairly harmless. She’d just catch herself staring at Azzi here and there and find that she had the urge to ask the other girl if she knew how beautiful she was. Sure, she’d noticed that Azzi was pretty before, but she hadn’t had time to really appreciate how her features complemented each other so well. Friends look at each other like that, right? Paige wasn't totally sure, but she’d sort of been able to convince herself that they did, backtracking on her earlier realization. That had worked for all of a few hours. Then she was right back to where she started, looking at Azzi like she wanted them to be something more than best friends.

Now that a few days had passed, it seemed that Azzi coming out to her had been both a blessing and a curse. Fortunately, it had allowed Paige to come out with much less stress. She was never planning on keeping it from the younger girl (she didn’t think that was something she was even able to do), but she had never found what felt like the right time and it had been weighing heavily on her. She really didn’t think they could get any closer, but since the mutual confession, their bond felt even deeper.

Unfortunately, it seemed to have unlocked something in her subconscious mind. And that was the problem — not when she realized that Azzi was pretty, but when she realized that Azzi was hot. Like, really hot, so hot that she regularly got Paige worked up. The blonde would toss and turn in bed, thighs squeezed together, as she tried to push away some of the crazier thoughts, reminding herself that they were about her really hot best friend, not some random crush.

Knowing that Azzi liked girls had apparently given Paige’s brain new material and explicit permission to use it. Even though she was quick to dismiss the thoughts as soon as they popped into her head, she was bombarded by images of Azzi in various states of undress, doing things with her that girls who like other girls do. While they did make her feel a bit guilty, she wasn’t going to lie to herself and pretend that she didn’t also enjoy them. She also wasn’t going to pretend that, on the rare nights where Azzi wasn’t wrapped around her, her hand wouldn’t dip below her waistband as she allowed herself to briefly indulge in her newfound forbidden desires.

There is also a second (and admittedly more complicated) problem: Paige isn’t just attracted to Azzi, she’s pretty sure she’s in love with her. Like, the full-blown ‘I want to spend the rest of my life with you’ kind of love. She’d been drawn to the dark-haired girl since the day they met, and the more she actually thinks about it, the more she realizes that there was probably never a time where she wasn’t in love with Azzi. She goes back and forth between cringing at her own obliviousness and thanking the Lord for not making her have to live with it for all these years. She can’t imagine grappling with these feelings at the age of fifteen when even looking back at the mess of interactions from her short time at the Fudd’s is enough to give her a headache.

Even if this whole love thing is new, Paige would still consider herself something of an Azzi expert, or at least an expert on the way that Azzi acts around her. And she’s sure that it’s not the same as it was last week, or ever, for that matter. Because in all their years of friendship, Azzi has never whispered in Paige’s ear so close that her lips ghost across her skin, never ran her hands across Paige’s upper thighs, and certainly never looked at Paige with those eyes. And at the family dinner table, no less.

Well, she’s at least somewhat sure. Technically, Paige realizes she can’t be completely sure because she wasn’t exactly looking for it before. Maybe it was there all along and she was just oblivious. Or worse, maybe Azzi isn’t even doing anything and Paige is making it all up to serve her own interests.

But whether or not it’s in her head, it’s absolutely torturous. Nighttime fantasies aside, Paige wants it to mean something when she holds her best friend at night. She wants Azzi to know that the forehead kisses (a new habit she’s picked up) and words of affection whispered in the dark are a million little confessions, all uttered in place of one that she will never dare voice out loud.

She never imagined the thought crossing her mind, but sometimes Paige wants all of this to be over, almost needs to get away from Azzi for both of their sakes. But then her best friend will flash a smile in Paige’s direction and everything else melts away. Because Azzi has Paige wrapped around her finger, and Paige is hardly fighting it anymore.

•••••

Paige has seen Azzi in a bathing suit before, but not since she’s… figured some things out. When the dark-haired girl runs out of the house in a simple black bikini, Paige doesn’t even know where to look. There are so many places that she wants to but basically nowhere that she thinks would be appropriate at this point, so she settles for the safest option of locking eyes with Azzi. That turns out to be a mistake, because of course Azzi’s looking at her like that, and Paige wants to go back inside to hide from her.

Being unable to make eye contact with her best friend, Paige’s gaze inevitably shifts downwards. The blonde has enough self-awareness to realize that the look on her face as her eyes snag on Azzi’s lips and collarbones is something she never wants the other members of the household to see. She schools her features into neutrality as she turns around, confusion quickly clouding them when she sees only Tim at the grill.

“Where are Katie and the boys at?” she asks.

A brief smile ghosts across Tim’s face. “Inside, I guess,” he shrugs dismissively. “They’ll be out soon, I’m sure they’re getting dish soap or something.”

Paige doesn’t have long to ponder his evasive answer before Azzi is calling her over.

“Come help me with these staples!”

The DIY slip-n-slide was another idea they’d seen on Tiktok, and when the forecast predicted a particularly hot and sunny day, it seemed like the perfect time to try it.

Paige and Azzi are securing the last corner of the plastic sheet when they’re finally joined by Azzi’s mom and brothers. Only Katie is holding a bottle of dish soap, which Paige registers as somewhat suspicious, but she’s quickly distracted by Tim’s call to come eat.

—

They try the slip-n-slide after lunch. After much bickering, Azzi gets to be the first to go. She slides gracefully on her stomach, laughing joyfully the whole time, before jumping to her feet and turning to Paige with a huge grin on her face.

Paige would be the first to tell anyone how much she loves Azzi’s smile, but she barely registers it this time as her eyes latch onto a water droplet on Azzi’s shoulder and her earlier attempts not to look are all for nothing. Almost hypnotically, her eyes follow the trail of water past her best friend’s collarbones, between the valley of her breasts, and across her abs before it soaks into her bikini bottoms. Paige fully takes in the warm brown skin glistening with soapy water and it’s just so much. All Paige wants to do is touch, anywhere she can. She’s imagining running her hands down her best friend’s body in very inappropriate ways when Jon’s voice next to her snaps her back into the present.

“Hello, Earth to Paige?” he yells, practically screaming in her ear. Face burning, the blonde’s eyes snap away just in time to watch Azzi’s youngest brother turn the hose on her.

“Oooh, you’re so dead for that!” she shrieks, chasing after him.

It soon becomes apparent what Katie and the boys were doing when Jose comes running out of the house with a huge bucket of water balloons. He starts chucking them at Paige and Jon, who are wrestling in the grass, and soon the whole family is having a water balloon fight.

Paige and Azzi try to seek shelter behind a table, but it turns out to be a bad decision as the rest of the Fudds gang up on them. With their supply dwindling, both girls jump up and run across the yard, dodging many balloons but still getting soaked.

“Please, spare us,” Paige cries as she ducks behind Azzi. “You wouldn’t hurt your sweet sister, would you?”

Jon and Jose consider it for about three seconds. “Fuck family, this is war!” Jon shouts, earning a cheer from Jose and poorly masked laughter from Tim and Katie. The onslaught continues, with Paige still trying to use Azzi as a human shield.

If Paige’s hands slide when she puts them on Azzi’s sides to reposition her, surely it’s just because of the soapy water. If they brush across Azzi’s abs as she turns around to push the older girl away, Paige’s breath certainly doesn’t catch in her throat. And when the girls lose the water balloon fight, it’s definitely because it was basically two against four and not because Paige was horribly, atrociously distracted.

—

“Today was really fun,” Azzi muses as they lie in her bed that night.

“Easy for you to say when you didn’t get a sunburn,” Paige winces at the slight sting as her back rubs against the sheets.

“That’s because I’m better than you,” Azzi shrugs like it’s obvious. “Don’t worry, I still think you look cute… even if it means you won’t let me cuddle you tonight.” She yawns and rolls over.

Paige freezes. What the fuck? Her brain is telling her that there’s no way she heard Azzi right, but with the way her best friend has been acting, it almost makes sense.

Shaking her head, Paige shifts around before deciding that the least painful sleeping position is flat on her back. When Azzi slinks her way into Paige’s arms, the older girl grits her teeth against the pain, never once considering pushing the dark-haired girl away to ease her discomfort.

—

Paige is in a desert. Her burnt skin stings under the sun and the hot sand scorches her feet as she stumbles desperately towards a jagged mountain, the only landmark for miles. She’s disappointed to discover that it offers no shade, but hope blossoms as she circles it.

The back of the mountain is an imposing rock face, but all thoughts of trying to climb it are dispelled when a small dark line running down it catches Paige’s eye. She draws closer and is relieved to find that it’s a trickle of water descending from the top of the mountain hundreds of feet above her. The rivulet is scarcely wider than one of Paige’s fingers, but she desperately presses her tongue to the rock, needing to get as much as she can in case it runs out.

The first drop of water invigorates her. It tastes like dreams and desires and a million other things all at once, and soon Paige doesn’t think she could stop lapping it up if she tried. The water drips down her chin and she welcomes the sensation. The trickle grows into a stream and still Paige keeps drinking, closing her eyes as it washes over her like a baptism.

Paige’s senses are flooded by vanilla and jasmine and she has only one thought. Azzi. When her tongue brushes against the rock face again, it’s not the rough feeling she’d gotten used to, causing Paige to open her eyes in shock. She’s on her stomach on what appears to be a flat rock in the middle of an oasis.

But Paige barely has time to take in her surroundings because right under her is the source of her desires. Azzi has an arm thrown carelessly over her eyes, legs spread so that Paige can lie between them, her head inches above the other girl’s smooth, toned stomach. Paige realizes what she’d felt on her tongue and dips her head down, experimentally tracing the path of a water droplet up Azzi’s stomach. She swallows thickly, revelling once more in the heavenly taste of it.

“Why’d you stop?” Paige’s head snaps up. They make eye contact for the first time, Azzi’s relaxed body language juxtaposed by the lust darkening her deep brown eyes.

Paige realizes that Azzi’s wearing the black bikini top she loves, but as her arm brushes the dark-haired girl’s bare hip bone, she’s not brave enough to look down.

“It’s just us here,” Azzi purrs. She arches her back slightly so she can reach the knot holding her top on. “Just you and me.” Azzi fixes Paige with an intense stare, not once breaking eye contact as she begins to pull her top off.

Azzi’s scent is intoxicating, clouding Paige’s senses and leaving her almost in a trance. “You know what I want, baby.” She licks her lips.

Paige doesn’t know if it’s the pet name or the sultry tone of Azzi’s voice, but her head is starting to feel fuzzy.

“I- I do,” she says almost reverently.

“Good girl,” Azzi murmurs. “Think you can do that for me, then?”

And Paige finds herself nodding eagerly, letting soft hands tangle in her hair as Azzi gently pushes her head down.

—

Paige wakes up absolutely parched. She tries not to be disappointed when the water she gulps down tastes nothing like the elixir from her dream. There’s only one thing that she thinks could possibly taste that good, and it’s the one thing she can’t possibly have.

#pazzi my loves #close #the covid fic #paige my love #azzi my love #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi fic

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movingmusically · 12 days ago

Text

Something Sacred - Part 3

Synopsis:

He talks about trauma like it’s sacred. She calls it manipulation. But the longer she stays, the harder it is to tell the difference.

Warnings:

References to childhood trauma and abuse.

Word Count: 8k

Masterlist

You didn’t tell them where you’d been.

Not the other therapists in your shared practice, not the front desk receptionist who chirped, “Long weekend, huh? Looked like you needed it!” when you signed in Monday morning.

You smiled, agreed, and slipped into your office. You checked your emails, lined up your pens — small anchors to keep your mind here. Here was four white walls and a couch just soft enough to feel safe, just sturdy enough to remind people they wouldn’t stay forever.

Your first session was with Mark Lewis — mid-forties, anxious, always early, always polite.

He knocked at two minutes to the hour, exactly as he always did.

You opened the door, found his hesitant smile waiting.

He spoke in gentle loops — work stress, his brother’s drinking, the old wound that still pulsed when he thought of his father. You nodded where you should, scribbled when it made sense. But beneath the steady drift of his voice, you were somewhere else entirely.

Later, you stood in the staffroom, staring at the coffee machine while it sputtered. As you started to pour a cup, your mind slipped again — far enough that you didn’t notice the coffee brimming over until warmth streaked your wrist.

“Shit.”

“You good, Becca?” Colleen asked, pulling her lunch from the microwave.

You forced a laugh, shaking off the drip. “Yeah. Just… miles away.”

Colleen smiled, unconvinced but kind enough not to say so. She nudged the microwave door shut and left you alone with the mess and the quiet hum of the kitchenette.

You cleaned up the spill, made a fresh cup, and finished the rest of the day on autopilot. Clients in, clients out — old stories rehashed, new wounds prodded, your nods all in the right places. By the time you locked your office, the car park was half-empty and the sun dipped behind the rooftops, warmth bleeding off the concrete as you crossed to your car.

At home, you dropped your bag on the table, kicked off your shoes, and flicked open the windows.

You poured a glass of water, drank half of it standing at the counter. Only then did you fish your phone from your pocket and see that Cassie had sent you a message. Well?? Did he brainwash you or just make you do weird naked yoga in the desert?

You let out a quiet snort, sliding down onto the edge of the couch, thumb hovering. You typed:

No yoga. No robes. No Kool-Aid either.

Cassie’s typing bubble popped up instantly.

So?? What then?? Don’t be cryptic I’m literally dying here.

You hesitated, then thumbed out:

It was… a lot. Hard to explain over text.

Cassie: Beer tomorrow. You’re telling me everything.

You stared at the screen, the glow pooling across your palm. In the back of your mind, his voice stirred again — calm, certain, impossible to set aside.

The bar was one of Cassie’s favourites — relaxed, warm lighting, polished wood tables, a low hum of conversation that made everything feel easy. She’d grabbed a corner booth near the windows, two bottles already sweating on the table in front of her.

She spotted you immediately, waving you over with a grin that was all teeth and mischief. “There she is. Come on, sit down — I’ve been waiting all day for this.”

You sank into the chair opposite her, dropping your bag on the floor. “You’re dramatic.”

Cassie nudged a bottle your way. “And you’re stalling. Talk. Was it a cult? Did they confiscate your phone and rename you Moonbeam?”

You snorted, twisting the cap off the bottle. “No cult. No chanting. No ceremonial robes. Just… people. Good ones, mostly. Hurt ones.”

She leaned in, eyes dancing. “So?”

You traced a finger through the condensation on the bottle. “It was... more organised than I expected. Calm. Careful. People there really trust him.”

Cassie arched an eyebrow. “And you?”

“I don’t trust him,” you said, too quickly. Then, softer, “He’s… not what I thought. Not exactly. He’s—” You broke off, searching for the right word. “He’s very good at what he does. It’s not an act. But it’s not transparent either. I don’t know how to explain it.” You let out a breath through your nose. “I don’t think he's out to hurt anyone. He really thinks he’s helping them. That’s... dangerous in its own way.”

She tipped her bottle toward yours with a small, satisfied clink. “So, I wasn’t completely wrong.”

You gave her a dry look. “Don’t gloat.”

“I’m not gloating. I’m glowing. My stubborn cousin, letting someone surprise her — it’s beautiful.”

You let out a breath that might have been a laugh. “I've offered to run some check-ins while I’m there. For anyone who wants it.”

Cassie’s head snapped up. “While you’re there? You’re going back?”

You winced at her volume. “Keep your voice down.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide and delighted behind it. “Are you kidding me? Becca. You went for two days to prove he’s a fraud and now you’re signing up? Oh my god — this is my redemption arc.”

You groaned. “Don’t start. There’s a girl — Mara. She’s young, vulnerable. She needs more support than he knows how to give her. I can’t just watch that happen.”

Cassie lowered her hand, voice gentler now. “Hey. I’m glad. I really am. I wanted you to see it’s not all nonsense. He’s… he’s good for some people. Maybe for you too, a little.”

You made a face. “Don’t push it.”

She laughed. “Fine. But promise me you won’t burn yourself out. You’d hand over every piece of your spine if you thought someone else needed it more.”

You rolled your eyes again but softer this time. “I’ll be fine.”

Cassie nudged your foot under the table, her grin crooked and fond. “Good. Because if he turns you into a soft-eyed guru quoting moon phases, I will personally drag you home by your hair.”

You snorted. “Deal.”

The warmth between you settled back in, familiar and real — and for a moment, it almost drowned out the echo of his voice in your head.

The rest of the week fell into a pattern.

By day: the office, the quiet couch, the low spill of confessions that never shocked you but sometimes still caught at the edges of your ribs. You let clients talk. You let them rage, weep, circle old wounds until they found the shape of something softer. You kept your notes tidy and your voice steadier than your pulse.

By night: your laptop glowing on the kitchen table, a mug of tea going cold beside your elbow. You read until the words blurred — journal articles, case studies, old controversies resurfaced under new names. Retrieved memories, repressed memories, recovered memories — the language shifted decade by decade but the fault lines stayed the same.

False memories. Suggestibility. Induced trauma. The thin border between help and harm.

You made notes. You cross-checked them with your training, your supervision textbooks, your experience. You marked the pages that felt too familiar: how an eager listener with enough authority could plant seeds that sprouted ruin years later. How courts mishandled it, how families tore themselves apart over something half true or never true at all.

Most nights you fell asleep with your phone beside you, open to a half-finished search. You dreamt once that Vernon’s touch found you in the dark, gentle, steadying, his eyes locked to yours like he was waiting for you to admit something you didn’t have words for.

By Friday, your bag was packed and waiting by the door.

Not for him. Not for the calm certainty he carried so easily, like it cost him nothing to hold a silence until you filled it.

For the ones who trusted him more than they trusted themselves.

For Mara. And maybe, if you were honest — for yourself too.

The drive out felt shorter this time. Familiar turns, the slow shift from smooth tarmac to the gentle crunch of gravel under your tyres, wide stretches of pale sky that didn’t ask questions.

You killed the engine and stepped out, the warmth of the afternoon pressing close. Marianne appeared from around the side of the main building, lifting a hand in a wave as you swung the car door shut.

“Rebecca. Good to see you again.”

You smiled — a small one, but real enough. “Hi Marianne.”

She didn’t linger over it. She crossed to you, touched your shoulder lightly, and nodded towards the row of rooms. “You’re in the same room as before. Come find me when you’re settled, alright?”

Inside, the air smelled of sun-warmed wood and herbs. On the small table by the window, someone had left a glass jar of rosemary sprigs and a folded note in a careful hand: For when you need a clear head.

You set your bag down but didn’t unpack. You opened the window wide instead, let the air drift in and brush against your shoulders.

A soft knock pulled you from your thoughts.

You turned, half-expecting Marianne again — but it wasn’t her.

Vernon stood in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame like he’d always belonged there. The light from the hall caught the edge of his hair, made the tattoos on his forearms stand out sharper than you remembered.

He didn’t smile, exactly. Just that small tilt of his mouth that made it impossible to tell if he was about to ask you a question or answer one you hadn’t voiced yet.

“Settling in?” he asked.

You folded your arms — not quite defensive, but enough to keep steady. “Just got here.”

He hummed, low and warm. “Marianne said you’d arrived. I thought I’d—” He tipped his chin toward the jar on the table, then back at you. “Check the room feels right this time.”

Your eyes flicked to the rosemary sprigs. “Old tradition, isn’t it? For remembrance.”

A flicker of approval passed through his eyes. “For memory, protection, clarity. Centuries of people trusted it before us. Thought it might help… clear the way a little.”

The air between you tightened, not hostile — just too full for such a small room.

You shifted your weight. “It’s thoughtful.”

Something in his shoulders eased, but he didn’t move away. His eyes stayed steady on yours, enough to remind you how easy it was to forget why you didn’t trust him.

“I know you’re not here for me,” he said, voice softer now, like he meant it. “But I’m glad you came back.”

You didn’t trust yourself to answer that, so you didn’t.

He let it pass without comment. “There’s tea on in the kitchen. And Mara’s out by the orchard — she asked if you’d find her when you arrived.”

Your chest tightened at her name. You nodded, just once. “Alright.”

He pushed off the doorframe but didn’t leave right away. He held your gaze a moment longer than politeness required — something searching in it, or maybe daring. Then, quiet:

“See you out there, Rebecca.”

When he said your name this time, you didn’t bristle.

But you didn’t thank him either.

You waited until his steps faded down the corridor before picking up the jar, turning it slowly in your hands — rosemary for remembrance, for truth. For clear edges where you needed them most.

You set it back down, grabbed your notebook, and went to find Mara.

You found Vernon waiting just past the main path — standing easy, hands tucked loosely into his pockets.

He fell into step beside you without a word, matching your pace easily as you crossed the gravel path towards the orchard. For a moment, all you heard was the low hum of bees in the lavender by the fence, and the soft crunch of your shoes on the sun-warmed earth.

“Is she alright?” you asked, keeping your eyes ahead.

“She will be.” His voice was calm, but the weight beneath it wasn’t lost on you. “Better with you here, I think.”

You almost laughed — humourless. “Don’t make me the antidote to your half-finished therapy, Vernon.”

He let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh too — or a concession. “Fair.”

A few steps of silence. You could feel him looking at you in the periphery, steady but not intrusive, as if cataloguing every shift in your shoulders, every unspoken reservation you were still holding tight against your ribs.

“I know you don’t like how I do things,” he said, softer now. “But you help them trust themselves more than they trust me. I don’t mind that.”

You stopped walking for just a heartbeat — long enough that he did too. The orchard opened in front of you, rows of low trees bending slightly under the weight of early fruit.

“Mara’s just through here,” he said finally, his voice pitched low, threading through the quiet. “She wanted to wait for you.”

You looked at him, searching for something in the calm line of his profile — whether he’d told Mara to wait, whether he’d prepared her for what you might ask. But he didn’t look back at you; his gaze stayed soft on the path ahead.

Further ahead, you spotted Mara — a slim figure half-hunched over a branch, picking at the leaves with restless fingers.

When you stepped forward again, he didn’t follow immediately. Just fell back enough to let you go first, his voice drifting after you like a quiet permission:

“She’s better with you than with me today. Take your time.”

You didn’t turn. Just lifted a hand — half a wave, half a dismissal — and walked on alone.

Mara didn’t see you at first. She tugged a small leaf free, rolling it between her palms until it crumbled. She looked up when she heard your steps. Relief flickered across her face before she dropped her gaze, flustered.

“Hi, Mara.”

“I’m sorry,” The words tumbled out before you even reached her. “I should have come back. Before you left. I didn’t mean to run off like that, it’s just—”

“Hey.” You kept your voice level, gentle. “You don’t have to explain. You left when you needed to. That’s alright.”

Mara shook her head, hair brushing her cheeks. “But you stayed and listened to everyone. And I just— I felt so stupid afterwards, like I’d wasted your time.”

“You didn’t.” You matched her pace as she started to walk, slow and aimless between the trees. “You did exactly what you needed to do in that moment. I’m glad you wanted to talk now. That’s what matters.”

Mara nodded, her fingers brushed the low branches as you moved, each one a tiny anchor to keep her here, in her body, not lost in the whirlpool her mind made of things.

She peeked at you then, a small, fleeting glance. “It’s easier today. Knowing you came back.” She paused, thumb brushing her knuckles like she was steadying herself. “It makes it feel like I didn’t mess it up completely.”

“I came back to help everyone,” you said. Then, more honestly, “I came back for you too.”

Mara let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “Okay.”

She brushed her sleeve across her cheek, shy and new again.

“Come on,” you said gently, nudging her shoulder with yours. “Walk with me a bit more. Tell me how you’ve been.”

You stayed with her like that for a while — moving slow between rows of young fruit trees, stopping when she needed to pick at the bark or circle back to something half-said. She spoke in short bursts at first: how the nights stretched when she couldn’t sleep, how the quiet made her worry that her doubt would ruin what they’d all built with him.

You didn’t rush her. You didn’t tell her she was fine. You let the wind and the branches do half the work.

When her words ran out, you turned with her toward the open edge of the orchard — a loose promise that this didn’t have to end badly again. She glanced at you, braver now, the question slipping out like it had been waiting behind her teeth all along.

“Will you stay longer this time? Not just a weekend?”

You softened, wishing you could give her more than the truth. “I can’t, Mara. I’ve got people waiting back home — work, life, all the boring bits.”

You caught her sleeve gently between your fingers, grounding her before she could shrink back into apology.

“But listen — if you want me here, I’ll keep coming back. Weekends, as long as you need. We can pick up right where we leave off. Alright?”

Mara blinked at you — a fragile hope trying to bloom without permission. Then she nodded, a smile cracking through the worry. “Okay. I’d like that.”

You gave Mara’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before letting her drift back towards the main clearing — lighter now, or maybe just less afraid to stay seen. You watched until she folded back into the quiet flow of voices ahead, then turned towards the path, notebook in hand, already preparing for whatever came next.

As you approached the main buildings, you noticed the small knots of people that dotted the garden and the slope beyond. Two young men played cards on an upturned crate, shoving each other’s shoulders when someone cheated. Someone older — maybe late fifties — sat with a shallow bowl, painting sweeping lines of ochre and blue on the palm of a girl who kept giggling at the tickle. A couple lay flat on their backs, pointing shapes into the dusk-heavy sky.

It didn’t look like therapy. Or faith. Or spectacle.

It just looked like people filling the gaps between sessions with something close to ordinary. You wondered, briefly, if that was by design — if Vernon planned for this visible softness, as careful in its own way as the circle work.

A flicker of warmth at your side.

“Good to see you watching them,” Vernon murmured. Not close enough to startle you, but close enough you could feel the calm weight he carried into every silence.

You folded your arms, eyes still on the loose scatter of people. “It’s... different. This bit. Between the sessions.”

He hummed low in his throat. “Fun is part of the medicine, Rebecca. Most people forget that.”

You glanced at him then — hair a little untamed, a flicker of something unguarded in his eyes you hadn’t realised you’d been waiting to see.

He caught your look.

“Hungry?”

You hesitated. “A bit.”

“Come on, then.” He gestured toward the dining room behind you. “Eat with me?”

You shouldn’t have liked the quiet invitation in it — but you did.

The lights were low and soft — a scattering of people came and went, some gathered at the long tables, others took their plates back outside. Vernon scooped two generous portions, then handed one bowl to you along with a piece of flatbread. He guided you to a small bench just outside, half-shielded by climbing jasmine.

Halfway through, you set your bowl aside, brushing crumbs from your palm. Vernon was still eating, slower than you’d expected, methodical in a way that made it feel less like dinner and more like something deliberate — another ritual.

You let the quiet stretch. The hum of voices inside drifted out through the open door, soft laughter mixing with the faint song of cicadas.

“Can I ask you something?” you said at last.

He didn’t look surprised. “Always.”

You picked at the edge of your bread, choosing your words carefully. “This memory work you do. The way you guide them through the old things — the half-remembered bits. How does it work, really?”

He tilted his head slightly, considering. “It’s not so different from what you do. I just... don’t confine it to the frame of a couch and a clock. I help them find the shape of what they’ve hidden from themselves — what they’ve been carrying without a name.”

You turned that over in your head. “You mean you help them remember.”

“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes I help them decide what to let go of instead.”

Your brow furrowed. “But how do you know? When it’s real, or when it’s...” You gestured, vague but pointed. “Something the mind makes up to fill the cracks.”

Vernon didn’t flinch. He set his empty bowl aside, turned more fully toward you. The fading light took the edges off him, softening him into something fallible, thoughtful, real.

“I don’t know,” he said simply. “Not always. Memory is a trickster. It bends to what it needs. I try to be careful — to keep the questions honest, to remind them it’s not proof, just a path.”

You watched him, searching for any sign of evasion. There was none — just the steady weight of someone who had made peace with his own uncertainty.

“Has it ever gone wrong?” you asked, voice quieter now. Not accusing. Just real.

For the first time, his gaze dropped — to his hands, his knees, the small patch of gravel at his feet. A breath slipped out of him, part confession, part regret.

“Yes,” he said. “Once. Maybe more than once, if I’m being honest. People want to remember so badly, sometimes they find ghosts that were never there. Or they break something that was holding them upright.”

A shiver crawled up your spine — not entirely from the night air.

“And you keep doing it.”

Vernon’s eyes lifted back to yours, steady again. “I’d rather help them carry the truth — or whatever shape of it they can bear — than leave them alone with the weight of pretending they’re fine.”

You didn’t answer straight away. Your fingers brushed the edge of your bowl, grounding yourself in something plain and solid.

At last, you nodded — once. Not agreement, but understanding.

Somewhere behind you, laughter flared, then softened again. Vernon leaned back a fraction, the line of his shoulder brushing yours as if by accident, but he didn’t move away.

“You ever want to see how it works?” he asked, voice low — not a challenge, but an invitation threaded with something deeper.

You didn’t answer right away — but he must have seen something in your silence, because he didn’t press.

Instead, he rose, taking both empty bowls in one hand.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the garden path where lanterns were already flickering to life. “They’re starting something by the fire pit. Stay a little longer.”

You followed. Not because you trusted him completely, but because you wanted to see — this, them, him. The in-between that made everything else work.

Near the low stone circle, someone was coaxing flame from dry kindling while a handful of others pulled logs into a loose ring. Someone passed out skewers, marshmallows, scraps of foil rattling with hidden chocolate squares. It felt too childish to belong here — and yet that was the point, you realised. To remind these same people that the grief and the raw truths didn’t swallow every dusk.

You found a place on a half-buried boulder, your knees tucked up, warmth brushing your shins when the fire finally caught. Vernon dropped beside you a moment later, closer than before but not demanding space you didn’t offer. He said nothing at first, only took the skewer someone offered him and methodically pushed two marshmallows onto the end.

When he caught your raised eyebrow, he shrugged — an echo of that rare unguardedness. “Even I’m not immune to sugar.”

A young woman across the fire laughed as her marshmallow sagged into the embers. You felt a small huff of laughter slip out of you before you could stop it. Vernon noticed.

“I can’t remember the last time I did this,” you admitted, low, like a secret you’d just remembered. “It feels… like being a kid again.”

“That’s the point,” he murmured. “Part of claiming back what was taken from them. From all of us, in one way or another.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. The sugar, the crackle, the way everyone leaned together without pretence — you understood it now.

At some point you realised Vernon was watching you more than the fire. Not intensely — but like he liked seeing you here, a little less sharp around the edges.

When the laughter mellowed to small conversations and the flames settled into a lazy flicker, someone suggested a small trust exercise. Not circle work — nothing raw. Just quiet, simple contact: pairs marking each other’s palms and forearms with soft pigment or scented oil, an old ritual borrowed from somewhere else but stripped down to pure grounding touch.

You tried to slip away. Vernon caught your sleeve.

“Stay,” he said. “Partner with me.”

You almost said no. But the word never made it out.

A few people spread blankets on the grass; pairs settled opposite each other, the soft clink of small ceramic bowls passing from hand to hand. Someone handed you one — rose oil, you guessed, cut with something sharper.

Vernon sat cross-legged in front of you, sleeves pushed up a little higher on his inked arms, the markings obvious even in the low light. His eyes didn’t press, but they didn’t drift either.

“Hands,” he said softly.

You gave them to him. He turned your wrists palm-up, his own fingers warm against your pulse. For a moment he just held them there — a quiet weight, like he was listening for something beneath your skin.

Then his thumbs dipped into the small bowl, gathering a sheen of oil. He started at the centre of your right palm, slow spirals that spread heat through the thin skin there. His touch wasn’t overly careful — he pressed enough to catch the small knots in the muscle, the faint lines that mapped where your hands had worked, worried, held too much.

He moved up, tracing the pad of his thumb along the seam between your thumb and forefinger, then down to the faint ridge of an old scar near your knuckle. You caught your breath when he circled it, like he could read the story it hid without asking you to say it aloud.

He didn’t pause. He turned your hand slightly, smoothing oil over your wrist, his fingertips brushing the small dip where your pulse fluttered. Then further — the heel of his palm gliding up the inside of your forearm, spreading warmth over skin that rarely saw touch this patient.

When he finished with one arm, he switched without a word. The left hand, the same slow ritual: palm first, then the joints, then the long line of your wrist and forearm, stopping just before the bend of your elbow. By the time he drew back, your arms felt too light, too awake, like they belonged to someone gentler than you remembered being.

When you opened your eyes — you hadn’t even realised you’d closed them — he was watching you, not with triumph, but with a softness that felt more dangerous than any of his questions.

You flexed your fingers, half to test them, half to steady yourself. “Does everyone get this, or just me?”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Only the ones who look like they’ve forgotten how to let someone be gentle with them.”

You huffed, almost a laugh, though your pulse was still too high for it to land easy. Your gaze dropped to his forearms — the dark ink you’d only half-seen before, half-guessed at. Now, so close, it drew your eye like a question begging to be asked.

Before you could second-guess it, you dipped your fingertip into the small bowl of oil between you, letting the slick warmth coat your skin.

Then, lightly, you touched the edge of a black line near his wrist — tracing it gently. He didn’t move away. If anything, he stilled more completely, breath held like he didn’t dare interrupt you.

“What do they mean?” you asked, your voice lower now, the hush not out of fear but out of some fragile respect for the way he was letting you near.

He tipped his head slightly, eyes on your face instead of your fingers. “Each one is a piece I let go,” he said. “A thing I didn’t want to carry inside anymore. Pain. Regret. Things I’ve done. Things I didn’t do soon enough. Some scars do better as ink than memory.”

The words weren’t confession and weren’t boast. Just facts, laid bare between your hand and his skin.

You traced another line — a smaller mark near the crook of his arm. “Does it work?”

“Does what?” he murmured.

“Do they let you be lighter? Or do they just make a prettier cage?”

That earned you a small laugh, genuine and low. “Sharp as ever, Rebecca." He exhaled — slow, almost careful. “Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe I just needed somewhere for the memory to live so it wouldn’t keep eating me alive.”

Emboldened, your other hand joined the first, brushing higher along his forearm where a more intricate piece looped near the bend of his elbow. Heat coiled between you both, soft but undeniable beneath the scent of the oil.

He shifted, just enough that his knee pressed against yours, the point of contact spreading warmth through the night air that still clung to your skin.

“If your scars were ink,” he asked, voice low, “what would they say?”

You didn’t answer — not with words. Instead you let your fingertip drift back down to the sensitive skin near his wrist, feeling the steady pound of his pulse quicken — matched beat for beat by the drum under your own ribs.

And still, he didn’t stop you. Didn’t flinch. He just stayed there, letting you map him, letting you see how human he really was beneath all that calm.

Your other hand slid over his opposite arm, oil-slick fingertips tracing the dark whorls inked into the lean muscle. He turned his palm up for you without being asked — an unspoken permission, or a dare not to look away now that you’d started.

The designs there were different — sharper, more fractured lines, half hidden by the shifting play of tendon and bone beneath your touch. You traced them slowly, feeling him breathe through it, measured and quiet but far from unaffected.

When you paused — thumb caught just at the edge of a new shape spiralling near the crease of his elbow — he caught your wrist gently, guiding your hand upward in a quiet, steady arc and pressed it gently against his neck. Your fingertips found the mark inked deep in the hollow of his throat, where his pulse jumped strong beneath the skin.

“This one?” you whispered.

He swallowed, voice rougher now, low against the hush. “My first. A promise to survive myself.”

Before you could pull back, he shifted his grip, guiding your fingertips lower, inside the open edge of his shirt to where another piece lay half-hidden against his chest. The oil made your touch glide — and his chest rose subtly under your palm, an almost inaudible exhale at the contact. Your palm curved to it without thinking, feeling the warmth, the soft scrape of hair, the steady thrum beneath.

Neither of you spoke. It didn’t feel necessary. The shapes under your fingers were words enough. You caught his eyes — a flicker of heat there, yes, but something steadier too. Trust.

His palm covered yours, holding it against the warm slip of ink and skin until — further down the circle — a soft bell chime and a few gentle voices signalled the end of the quiet activity.

One by one, people shifted — a ripple of laughter, someone collecting the bowls of oil, another brushing off their hands on their trousers.

Vernon’s hand left yours last. No flourish. No lingering promise. Just a faint ghost of his warmth in your palm as you both sat back into yourselves.

He rose, but his fingertips skimmed your knuckles one last time as he did.

And then he was gone, slipping back into the soft noise of people and half-finished conversations — leaving you there with your hands warm, your chest tight, and the faint ghost of questions still humming under your skin.

You were back in the same studio near the orchard as last weekend. This time, though, it was yours to hold: your notes spread on a low table, two spare chairs pulled close enough that the world beyond them blurred to unimportance. You’d spoken to Marianne before breakfast — practical as ever, handing you a short list of names on a folded scrap of paper. Some you recognised from last weekend. Others were new. She’d smiled at your slight frown, tapping the list lightly. “They trust you now. That’s good.” You hadn’t seen Vernon this morning. A passing thought — not disappointment exactly, but not its opposite either — flickered and vanished as you propped the studio door open, the orchard’s insect hum threading through the quiet. Your body still carried a trace of last night: a soft warmth behind your ribs, a faint echo of oil and ink each time you flexed your hands to keep them from fidgeting. People came one by one, each leaving a different weight behind in the small room’s walls. You were about halfway through Marianne’s list when you stepped outside for a breather. You needed air — needed the gentle noise of other people to loosen the tightness that always came from holding everyone else’s hurt so carefully. You lingered just beyond the studio’s shade, letting the sun work the last stiffness from your shoulders. The orchard murmured around you — insect hum, a laugh carried on the breeze, the faint clink of someone working in the gardens.

You turned at a low murmur of voices nearby. Not too close — just past the bend in the path, near the lavender beds. Eli held a folder tucked under one arm, head bent slightly toward Vernon as they spoke. It had been two weeks since the dinner in Cassie’s apartment — since you’d last seen Eli. His eyes flicked your way, a hint of surprise in them. He gave you a small nod, more acknowledgement than greeting — before he leaned closer to Vernon, murmuring something too low for you to catch. Whatever he said made Vernon’s posture ease, the faintest shape of a smile ghosting across his mouth before he glanced your way too.

After a beat, you pushed off the studio’s doorframe and crossed to meet them. Eli shifted back a step, polite enough to give you space that wasn’t quite private but felt like it belonged to just the three of you.

“Rebecca,” he said, tone light but carrying a trace of amusement, like he found something about all this quietly satisfying. “Didn’t think I’d get to see you again.”

You huffed a quiet breath — not quite a laugh. “Change of plans.”

Eli glanced at Vernon, then back at you — something curious, just shy of teasing, flickering across his eyes. He didn’t say it out loud, but the shift in how you stood near Vernon said enough.

“Glad you’re here,” Eli said instead. “Makes the rest of this easier for him, you know.” He tipped his head toward Vernon, who hadn’t looked away from you since you’d stepped into the light.

Eli went on, softer now. “You finding the space alright? Anything you need — for your… work?”

You lifted one shoulder in a small, honest shrug. “It’s fine. Quiet. Which helps.”

Eli smiled — more warmth than ceremony. “Good. Means I can stop worrying about logistics and get him ready for his next talk in town.” He lifted the folder slightly, then to Vernon, “I’ll chase down the last bits for next week — I’ll find you later.”

With that, he angled himself back down the garden, leaving you alone with Vernon. He watched Eli go, then turned to you fully — the orchard hush settling tighter around the space between you. “I didn’t mean to pull you away from your work,” he said, voice lower, more private. “I was going to wait until you were done today… but we’re holding a smaller circle later. I’d like you to sit in. If you want to see how I guide it up close.” He didn’t push. Just laid it there between you — soft as a leaf on water.

You didn’t answer immediately. Your eyes caught on the ink winding over his forearm — a quick, unwilling reminder of the night before.

You forced your focus back to the present.

“What kind of circle?” you asked, quieter than you meant. “Same as last time?”

“Smaller,” he said. “More contained. Trust work, mostly. No audience — just the few who need it. You’d only be there to watch, unless you choose otherwise.”

You absorbed that, weighing the unspoken shape of unless you choose otherwise.

“I’ll need to shift a couple of check-ins to tomorrow morning,” you said. Then, quieter, almost to yourself: “But yes. I'd like to see it.” You’d watch. Nothing more.

A shadow of a smile touched his mouth — not satisfaction, but something gentler.

“Good,” he murmured. “You’ll understand better that way.”

He didn’t say more. Just nodded once, then turned back towards the lavender beds, following the path Eli had taken, leaving you with your own restless thoughts.

The sun had dipped behind the trees by the time you reached the clearing.

This time, the gathering felt different. Tighter. Less communal hum, more breath held in expectation. Only four mats had been laid out in the low light, evenly spaced, a small oil lamp burning in the centre like a single open eye. No outer circle. No spare seats.

Except one — half-shadowed, slightly back, angled enough to see everything without being seen too clearly. You took it without asking.

Marianne caught your eye as she stepped past you, her hand brushing your shoulder lightly in passing. A quiet reassurance. Then she moved to where Vernon stood near the centre, her voice low as she spoke briefly with him. He nodded once. She left.

He didn’t look at you straight away.

Instead, he crouched to adjust the lamp—its flame flickered higher, casting a soft spill across the grass and catching the curve of his jaw. When he straightened, his eyes moved over the small group like he was counting pulse points.

Then they found you.

No smile. Just a nod. The same kind he’d given you your first evening here. A beginning.

The participants had already taken their places—three women, one man. You recognised two. Mara was one of them.

She sat farthest from you, knees drawn up, her hands clasped loosely around her ankles. Her posture wasn’t closed, exactly. But it wasn’t at ease either.

The man beside her looked to be in his late thirties, broad-shouldered and tight-jawed, his hands curled loosely on his knees like he’d been taught stillness as a way of control. Beside him, a woman with close-cropped hair and a faded tattoo on her wrist sat with perfect posture and downturned eyes. The final woman—older, maybe early sixties—sat with her hands open in her lap, gaze already on Vernon like she was ready to follow whatever thread he handed her.

Vernon didn’t open with a question this time.

He lowered himself to the grass, legs folded neatly, hands loose on his knees. The lamp glowed between them all, casting long shadows across the close space. He waited until the quiet settled not just over the group — but through it.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Tonight isn’t about fixing. Or remembering. Or even sharing.”

His voice was gentle, but precise. Like something being tuned.

“It’s about staying present with whatever surfaces. Even if it’s just breath. Even if it’s silence.”

One of the women exhaled shakily.

Vernon glanced at her, then back to the group. “You don’t need to perform your pain here. It’s enough just to hold it. To let someone witness it without needing to make it into something else.”

Then, gently, “Who wants to begin?”

The man closest to him was the first to speak. But not right away. First, he lifted one hand, rubbed the side of his jaw like he could scrape the words loose.

“I’ve been... numb. For years. I thought it meant I was broken.”

He didn’t look at anyone. Just stared at the lamp, flame flickering in his pupils.

“Everyone talks about rage, grief, sadness—like if you’re not crying, you’re not healing. But I don’t feel anything.”

Vernon didn’t interrupt. Only moved, slow and sure, kneeling beside him.

The man swallowed, throat working.

“Last week, during one of the sessions, Mara reached out and held my hand. Just... sat beside me and held it. And I felt something. Not much. But it was real.”

He looked up then—at Mara, not at Vernon. She gave him the faintest smile. Then dropped her gaze.

“And now I’m terrified,” he whispered. “Because if that was the first crack... I don’t know what’s under it.”

You felt that — deep. Raw. Not dramatic. Just honest.

Vernon didn’t speak right away. Just reached for the man’s hand, cradled it gently, and placed his other palm over the man’s chest.

“Sometimes numbness is how the body remembers when the mind isn’t ready to,” he said.

The man exhaled — long and low. Like something had been waiting to be let go for years.

They spoke in turn, quiet confessions given like offerings. With each admission, Vernon moved. Always slow. Always deliberate. A hand resting gently over a closed fist. Fingers curling lightly around a wrist until it steadied. A forehead bent close to meet theirs — not an invasion, not dominance, just presence. You watched how he gave them the weight of his attention, and more than that — the weight of his body. Not looming, but grounding. He made his own calm a container, and they leaned into it like it was the only truth they trusted.

Silence followed. No one else spoke for a long time.

Then — finally — Mara shifted.

She’d been still so long you weren’t sure she would speak at all.

But then she looked across the small circle — not at Vernon, but at you.

“I’ve been scared to say anything,” she whispered. “Because when I say it, I feel like I give it shape. And I don’t know if I’m ready to have it be real again.”

You leaned forward slightly — instinct, not performance.

Mara kept her eyes on you.

“It’s like the pain lives better in pieces,” she said. “I can control it that way. But when I’m here... it comes back whole.”

She looked down at her hands. “And it’s so loud. I don’t know how to quiet it on my own.”

Vernon moved to her without hesitation. No flourish. Just presence.

He knelt in front of her, slow and sure, and cupped the side of her neck with one hand — his thumb resting lightly under the angle of her jaw where her pulse fluttered.

“You don’t have to quiet it,” he said. “You just have to let it speak. And trust that you’ll still be here after it does.”

She nodded — but her hands were shaking.

His other hand pressed to the centre of her chest — gentle but certain, palm flat over her sternum. She made a sound then — not quite a sob, not quite relief. He didn’t shush her. Just stayed like that, anchoring her to her own ribs, her own heartbeat.

You felt it: the way touch was used not for comfort, not exactly — but as tether. Witness. Permission.

Mara closed her eyes.

And then — without a word — the older woman leaned forward and reached for her hand.

Not Vernon.

Someone else.

Someone ordinary.

Mara took it.

And for a long minute, that was all.

No theory. No closure.

Just a hand, a breath, a group that didn’t flinch when the worst of you stayed.

You stayed quiet.

Not because you didn’t have anything to say.

But because for the first time, it felt like there was nothing that needed saying more than this.

The group dispersed slowly.

No closing words. No chants or claps or parting wisdom. Just quiet shifts and slow goodbyes. Some lingered. Others moved like they didn’t want to break the silence that had held them. Vernon didn’t direct them. He just stayed seated, hands resting lightly on his knees, until the last of them had gone.

Except you.

You hadn’t meant to stay behind. But your body didn’t rise with the others. And when his eyes finally lifted to meet yours, you didn’t look away.

He stood first, stretching his back with a soft exhale. The lamp between you hissed faintly, its wick guttering.

“Thank you for being there,” he said as the quiet settled. “It changes how you see things, doesn’t it?”

You nodded slowly. “It’s different up close. Not just what you do — but how they respond to it.”

“Do you feel like you understand it now?”

“I don’t know.” You looked down at your hands, then back to him. “It felt like something beyond understanding.”

He nodded. Not indulgent. Just thoughtful. “It’s not about knowing what to say. It’s about staying when there’s nothing left to say.”

You rose then. one hand catching lightly on the back of the chair before you let it go. “It wasn’t therapy.”

“No,” he agreed. “It wasn’t.”

You paused, “But it reached them. I saw that.”

He studied you for a beat — not intense, just open. “Sometimes the body hears what the mind still filters out. Especially when someone meets it where it lives.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Touch.”

His gaze didn’t shift. “Presence.”

Something in you stirred then — not quite discomfort. Not quite curiosity. A seed of something you hadn’t expected to carry home with you.

“I’m finishing my check-ins tomorrow morning,” you said. “Then heading back.”

He nodded. “You’ve given a lot this weekend.”

You started to respond — but he stepped closer, his voice quieter now. Less for explanation, more invitation.

“What made you choose this?” he asked. “Therapy. Helping people carry the worst parts of themselves.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What made you?”

His mouth curved, but not into a smile. “I think we both know it’s rarely a clean answer.”

You waited.

He glanced toward the dark beyond the trees. “Because what happened to me is still happening. Different names. Different places. But the same shape.”

Then his gaze returned to you — steady, unflinching.

“And most people don’t want to see it. Or they look too late.”

A pause.

“So I stay where I’m needed. For the ones who do see it. The ones who’ve lived it — or are still living in the shadow of it.”

He didn’t say it with weight or drama. Just certainty. Like it was the only thing that had ever made sense.

You didn’t reply straight away.

He went on, softer now. “You’re good at what you do. Present. Observant. Careful. But there’s something under it. Something you haven’t brought into the room yet.”

You stilled.

“I don’t mean a memory,” he added. “I mean whatever it is that keeps you standing just outside your own line of sight.”

You studied him — not defensively, but with a kind of wary respect. He wasn’t trying to unpick you. Just... holding up a mirror you hadn’t asked for.

He waited a beat, then added — quieter still:

“If you’re open to it, I’d like to show you the other side. Let the process meet you, for once.”

You didn’t answer right away.

He didn’t push.

“You don’t have to decide now,” he said. “Just think about it.”

You looked down briefly, a small crease forming between your brows.

You met his eyes again. “You think there’s something I’ve been avoiding.”

“I think there’s something you’ve been carrying alone.”

That landed.

You studied him — the way his expression didn’t shift even when he said it. Like he’d seen it already and didn’t need you to admit it aloud.

“Is that what this is?” you asked, voice low. “Some long play to get everyone to open up?”

A corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile. “Not everyone.”

You didn’t smile either. But something in you softened.

“I’ll think about it.”

He nodded. “That’s all I ask.”

You turned to go — and then, as you reached the path back toward the house, his voice came again, almost an afterthought.

“Rebecca.”

You glanced back.

“I’m glad you came back.”

You didn’t say it, but you were too. Though the reasons why were less certain now.

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ladysif-writes-chaos · 3 months ago

Text

BookTok Made Me Do It

•Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus Size OFC

•Rating: Explicit

•Tags: Alternate Universe, Modern Day Bucky, Motorcycle Driver Bucky, Plus Size OFC, She Thick & Curvy, Body Dysmorphia, Weight Issues, BookTok, Bestie Darcy, Sam Wilson Has Seen Somethings, Smooth Talker Bucky, Sex, Flirting.

Summary:

In the heart of steamy Savannah, Georgia, tucked between Spanish moss and cobblestone streets, sits Bean There, Read That-a chaotic little bookstore-slash-coffee-shop serving up caffeine, filth, and every BookTok rec under the sun.

Madison is the unapologetically plus-size, smut-loving owner with a dirty mind and a soft spot for morally gray book boyfriends. Her bestie and chaos partner, Darcy Lewis, helps keep the espresso shots flowing and the spice levels dangerously high.

But nothing could've prepared Madison for the day her walking wet dream strolled through the door in the form of Bucky Barnes-gruff, inked, and sin wrapped in leather. One motorcycle ride later, and Savannah's heat has nothing on them.

Author Note

Look, I've got one WIP. Possibly another, depending on whether caffeine or chaos wins today. I'm also writing an original novel like some kind of overachieving lunatic, working full-time, Mom-ing full-time (yes, it's a verb now), and casually battling insomnia like it's an Olympic sport. And yet... my brain, that twisted little goblin, keeps throwing one-shot ideas at me like it's trying to win a prize I didn't sign up for. Do I know how I'm still functioning? No. Do I know what day it is? Also no. But am I writing anyway? Absolutely. Send snacks.

P.S Also send caffeine!

Savannah, Georgia, is a city that breathes history and charm, where cobblestone streets wind through a landscape draped in Spanish moss. The live oaks stretch their gnarled branches over the walkways, their silvery-green canopies filtering the golden sunlight. Their leaves rustle with a soft, whispering hush in the warm breeze, which carries the mingling scents of blooming jasmine, fresh earth after an afternoon rain, and the briny tang of the nearby river.

Historic buildings with sun-faded facades and ornate wrought-iron balconies stand like silent storytellers, their walls softened by time, their windows reflecting the ever-shifting light of day. Gas lanterns flicker on as dusk settles, their glow casting long shadows across the uneven brick sidewalks. The air feels thick with stories—some whispered through the creak of an old porch swing, others echoing in the hidden courtyards behind ivy-covered gates.

Tucked along one of Savannah's quieter side streets, between a weathered brick coffee shop and a row of historic townhouses, sits a small bookstore with a name as charming as its atmosphere—Bean There, Read That. A faded green-and-gold awning shades the paned front windows, which are crowded with artfully stacked books, handwritten recommendations on notecards, and a small chalkboard announcing the latest arrivals. A brass bell jingles softly as the door swings open, ushering visitors into a world where the scent of aged paper and freshly brewed coffee wraps around them like a well-loved quilt.

This bookstore is a BookTok lover's dream, the kind of place where readers can get lost in every trope imaginable. Dark romance, enemies-to-lovers, morally gray heroes, spicy fantasies, cozy romances—the shelves are overflowing with every genre that has dominated social media feeds. A section near the entrance is dedicated entirely to trending books, their covers displayed with small sticky notes bearing staff recommendations and excited exclamation points. Posters of H.D. Carlton, Nevesa Allen, Penelope Douglas, Colleen Hoover, and other BookTok-favorite authors adorn the walls, their quotes scrawled in looping script beneath their images. A neon sign near the register reads, "One more chapter..." casting a warm glow over the counter where stacks of pre-orders wait for eager readers.

The bookstore's walls are lined with towering wooden shelves that bow slightly under the weight of their treasures. Hardcovers with cracked spines and dog-eared paperbacks sit alongside glossy new editions, their pages whispering with the promise of adventure. A rolling ladder, its rungs worn smooth, glides along the highest shelves, inviting readers to explore hidden gems tucked into forgotten corners. The honey-colored hardwood floors creak gently underfoot, a soothing counterpoint to the distant strains of jazz playing from an old record player near the counter.

A wide archway on the right leads into the coffee shop, a warm, inviting space where the hiss of the espresso machine blends with the rhythmic clinking of ceramic mugs. The walls here are exposed brick, rich and dark with age, adorned with framed literary quotes and watercolor paintings of Savannah's famous squares. The seating is eclectic—mismatched chairs and cozy booths, with a long window seat running beneath the wide front window where customers linger over their lattes, watching the world drift by outside. The air is thick with the scent of roasted coffee beans, cinnamon, and vanilla, punctuated now and then by the buttery sweetness of fresh-baked scones.

The two spaces flow seamlessly together, creating a sanctuary where time slows just enough for stories to unfold—whether on the page or in quiet conversations over steaming cups of coffee. Some customers come for the books and stay for the cappuccino; others arrive for the coffee but find themselves drawn into the aisles, trailing fingertips over well-worn spines as if searching for a story that's been waiting just for them. Here, amid the ink and steam, strangers become friends, words become memories, and for a little while, the world outside feels a little softer, a little slower—just enough for the magic to take hold.

It was a beautiful morning, the air thick with humidity, the kind that settled on your skin like a second layer of clothing. The air clung, heavy and wet, turning every breath into something you had to work for. As you stepped outside, it felt like slicing through a wall of heat—each step a deliberate push through the dense atmosphere. The world shimmered faintly under its weight, the pavement already warm beneath your feet, and it wasn't even 8:30 yet, the scent of damp earth and blooming magnolia hanging in the air like perfume. Even the breeze, when it stirred, was no relief—just a reminder that the heat could move, too.

Standing behind the scuffed wooden counter of Bean There, Read That, Madison's fingers flew over the register, efficiently ringing up a customer's latest haul. Her ombre red hair—shifting from deep auburn to fiery copper—was haphazardly twisted up, secured with a skull-hand clip, looking like something straight out of a gothic fairy tale. A few wild curls had escaped, framing her round, freckled face as she shifted her weight. The hem of her knotted T-shirt—boldly declaring, "Morally Gray Is My Favorite Color"—rode up slightly over the waistband of her worn-in denim shorts, the fabric soft and well-loved from years of wear.

The familiar beep of the scanner blended into the comforting soundtrack of the store—the occasional rustle of a turned page, the murmur of conversation from the café side, and the soft hiss of Darcy expertly steaming milk for a latte.

"Alright," Madison said, flashing her bright, bracey smile as she slid a receipt across the counter. "You're leaving here with some serious heartbreak and highly questionable moral choices, but in the best way." She tapped the top book in the customer's stack—a dark romance with a moody, black-and-red cover—her grin turning downright wicked. "This one? Total emotional devastation. Have snacks ready. And maybe a support group."

Before the customer could respond, a frozen coffee drink—towering with an absurd amount of whipped cream and caramel drizzle—landed on the counter.

"Did she bully you into that one?" Darcy asked, raising an eyebrow at the customer before glancing pointedly at Madison. "She did, didn't she?"

Darcy Lewis—Madison's best friend, her other half, her partner in crime, her soulmate in everything but romance, and, most importantly, her business partner.

They had met in middle school, drawn together like two characters from wildly different genres thrown into the same book club. Madison had been quirky, quiet, and reserved—the kind of girl who got lost in fantasy worlds and always had ink smudges on her fingers from scribbling notes in the margins of her books. Darcy, on the other hand, had been loud, outgoing, and unapologetically blunt—the type who talked too much in class but always had the best book recommendations.

Somehow, they had balanced each other perfectly. Madison thrived in chaos—stacks of books, half-finished projects, and an endless supply of Post-it notes filled with story ideas. Darcy kept things moving, bringing order to the madness with an easy confidence and the kind of attitude that made people believe she had everything under control, even when she didn't.

Now, years later, their dynamic remained the same. Madison sold people on stories; Darcy kept them caffeinated enough to stay up all night reading them. Together, they had turned Bean There, Read That into something more than a bookstore and café—it was a haven for book lovers, a caffeine-fueled sanctuary where mismatched souls found the stories they didn't know they needed.

Madison rolled her eyes, grabbing another book from the pile and slipping it into a tote bag. "Ignore her. I do."

"Gah!" Darcy clutched her chest dramatically. "That is just rude. Why do I put up with you?"

Madison smirked, handing the now-full tote to the blonde on the other side of the counter. "Because nobody else will put up with either of us?"

Darcy narrowed her eyes. "Touché." With a playful glare, she turned and sauntered back toward the café.

The customer—a sweet girl named Abby—laughed, her hands curling around the tote bag's sturdy handles. The bag, printed with the phrase 'Just One More Chapter,' sagged slightly under the weight of her new bookish obsession.

"I'm so excited to read these!" Abby gushed. "I just came across BookTok last night and was immediately intrigued."

Madison adjusted her thick-framed glasses, absently pushing them back up where they had started to slide. "Let me know if you enjoy them," she said, nodding toward the bag. "I've got some new books coming in later this week, you might like if those turn out to be your thing."

Abby's face lit up. "Oh my gosh, really? I totally will!"

Madison grabbed a Bean There, Read That bookmark—this one sporting a doodled stack of books with tiny stars around it—and tucked it into the tote. Enjoy your books! And if that plot twist ruins your life, come back and yell about it with me."

Abby practically bounced out of the store, her grin wide and her arms loaded with stories, and Madison leaned against the counter, exhaling happily as she took in her surroundings.

Books were stacked in precarious, to-be-shelved piles, some dangerously close to toppling. Handwritten staff picks—taped to the shelves with colorful washi tape—were scrawled with passionate notes and doodled hearts, exclamation points, and tiny warnings like "Wrecked me in the best way."

A nearby section, labeled BookTok's Worst (Best) Influence, boasted everything from spicy romantasies to grumpy/sunshine tropes and forbidden love stories so intense they made people clutch their chests dramatically in the aisles. The walls were decorated with posters of BookTok darlings—H.D. Carlton, Penelope Douglas, Neveesa Allen—some of which had cheeky annotations scrawled in Sharpie. Someone—probably Madison herself—had added a sticky note to one cover that read, "This man is RUINING LIVES and I am HERE FOR IT."

At that moment, a low thud echoed from the fairy section, followed by the sound of something clattering to the floor.

"Kyle!" Madison called without even turning around.

From behind a nearby bookshelf emerged the store's resident menace—Kyle, a stocky orange tabby with a white chin, a kinked tail, and the deeply chaotic energy only orange cats possess. His fur was a perpetual mess of static, and his wide, unbothered eyes made it very clear he had no regrets. He hopped onto the counter with a dramatic flick of his tail, narrowly missing a stack of bookmarks.

"He knocked over the Meredith Gentry series again," Darcy called from the café. "Tell your furry son to get a job!"

Kyle blinked slowly, then began aggressively licking his paw like the very picture of innocence.

"Don't let the toe beans fool you," Madison muttered, scratching him under the chin. "He's a menace."

Kyle purred loud enough to vibrate the counter.

The orange terror leapt down again, making a beeline for his cat tree tucked beside the romance section. He clambered up the tower like he owned the place—because, honestly, he did—and then flopped dramatically in the cat bed nestled in the sun-warmed front window. Within seconds, he was sprawled out on his back, paws in the air, basking in a sunbeam like he hadn't just terrorized a customer ten minutes ago for trying to pet him uninvited.

From the café, Darcy muttered something about abandoned coffee cups, and Madison smirked, grabbing her own iced coffee before turning back to the register, already scanning the store for her next victim.

Someone in this shop needed to be lovingly bullied into their next bookish obsession.

And Madison was just the woman for the job.

Madison trudged down the sidewalk, the brown paper takeout bag in her arms rapidly soaking through with sweat from her palms. The air was a sauna, thick and muggy, and every step felt like wading through hot syrup. Her thighs stuck together uncomfortably, and her denim shorts were riding up in places she definitely didn't appreciate. Her T-shirt—normally loose and soft—now clung to her skin like shrink-wrap, damp and suffocating. She felt like a busted can of biscuits, about to pop at the seams. Her face was flushed, a bright red she could feel without needing a mirror, and sweat was collecting at the small of her back in a way that made her want to scream. Not to mention her damn glasses were fogged up. It was one of those days where every inch of your skin just aches from being too hot.

As she turned the corner toward the bookstore, she barely registered the low purr of an engine until it rumbled to a stop right in front of her. A motorcycle. Big. Loud. Sinfully sleek. The guy riding it pulled up with effortless confidence, boots hitting the pavement as he kicked down the stand. Madison's steps slowed. Her eyes widened.

She couldn't see his face thanks to the matte black helmet, but everything else? Lord help her. His black T-shirt was plastered to his chest like a second skin, showing off a body sculpted like he lived in the gym—or maybe just wrestled bears for fun. His jeans were criminally tight, the kind that made her forget how to blink. They clung to him like they were made specifically for him, tracing every muscle, and it was so distracting that she almost forgot to breathe. His motorcycle boots were scuffed in a way that suggested they'd actually seen the road—and that was somehow even hotter. She caught the flash of woven and beaded bracelets on both wrists, and something about that tough guy with artsy wrist candy made her brain short-circuit. He looked like one of those guys she followed on TikTok just to thirst over in silence at 2 a.m.

And then he pulled off the helmet.

Madison tripped over absolutely nothing.

Because underneath that helmet was a face so stupidly beautiful it should've come with a warning label—thick dark hair, messy but perfectly styled, long on top with a fade on the sides. A lightly stubbled jaw that made her heart stutter, and the prettiest damn blue eyes she'd ever seen, framed by lashes that looked like they belonged on a model, not a guy who probably spent half his time getting mud on his boots. She nearly dropped their lunch right there on the sidewalk.

For a split second, all she could do was stare, wide-eyed, her entire brain unable to process anything other than the fact that this man was real and not a figment of her overheated imagination. The heat of the day felt miles away for just a moment, as if the world had narrowed down to just him, the kind of gorgeous that made her feel dizzy.

Bucky swung his leg off the bike, the engine's hum dying down as he pulled the helmet off with one hand and ran the other through his sweat-damp hair. The air hit him like a slap, thick with Southern heat—stifling and relentless, wrapping around him like a damn wet blanket that didn't let go. His shirt clung to his back, sticky and uncomfortable, and even his jeans felt like they were suffocating him. He should've worn something lighter, but honestly? He hadn't exactly planned on sticking around long enough to feel like he was baking in an oven.

He'd been down here a week, visiting his college best friend Sam Wilson with his other lifelong best friend, Steve Rogers.

Steve and Bucky had met Sam one night at a college party—Steve and Sam hit it off right away. Bucky and Sam? That had taken a bit longer. But now the three of them were thick as thieves.

Somehow, Sam had managed to convince them to spend their summer in Savannah fuckin' Georgia. Bucky had been all set to hop back on the bike, head out of this sticky, suffocating town, and get back to somewhere cooler—preferably with fewer bugs.

And then he saw her.

She was coming down the sidewalk, arms full of takeout, looking like every step was a battle she was losing. The way she moved—like the very air was conspiring against her—had Bucky's attention locked on her. Her face was red, hair clinging to her forehead in damp curls, her thighs sticking together in the heat just like his. Her glasses, perched on her nose, were fogged up from the humidity, making her squint slightly as she tried to navigate through the oppressive warmth. But despite the obvious discomfort, there was something endearing about the chaos surrounding her. Her T-shirt was clinging to her in all the right ways, the fabric stretching slightly as it molded to her curves, her shorts—well, they'd definitely seen better days. She looked like she might throw the food in frustration or maybe just break down and cry. Or both.

Then she looked up. Saw him. And stumbled—like walking had suddenly become an Olympic event she hadn't been prepared for.

Bucky blinked, half a smile tugging at his lips as her bag nearly tumbled from her arms. He stepped forward, instinctively ready to catch it or her—if either one fell.

He couldn't help it. He was already stepping in her direction, the rush of the moment pulling him forward without thinking. If anything was going to hit the ground, he was damn sure it wasn't going to be her lunch.

"You okay?" His voice was low, rough from the heat, but with an undercurrent of concern. He shifted his weight, standing just a little too close—but the heat in the air, combined with her flustered expression, made the distance feel a lot smaller than it probably should've been.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, like she'd just seen a ghost—or maybe something even better. For a second, Bucky wondered if he was the one who looked out of place. Maybe she was seeing something about him that he didn't even understand.

Her face flushed deeper, a mix of embarrassment and surprise, and she scrambled to steady the bag, a flicker of a smile pulling at the corner of her lips. It was small, hesitant, but it was there, like she was trying to regain her footing—and not just physically. It was a look of intrigue, maybe even curiosity.

In that moment, Bucky couldn't help but think that maybe—just maybe—this stop in town wasn't going to be as quick and forgettable as he had planned.

Madison opened her mouth, but no actual words came out. Just a soft, breathy sound—maybe the beginning of a "hi" or an "I'm good," but it completely derailed somewhere between her foggy glasses and his very distracting face.

"I—uh—you—yeah, I mean—I'm fine," she finally managed, voice high and shaky as she fumbled the bag in her arms again.

Bucky bit back a grin, watching her scramble to string together a sentence like it was the hardest thing she'd done all day. He thought it was kind of adorable—how her cheeks went pinker the more she tried to act casual. Definitely more endearing than annoying. And considering the number of people he dealt with who couldn't shut up, he found her flustered honesty kind of refreshing.

"Let me get the door for you," he said, stepping around her with ease and pulling it open like it was no big deal.

Madison blinked and followed, feet moving on autopilot as she stepped gratefully into the shop's blissfully cool interior. The whoosh of air conditioning hit her like salvation, and she silently sent up a thank-you prayer to Willis Carrier, the patron saint of people who sweat through their clothes by noon.

She barely had time to adjust to the drop in temperature before a familiar voice called out from the back.

"MADDY! Please tell me that's food and not your ghost 'cause I swear, I was about five minutes away from going out there and scraping your melted remains off the sidewalk!"

Darcy came barreling out from behind the counter, her dark curls piled on top of her head, eyeliner still sharp despite the heat, and a wide grin on her face—until her eyes landed on the man behind Madison.

She skidded to a stop, blinking once, then twice. Slowly, her gaze traveled from his scuffed boots to his jeans to the black T-shirt still clinging to his broad chest. Then up to the helmet tucked under his arm, and finally to his face.

"Oh my god," she breathed. "Did I die? Did I actually pass out from hunger, and now I'm in heaven? Because if you tell me that man came with the food, I'm gonna propose."

Madison groaned softly, wanting the floor to swallow her whole.

Bucky? He just chuckled.

"I will literally throw this bag at you," Madison muttered under her breath as she shoved the takeout into Darcy's hands, avoiding eye contact like it might spontaneously combust.

Darcy, completely unbothered, cradled the bag like it was a newborn. "Worth it."

Bucky leaned against the nearest bookshelf, his helmet tucked under one arm, watching the whole exchange with a spark of amusement in his eyes. The air conditioning was helping, but the flush on Madison's cheeks wasn't going anywhere.

Suddenly, from the far corner of the shop, there was a low hiss. Madison's gaze snapped to the side as Kyle, the shop's orange tabby cat, slinked out from his perch by the window, his amber eyes locked on Bucky.

The cat's ears flattened, and he let out another warning growl, tail flicking in agitation.

Darcy, noticing the commotion, grinned. "Don't mind Kyle. He's just making sure you're not here to steal his girl."

Bucky raised an eyebrow, looking down at the cat, who was now crouched low and giving him a menacing stare.

"I don't mind a little competition," Bucky said with a smirk, watching Kyle warily. "I've got plenty of fight in me."

Kyle responded with an even louder hiss, his back arching slightly.

Madison, half-annoyed and half-amused, knelt down and gave Kyle a soft pat on the head. "Relax, buddy. You're the only man here, okay?"

Kyle gave a disgruntled meow, but he wasn't convinced. He let out a final growl at Bucky before wandering off to find a spot on the counter, eyeing him suspiciously the entire time.

"Looks like he's not a fan of the competition," Madison said with a smile, standing back up.

Bucky chuckled, watching Kyle carefully. "I'll win him over. Maybe."

Darcy was still grinning like the cat was the least of her concerns. "Kyle's a little protective of Maddy. But don't worry, she's got a soft spot for all things fluffy—except you, apparently."

Bucky shook his head, clearly entertained. "Guess I've got to start with the cat first, huh?"

Madison sighed, pushing the takeout bag into Darcy's hands once more. "I hate both of you."

"Aw, don't be like that, Maddy. You're the one who walked in with him like the opening scene of a romance novel. I'm just the best friend who's legally required to say inappropriate things when that happens."

Bucky chuckled under his breath. "She's funny."

"She's relentless," Madison corrected, peeking out from behind her hands. She looked at him, finally meeting his eyes again. "Thanks...for the door. And for not letting me faceplant on Main Street."

"Anytime," he said, voice still carrying that easy, gravelly tone. "You looked like you had your hands full."

"I looked like a heatstroke victim," she muttered.

He shrugged. "You still looked cute."

That made her brain stop working again. Full system reboot. Darcy outright choked on her bite of food.

Madison blinked. "I—uh—thanks?"

He nodded, then looked toward the front door, like he should probably be leaving—but didn't actually move. "This place got coffee?"

Darcy, ever the opportunist, grinned. "Best in town. And since I'm on break—Mads, why don't you show him where the good stuff is?"

Madison gave her a look that said I will kill you in your sleep, but Darcy just hummed and took another bite of her sandwich like the conversation was over.

And just like that, Madison found herself walking toward the coffee bar with Bucky trailing behind her, his presence warm even in the cool air.

"You sure you're not a mirage?" she asked without thinking.

Bucky chuckled. "You sure you're not still overheating?"

She smiled despite herself.

Maybe Steve convincing him to stay another week wasn't such a terrible thing after all.

Madison busied herself behind the counter, pretending the espresso machine required her full attention even though she could work it half-asleep. Her hands moved automatically—grabbing a cup, pressing buttons, avoiding eye contact like it was a weapon. Bucky, of course, leaned casually on the counter, like he had all the time in the world and was fully aware of the way he was throwing her off.

"Y'know," he said, voice low and teasing, "if I knew small towns came with cute girls and decent coffee, I might've started showing up sooner."

She paused, her fingers tightening slightly around the cup. "You don't even know if it's decent yet."

He smiled, slow and deliberate. "Don't need to. You're making it. I trust you."

She finally looked up at him, eyes narrowed in amused suspicion. "Do you flirt with everyone who nearly trips in front of you?"

"Nah." He tilted his head, that smirk not letting up. "Just the ones who look like they walked straight out of my daydreams."

Madison scoffed, trying not to let her smile show. It was a losing battle. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe. But I'm also very hot, according to you."

Her jaw dropped. "I did not say that."

"You didn't have to." He leaned a little closer across the counter, his voice dropping. "It was written all over your face when you looked up at me."

Madison's cheeks went nuclear. "That was heatstroke."

"Oh yeah? Guess I should check your pulse, then."

She turned away before he could see her laugh, grabbing the cup and pouring the coffee like it was suddenly urgent. "You're awful."

"I've been called worse." He straightened up just enough to give her space, but not before brushing his knuckles lightly along the counter, like he was fighting the urge to reach for her. "But I like the way you say it."

Madison handed him the coffee, fingers brushing his for the briefest second. "Careful. That's hot."

"So am I, apparently."

She almost dropped the cup.

From across the store, Darcy let out a not-so-subtle cackle.

Bucky took a slow sip, blue eyes watching her over the rim of the cup. "Mmm. Not bad."

"Told you," Madison mumbled, folding her arms to keep her hands from fidgeting.

"I'll be back for another," he said, straightening up, still holding her gaze. "And maybe lunch, if you're on the menu."

Her mouth fell open.

He winked, gave a lazy salute with his coffee cup, and headed for the door—boots thudding softly against the wood floor, motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm like he was walking off a movie set.

Darcy wandered over, grinning like a lunatic. "So...when's the wedding?"

Madison stared at the door, still slightly dazed. "I hate you."

"Sure you do, babe. But you love me more."

The sun had finally dipped below the treeline, giving the sticky heat of the day a slight reprieve. Cicadas still hummed outside, but the air felt a little less like soup as Bucky flopped down onto the worn, but surprisingly comfortable couch in Sam's living room. A box fan buzzed lazily in the corner, barely circulating the lukewarm air. The faint scent of grilled chicken and charcoal still lingered from earlier, clinging to the curtains like a memory.

Steve stood in the kitchen doorway, nursing a bottle of beer, his free hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans. He looked relaxed—sun-kissed and content in that way only Steve Rogers ever seemed to manage.

Across the room, Sam was locked in battle with the ancient TV remote—the kind that only worked if you sweet-talked it and held the batteries in just right. His tongue poked out slightly in concentration, thumb jabbing the buttons like it owed him money.

Bucky cracked open a cold bottle of water, the condensation slick in his hand. "Ran into someone interesting today."

Steve glanced over with a knowing grin. "Oh yeah? That why you came back later than you said you would?"

"Yeah, I stopped in that bookstore café—"

"Bean There, Read That?" Sam cut in without looking up.

Bucky raised a brow. "You spying on me now?"

"Nah," Sam said, giving the remote a final, triumphant press. The TV beeped in surrender. "I just know the place. That little indie shop with the espresso bar in the corner and the plants hanging from the ceiling, right?"

"Yeah," Bucky said, kicking his boots up onto the scuffed coffee table. "She works there. Walked right into her—well, almost. She was two seconds from face-planting with a bag of takeout."

Steve chuckled and shook his head. "And let me guess—you turned on the full Barnes charm."

Bucky shrugged like it was nothing, but the way his lips curved said otherwise. "Maybe just a little."

Sam snorted. "Man, you better be careful messing with those BookTok girls."

Bucky blinked. "Book-what now?"

"You know—TikTok, but for readers," Sam explained, flopping into the armchair. "Morally gray romance junkies. They'll flirt with you, write a whole spicy novella about it in their heads, and then ghost you 'cause fictional you broke their imaginary heart."

Steve burst out laughing, nearly choking on his drink.

"I'm serious!" Sam grinned. "They're dangerous. One wrong smirk, and boom—you're the villain in their slow-burn enemies-to-lovers arc."

Bucky looked amused, leaning back like he was settling in for the show. "She didn't seem like the TikTok type."

"They never do," Sam said with a knowing nod, like a man who'd seen things. "Next thing you know, someone's turned you into a broody vampire and tagged you in a thread called 'the man who ruined me and also my credit score.'"

Bucky snorted, clearly entertained. "Sounds intense."

"They're also kinda kinky," Sam added casually, reaching for his own drink.

Bucky perked up. "I could get with that."

Steve groaned dramatically. "He's doomed."

Sam pointed the remote at Bucky like it was a weapon. "Just don't go acting like a walking trope, Barnes. These girls can sniff out emotionally unavailable men like bloodhounds."

"I'm plenty available," Bucky said, overly confident.

"Emotionally?" Steve raised a brow.

Bucky hesitated, then tilted his head. "...I'm workin' on it."

Sam snorted into his drink. "Godspeed, man. Godspeed."

Steve shook his head, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth as he lifted his beer. Just before taking a sip, he paused and glanced at Sam.

"Wait—how do you know BookTok girls are kinky?"

Sam didn't miss a beat. "Because I read, Rogers. And because I made the mistake of dating one once. Let's just say... she owned more rope than a rock-climbing gym."

Steve choked on his beer mid-sip, coughing and laughing as Bucky grinned wide.

"I told you," Sam said, smug. "Dangerous."

The weeks went by in a blur of humidity and heavy summer air, but Bucky's visits to Bean There, Read That became a regular part of his routine. He found himself at the small bookstore-café nearly every afternoon, slipping in with a casual grin, like he was a man on a mission. And, in a way, he was—his mission? Madison.

He'd never been much of a reader. Hell, if you asked him, he'd probably tell you the last book he'd finished was in middle school. But here he was, buying a coffee every day, then standing at the counter like a damn sponge as Madison went off about books he barely understood, just so he could be close to her.

It was some kind of masochistic charm, how she could speak about a book series like she was giving him a tour of another world. Her hands were always moving, her eyes lighting up as she described characters, plot twists, love triangles he didn't even know existed. He hung on every word. He even bought a couple of books based on her recommendations—none of them had gotten read yet, but that wasn't the point.

He just wanted to see that spark in her eyes when she spoke. Wanted to hear her voice, even if he didn't know the difference between Grishaverse and Throne of Glass. He'd even started pretending he understood all the references, nodding along and trying to sound like he knew what the hell she was talking about.

That is, until one afternoon when she caught him.

Madison had just finished talking about The Shadow and Bone series for what felt like an hour. Bucky had been nodding along, his gaze fixed on her face, watching her animated expressions, but his mind was miles away, completely lost in the pull of her words and the way her lips moved when she talked.

She stopped mid-sentence, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Okay, Barnes," she said, crossing her arms. "I don't think you've heard a word I've said."

Bucky blinked, looking at her like she'd just accused him of murder. "What?"

"I said, you've been standing there like you've heard every word, but you're not even listening, are you?"

His lips curled into a sheepish grin. "I'm listening."

"No, you're not," she challenged, her tone playful but firm. "You're pretending."

He gave an exaggerated sigh, looking defeated. "Alright, you caught me."

Madison raised an eyebrow. "What's your deal, huh? You keep coming in here, asking about books, listening to me ramble, and you don't even read them. Why?"

Bucky leaned against the counter, his hands casually resting on it, a half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he said, his voice softer now, like he was letting her in on a secret.

She leaned forward, arms still crossed, looking skeptical but intrigued. "Try me."

He paused, the air between them thick with something neither of them had quite put into words yet. "You have no idea, do you?" he said quietly, his voice dropping an octave, making the words feel like they carried a weight. "You have no idea how absolutely beautiful you are, how you drive me crazy every damn time I walk through that door."

Madison froze for a second, her breath catching in her throat. She could feel her face heating up, and she quickly looked away, trying to mask her reaction. "That's cheesy," she said, but even she could hear the way her voice wavered.

Bucky's grin widened. "Yeah, maybe. But it's the truth."

Madison swallowed hard, unsure of how to process the sudden shift in the air between them. She wanted to roll her eyes, to dismiss it as just another line, but something in his gaze made her heart skip a beat. And that was dangerous, because she didn't have the time or energy for anything complicated right now.

But Bucky wasn't done.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice again, his eyes locked on hers in a way that made her pulse quicken. "I come in here for the coffee, sure, but I also come in here because I get to see you light up when you talk about the things you love. And that," he said, letting the words settle between them, "that's worth coming back for."

Madison blinked, caught off guard by his honesty. She didn't know what to say at first, so she just shifted awkwardly, letting the silence hang in the air before finally speaking.

"Finally!" Darcy shouted from the back of the store.

Madison's eyes widened, and she realized how close she and Bucky were standing, their faces only inches apart. She quickly took a step back, clearing her throat, but Bucky didn't move, his eyes still locked on hers.

"I have been waiting for this for weeks!" Darcy called as she emerged from the back, holding a tray of pastries like she'd just won a battle. "I mean, I was about to give up hope! You two have been stuck in this endless 'will they, won't they' flirt-fest forever! I was about to just leave and go find you two smooching on the sidewalk."

Bucky and Madison exchanged a look, both of them a little wide-eyed at Darcy's bluntness. But before either of them could react, Darcy was already talking again.

"Listen, Romeo," Darcy said, hands on her hips. "If you're not going to read those books, at least stop acting like you're in the prelude to a rom-com. You've got her wrapped around your finger with all that smooth talk, but I'm done with the games. You want her to notice you for real, Barnes? Here's the thing—at some point, it's time to turn the flirty banter into something else."

Bucky blinked, thrown off for a second by the sudden shift in Darcy's tone, but his smile never fully disappeared. He glanced at Madison, his expression now a little more serious, and she felt the sudden tension between them.

Madison, however, felt a flush creeping up her neck. Darcy was pushing them into uncharted territory. It wasn't that she didn't like the flirting—it was just... well, she wasn't sure where it was headed, and Darcy wasn't giving her any room to breathe.

Darcy was clearly having none of it. She leaned over the counter, glancing between the two of them with a mischievous glint in her eye. "You're both clearly over the whole 'will they, won't they' routine. So how about we cut the crap? I'm tired of waiting for you to make a move, Bucky. You either kiss her already or stop wasting both of our time."

Bucky's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before it returned, sharper, more confident. "I like where your head's at, Darcy. I was just trying to take my time... you know, be a gentleman."

Darcy scoffed, leaning back, crossing her arms. "Gentleman? Bucky, please. The only thing you've been a gentleman about is wasting my time." She turned back to Madison, raising an eyebrow. "You are noticing the difference between banter and the real stuff, right?"

Madison cleared her throat, trying her best to look unaffected by Darcy's bluntness. She could feel Bucky's gaze on her, the tension shifting between them. Darcy was right—she was getting tired of the back and forth, the playful teasing. She was ready for something... more.

Bucky leaned closer, his voice suddenly low, thick with meaning. "Darcy's right. I didn't want to rush it, but hell, I'm done pretending."

Madison's heart skipped a beat. She opened her mouth to say something, but Darcy cut in, winking at her.

"Yeah, yeah, we get it. Bucky Barnes is totally head over heels." Darcy reached into the pastry box, pulled out a cinnamon roll, and took a big bite. "I'll just be over here, trying not to gag on the sweetness. Don't mind me."

Bucky's laugh was deep and genuine as he turned his attention back to Madison. "So, what do you say, Madison? Go out with me. You think you can handle me when I'm not pretending to be some 'bookish' guy who's just here for coffee?"

Madison met his eyes, the playful tension finally breaking as a smile tugged at her lips. "I think you might be more than I can handle, Barnes."

Darcy clapped her hands together. "Finally! The R-rated version. I knew it was in you two."

Madison shot Darcy a playful glare. "You're insufferable."

Darcy gave her a sweet, innocent look. "Oh, I'm just getting started."

Madison stood in front of her full-length mirror, arms crossed tightly over her chest, a deep frown pulling at her lips. She pulled another dress over her head, adjusting the straps as she turned side to side, trying to see it from every angle. The fabric clung awkwardly to her stomach, highlighting every bump she didn't want noticed. Her arms—soft and untoned—felt completely exposed.

"God, I look awful," she muttered, tugging at the hem. The material refused to cooperate.

All she wanted was to be comfortable. Cute and comfortable. Was that too much to ask?

She had a date with Bucky tonight. Tonight. Her stomach fluttered just thinking about it, but one glance at her reflection sent that flutter spiraling into full-blown anxiety. She looked less like a confident woman and more like a sack of potatoes in pastel lace.

"Ugh, this is ridiculous," she groaned, throwing her hands up. "Nothing looks good on me!"

With a frustrated sigh, she yanked the dress off and flung it onto the growing pile on her bed. Her closet loomed like a battleground behind her, hangers askew, clothes draped in chaos. She scanned the racks desperately, already half-dreading her next choice.

"Still struggling, huh?" came a familiar voice.

Madison turned to see Darcy leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place.

"I don't know what to wear!" Madison exclaimed. "I want to look good, but I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard. How am I supposed to balance that when I look like a potato?"

Darcy snorted, stepping inside like she was entering a fashion intervention. "First off, breathe. Second, you are a sexy potato. And third, I wouldn't wear a dress."

Madison paused, one hand still gripping a hanger. She narrowed her eyes. "No dresses? Why not? You know I was thinking about the cute blue one with the lace trim..."

Darcy flopped onto the bed with all the drama of someone who'd seen this meltdown coming. "Not unless you want to flash the entire street when you hop on the back of his bike."

Madison blinked. "Wait—what?"

Darcy tucked her arms behind her head, fully relaxed now. "He rides a 2024 BMW S1KRR. Sleek, all black, probably purrs like a damn panther. He definitely babies that thing. You wear a dress, and one wrong breeze, and bam—instant Marilyn Monroe moment."

Madison stared at her like she'd grown a second head. "How do you know what kind of bike he rides? Are you stalking him or something?"

Darcy shrugged, entirely unbothered. "I have my ways."

Madison blinked again, still processing. She looked down at the heap of clothes on her bed, then back at Darcy, a mixture of shock and suspicion clouding her face. "I hadn't even thought about his bike."

"Exactly." Darcy sat up and grabbed something from the laundry basket on the floor. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed a pair of soft black shorts onto the bed. "These'll work. Comfortable, flattering, and—bonus—you won't flash the neighborhood. Pair it with that white blouse we found at that boutique, the one with the flutter sleeves and the cute neckline?"

Madison picked up the shorts, running her fingers over the fabric. Soft. Easy. She could sit, move, breathe in these. "Okay... yeah. That would be cute."

"Damn right it will be," Darcy said, standing and brushing invisible lint off her leggings like a job well done. "Now that you're sorted, I'm going to grab a bottle of wine and drown my single sorrows in Grey's Anatomy... and possibly the last of the cheesecake."

Madison laughed, the tension in her chest finally easing a little. "You better leave me a bite."

"No promises," Darcy called over her shoulder as she left.

Madison shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips as she turned back to the mirror. She set the shorts on the bed, peeled off the last of her indecision, and stepped into them, tugging them over her lacy white panties. The fabric settled perfectly around her hips—comfortable, but still cute.

Her eyes lifted to her reflection again. Better.

Her mind wandered as she pulled the white blouse from her closet. Bucky. BMW S1KRR. How did he even afford something like that? She knew he had a cool, kind of mysterious vibe—but Darcy seemed to know details that Madison hadn't even thought to ask about.

She slipped the blouse over her head, adjusting the hem as her fingers lightly traced the fluttery sleeves.

As she smoothed the fabric down, she couldn't help but wonder—just how much more did Darcy know about Bucky? And more importantly... what exactly was Madison walking into tonight?

The low, throaty growl of a high-performance engine broke the quiet of the late afternoon as Bucky pulled up to the curb in front of the apartment tucked behind the old brick storefront. The sun caught the sleek lines of his matte-black BMW S1KRR, making the whole thing look like it belonged in a movie—polished, powerful, and just a little dangerous.

He cut the engine and kicked the stand down, pulling off his helmet with a practiced flick of his wrist. His dark hair was tousled beneath it, a few strands falling over his brow as he scanned the familiar building with calm eyes and a restless energy that buzzed just under the surface.

Out on the stoop, Darcy was lounging in a weathered patio chair like she was holding court, one leg slung over the other, sunglasses perched on her nose, and a sweating glass of something suspiciously tropical in hand. She looked entirely too pleased with herself.

"Well, well, look what the alley cat dragged in," she called out, flashing a grin like she'd been waiting all afternoon for this moment. "Dark Knight's here!"

Bucky chuckled, one corner of his mouth tugging into a crooked smile. "Hey, Darcy."

Without missing a beat, she turned and hollered toward the open front door like she was trying to wake the dead. "MADDY! YOUR DARK KNIGHT IS HERE TO WHISK YOU AWAY! HOPE YOU WORE PANTS!"

From inside came a muffled groan. "I hate you."

Darcy raised her glass like it was a trophy. "Love you too, sugarplum!"

A few seconds later, the screen door creaked open, and Madison stepped out onto the porch. Her expression was equal parts unimpressed and faintly amused. She ran her fingers along the edge of her flutter-sleeved white blouse, smoothing the fabric as she moved. The blouse was soft and airy, the kind that fluttered with the breeze, and it tucked neatly into black high-waisted shorts that showed off a generous amount of thigh—enough to turn heads, but still casual enough to say I didn't try too hard, this is just how I look.

Bucky had just started swinging a leg off the bike when he spotted her—and immediately froze mid-motion.

He blinked. Then blinked again. His breath caught somewhere between his lungs and throat, stuck like he'd just been sucker-punched.

Madison descended the porch steps at an easy pace, not trying to be graceful but somehow hitting every note just right. His eyes followed the motion of her scuffed-up Doc Martens, up her strong, tanned legs—thighs that shifted and curved as she walked��past the cinch of her waist and the dip of her neckline. Her lips had a faint shimmer of gloss, her cheeks flushed from the heat or maybe just the attention. The glasses she usually wore were gone, leaving her soft eyes more open, more striking. Her chestnut hair had been French braided into two neat pigtails that trailed down past her shoulders, just messy enough to be cute.

Bucky barely remembered how to move.

"You okay there, Barnes?" Darcy called, clearly enjoying herself. "You look like you just got hit with a two-by-four."

He cleared his throat and straightened up quickly, shutting his mouth before it could hang open any longer. "Uh... yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

Good was generous. He was hanging on by a thread.

Madison reached the bottom step and shot Darcy a dry look, though the twitch at the corner of her lips betrayed her. "You're impossible."

Darcy raised her glass again, beaming. "And you're hot. Go have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

"That leaves a very small list," Madison muttered, shaking her head, but her laugh spilled out anyway—light and warm and addictive.

Bucky stepped forward, offering the spare helmet. Their fingers brushed, a spark of contact that made something low in his stomach flip. Madison hesitated for just a moment before taking it, her gaze flicking to his, something unreadable passing between them.

She pulled the helmet on and fumbled with the straps, her fingers unsure.

Without a word, Bucky turned toward her, gently lifting his hands to fasten the chin strap. His fingers grazed her jaw, and for a moment, everything slowed down—the noise of the street, the heat of the sun, even the sound of their breathing. Just him. Just her. Just this.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice lower than he intended, a little rougher—gravel and velvet.

She looked up at him with a slow, knowing smirk. Pure trouble. "You tell me."

And just like that, Bucky knew one thing for certain—

He was screwed.

Bucky swung a leg back over the bike and got situated, his hands moving over the controls like second nature. Madison stood beside him, helmet secured, fingers flexing at her sides like she was gearing up for a skydive instead of a motorcycle ride.

She hesitated for a second, eyeing the seat behind him like it might bite.

"You good?" Bucky asked, glancing over his shoulder, voice calm and patient. The helmet muffled his words a little, but she heard the smile in them.

"Yeah. I just..." She looked down at her hands, then at his back. "I've never ridden one of these before. I don't really know where to—uh—hold on."

She shifted her weight, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "Also, what if I mess something up? Like, I don't know... shift my weight wrong and tip the whole thing over? Or break something?"

Bucky blinked, then let out a soft laugh—warm, not mocking.

"Madison," he said gently, "This bike can take corners at a hundred miles an hour and not flinch. Trust me—you're not gonna break anything."

She gave him a doubtful look, still hovering uncertainly.

"I promise," he added, voice dropping just a little, steady and sure. "You're safe with me. I won't let anything happen to you or the bike. I've got you."

Her heart did a weird flip at that. I've got you.

He reached back, gently taking her hands in his gloved ones. His touch was firm but careful, guiding her arms around his waist and pressing her palms flat against his stomach. His hands lingered just a second longer than necessary.

"Right here," he said. "Hold on tight when we get moving, but otherwise just relax."

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and swung her leg over the bike, settling in behind him. Her thighs hugged the seat, her knees brushing his hips as she scooted closer. The moment her chest touched his back, Bucky bit down on a curse.

The contact was soft, warm, and far more intimate than he'd prepared for. He could feel the rise and fall of her breath, the slight tremble in her hands as they rested against him. She smelled like coconut shampoo and vanilla lotion, and it was doing dangerous things to his ability to think straight.

"You okay?" he asked, half turning his head.

"Mm-hmm," Madison hummed, even though her heart was hammering like a drum in her chest. "Yeah. I'm good."

He smiled again—more to himself this time—then started the engine.

As the bike rumbled to life, Madison instinctively tightened her grip around his waist. Her helmet brushed the back of his shoulder as the powerful machine lurched forward and melted into a smooth glide down the road.

Bucky couldn't help it—he loved the feel of her holding onto him. The way she molded to his back, her legs snug against his sides, her breath occasionally ghosting over his neck. He told himself he had to focus on the road, but her presence made that nearly impossible.

She was nervous. He could tell. But she trusted him. She held on like she believed he'd keep her safe. And he would. No matter where the night took them.

He revved the engine just enough to make her squeak and bury her face briefly between his shoulder blades—and damn if he didn't grin the whole way to their first stop.

The world blurred as they sliced through the quiet streets of Savannah, the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the sidewalks and casting long shadows that danced beneath the tires. A salty breeze rolled in from the coast, carrying the scent of the ocean, warm pavement, and fresh-cut grass. The air was thick with summer, touched by the rich, old-soul perfume of brick buildings warmed by decades of sun.

Bucky's grip on the handlebars was steady, controlled. The weight of Madison pressed against his back was grounding—comforting in a way he hadn't expected. As they zipped past rows of historic townhouses, their iron railings blooming with ivy and flowers, and oak trees heavy with Spanish moss, he felt like the city was guiding them along its winding path.

Streetlights blinked on one by one, painting the cobblestone roads in a soft amber glow. The bike purred beneath them like it belonged to the rhythm of Savannah itself—smooth, easy, timeless.

Behind him, Madison clung tighter, her arms locked around his waist. Her palms rested against the firm muscles of his stomach, and he felt her breath rise and fall in time with the engine's vibrations. The wind tugged at her hair where it peeked out beneath her helmet, strands fluttering like streamers. The breeze was cool, but her body against his was warm—too warm—and the contrast made his skin hum with awareness.

She shifted slightly, trying to find her balance. The movement pressed her thighs closer around him, her knees brushing against his hips. Every dip and lean of the bike molded them together, until the space between them barely existed. Her chest was flush against his back, her breath soft and quick, and he could feel her pulse thudding through her fingers.

They passed an old brick pub with wide windows, laughter and music spilling out into the night air. Strings of lights glowed overhead, and people on patios looked up as they sped past. A moment later, they cruised by a row of art galleries—windows glowing with soft lamplight, paintings gleaming through the glass like secrets waiting to be discovered.

Savannah held a kind of quiet magic this time of day. It was calm but alive, humming just beneath the surface. Like something was always about to happen.

Madison swallowed hard, her thoughts racing almost as fast as they were. But beneath it all was peace—real, solid peace. She hadn't expected to find that with a helmet on her head and her arms wrapped around someone like Bucky Barnes, but here she was. It felt a little like flying. A little like falling. And nothing like fear.

Bucky leaned into a curve, and she moved with him, instinct kicking in. He shifted like the bike was an extension of him, fluid and sure, and she couldn't help but marvel at how natural it looked. He didn't fight the road—he danced with it. She could feel the power in his body, the quiet control in his posture, and the care in the way he kept her steady.

Her heart thudded harder. There was something wild about him, something untouchable—but also something deeply steady. The way he handled the machine, the way he let her be close—it made her feel like maybe they weren't so different after all. Maybe he was just as tightly coiled inside as she was.

They veered onto a side street, quieter than the rest. Old Victorian houses lined the road, their wraparound porches lit with porch lights and flickering lanterns. The trees above formed a soft canopy, branches whispering to each other in the breeze. Even the crickets seemed to hush as they passed.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, catching her eyes through his visor. There was a spark there—teasing, maybe, or something deeper. It made her breath catch. He revved the engine slightly, a playful jolt that sent the bike forward and Madison closer, her chin brushing between his shoulder blades.

She laughed, quick and breathless, and though the wind swallowed the sound, he felt it. And he smiled.

"Hold on tight," he called, voice muffled but clear. There was something in the way he said it—like it meant more than just the ride.

She tightened her grip, pressing close. Her body molded perfectly to his, and as they sped forward, the lights and sounds of the city melting behind them, she stopped trying to hold herself apart.

The buildings blurred into streaks of color. The trees arched above them like a tunnel. The wind roared past her ears and kissed her skin. Everything she'd been holding inside loosened, like knots finally coming undone.

Bucky was solid in front of her. Unshakable. And for the first time in a long time, she wasn't just surviving.

She was alive.

This was freedom—fast and warm and a little reckless. This was something she hadn't even known she'd been starving for.

And with her arms wrapped around him, the whole world finally felt just a little more within reach.

The bike slowed as they turned onto Habersham Street, the steady hum fading into a softer purr. Warm lights spilled from the windows of a corner brick building ahead, and a neon sign glowed in the dusk—The Green Truck Pub.

Bucky guided the bike into a spot along the curb and cut the engine. The sudden quiet buzzed in Madison's ears after the wind and motion of the ride, and for a second, she stayed still, catching her breath and letting her nerves settle.

He swung a leg over the seat and stood, then reached back to help her down. His gloved hand curled gently around hers—warm, steady, easy.

"Gotcha," he said, guiding her feet to the pavement.

Her legs wobbled a little when her boots hit the ground, but she managed a laugh. "That was... a lot."

Bucky smirked, pulling his helmet off. "You didn't scream once. I'm starting to think you like danger."

"I was too scared to scream," she joked, then tugged her helmet off and shook her hair out. "Also didn't wanna embarrass myself."

His smile widened. "You wouldn't. But I'd have teased you for it anyway."

Madison laughed, brushing her fingers through her windblown hair and glancing up at the pub. "I love this place. It's kind of a local secret."

"Sam pointed me toward it," Bucky said, nodding at the building. "Said it's his go-to when he wants good food and no tourist crap."

She arched a brow, impressed. "Sam's got taste?"

Bucky held up a hand and tilted it side to side. "In food? Hell yeah. In other things?" He made a face. "Debatable."

Her laughter bubbled up again, and some of the tension slipped from her shoulders.

They walked side by side toward the door, the smell of garlic, burgers, and something fried floating in the warm evening air. Inside, the pub was cozy—exposed brick, old wood, chalkboard specials. Vintage soul music hummed softly under the clink of glasses and low conversation.

Bucky held the door open with an exaggerated flourish. "Ladies first."

Madison hesitated, smiling shyly. "Thanks."

"Anytime, darlin'," he said with a wink, following her inside.

They settled into a booth near the back, tucked beneath a ceiling fan that lazily stirred the warm air. Bucky shrugged off his jacket and draped it on the seat beside him, then flopped back like he owned the place.

Madison slid into the other side, tugging at the hem of her shirt. She was hyper-aware of herself—her curves, the way she took up space, how she probably looked after the ride. Her eyes flicked to the menu, grateful for the distraction.

"You like burgers?" he asked, glancing over the top of his menu.

She hesitated. "Yeah, I mean... I was thinking maybe just a salad."

Bucky tilted his head, lowering his menu.

"If that's what you want, salad it is," he said easily. "But just so you know, I'm about to destroy this double bacon jalapeño burger because it looks like it might change my life."

Madison laughed despite herself.

He leaned in, his voice softer. "If you're worried about eating in front of me, don't be. I'm not here to judge you—I'm here to spend time with you. You're beautiful. And you're allowed to enjoy your damn food."

Her cheeks flushed, eyes darting down. "You're really not subtle, huh?"

"Never been accused of that," Bucky said with a grin. "But I am honest."

She smiled, a little shy but warming to him. "Okay... I'll get the burger too."

He grinned, looking pleased. "Atta girl."

The server came by, and they placed their orders, with Bucky adding fries "the size of my face" and a chocolate milkshake "for balance."

As the server walked away, Madison bit her lip to keep from grinning.

"You always flirt this much on a first date?" she asked.

"Only when I'm nervous," he teased, then gave her a wink. "But seriously... you're easy to talk to."

She blinked at that, a little stunned. "Me?"

"Yeah, you," he said, resting his arm along the back of the booth. "You've got this quiet thing going on. Makes a guy want to lean in and listen real close."

She shook her head, half laughing, half disbelieving. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're gorgeous," he shot back. "We all have our flaws."

Madison laughed, ducking her head, a blush blooming across her cheeks.

Their food came, and the conversation flowed easier now—soft teasing, warm glances, the kind of comfort that felt rare. Every time her self-consciousness tried to creep back in, Bucky countered it with something light, something kind.

He caught her staring once as he licked a bit of sauce off his thumb.

"What?" he asked, feigning innocence.

"Nothing," she said quickly.

"Mmhmm," he said, grinning. "Just so we're clear, I know I'm pretty."

Madison snorted. "Modest too."

"Terribly," he agreed. "It's a curse."

When the check came, Bucky slid his card in before she could reach for her purse.

"I could've—"

"You could've," he said, sliding out of the booth. "But you didn't."

They walked slowly, neither in a rush to end the night. The buzz of Savannah nightlife hummed softly in the distance, but here, beneath the hush of swaying Spanish moss and golden streetlight, it felt like they were in their own little world

"You full?" Bucky asked, glancing sideways at her.

Madison nodded, brushing a stray strand of hair back with one hand. "Yeah."

He sighed, exaggerated, and dramatic. "That's a shame, I could go for some dessert." His eyes lingered on her lips at he bit his bottom one, the hint of a smirk curling at the corner.

She shot him a look, half amused, half flustered. "Do you ever not flirt?

He grinned, cocky and unbothered. "Only when I'm sleeping."

Madison shook her head, laughing, but there was no hiding the flush in her cheeks or the way her eyes sparkled when she looked at him.

Bucky stopped under a tree, its branches arching low and heavy with moss. The warm light overhead painted gold across his face, and he turned to her, the teasing softening just a little.

"You've got that look in your eye," he said, stepping closer.

She raised a brow. "What look?"

"Like you want me to kiss you."

Her breath caught, but she didn't look away. "And if I do?"

His hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with feather-light care. "Then I probably would."

"Probably?" she echoed, breathless.

His voice dropped to a slow, southern drawl. "I'm tryin' to be good."

She smiled, lips parted, her eyes locked on his. "I don't I want good."

That was all it took.

In one smooth step, he closed the space between them, his hand cradling the back of her head as he pulled her in. The kiss wasn't soft or tentative. It was hungry—full of heat and tension that had been building from the moment she'd climbed on the back of his bike.

His mouth moved over hers with purpose, tongue brushing hers as her fingers clutched the front of his shirt. He kissed her like he'd been waiting all damn night for permission—and now that he had it, he wasn't going to hold back.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, her lips tingling, Madison stared up at him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

"I don't usually do this," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"I know," he murmured, brushing his nose against hers. "That's what makes it so damn good."

She swallowed hard. "If we get back on that bike right now, I might not be able to keep my hands to myself."

Bucky grinned like the devil himself. "Then maybe we should get back on the bike."

He kissed her again—slower this time, deeper—right there beneath the moss-draped tree, as Savannah swirled softly around them. The rest of the world faded into the background, leaving nothing but heat, lips, and the slow burn of something that was quickly spiraling into more than either of them expected.

The night air was balmy as they tore down the quiet road, Savannah fading behind them in a blur of golden streetlights and weathered cobblestone. The rumble of the motorcycle beneath them was steady, low and hypnotic, vibrating through Madison's entire body as she wrapped herself around Bucky.

But this time... she wasn't just holding on.

Her hands, once tucked politely at his waist, started to roam—tentative at first, like she was testing the waters. Fingertips glided over the hem of his shirt, then up, brushing lightly against the firm lines of his stomach. The muscles there twitched beneath her touch, flexing with every subtle movement of the bike. She let her palms explore, bolder now, smoothing over the warmth of his body like she'd been dying to do it all night.

Bucky didn't say anything right away—but she felt the shift in him. His posture went a little straighter, tighter. Then came the laugh—low, rough, unmistakably amused.

"Careful, sweetheart," he drawled over the engine's hum. "You keep that up, and I'm liable to forget which one's the brake."

She grinned into his back, heart pounding like crazy. "Thought you said you could multitask."

"Only when I'm sleepin'," he tossed back, a smirk in his voice. "Right now? You're makin' it real hard to focus."

That should've embarrassed her. A week ago, it would've. But something about the way he said it—the teasing warmth, the easy confidence—made her feel bold. Beautiful. Like maybe she wasn't just some quiet girl from out of town. Like maybe she could be his kind of trouble.

So she kept going.

Her hands slid higher, brushing over the planes of his chest through the thin cotton of his shirt. She traced the line where his pecs met his ribs, her fingertips barely there. His breathing hitched. Just slightly. But she caught it.

And then—

His hand slipped from the handlebar, just for a second, reaching back to rest on her thigh. Not just rest—he squeezed gently, slow and deliberate, like he knew exactly what that would do to her. His fingers skimmed up, brushing beneath the hem of her dress, a tease and a threat all in one.

Madison gasped softly—not from shock, but from the jolt of heat it sent straight through her. Her thighs clenched around him instinctively, and suddenly, she wasn't just playing around. She was all in.

Her hands dipped lower, confident now, gliding down the center of his abs, tracing the curve of his hip bones before settling on his thighs—solid and warm beneath his jeans. She gave them a gentle squeeze, just to see what would happen.

The groan he let out was low and raw, cutting through the engine's hum like a live wire.

"Mads..." he said, voice strained. "You tryin' to get us killed?"

She leaned in closer, her helmet nudging his shoulder. "You're still drivin' straight."

"For now," he growled, and the gravel in his voice made her pulse skip.

She smiled—giddy, breathless. "You're really easy to fluster."

"You're really easy to throw over my shoulder and take into the woods," he shot back.

"Promise?" she whispered.

That did it.

The bike swerved—not dangerously, but enough for her to feel it. The tension. The restraint. The edge he was skating just to keep control.

And Madison? She'd never felt so powerful.

And Bucky? He was hanging on by a thread—and wondering how fun it'd be to let go.

The road stretched out ahead, winding and shadowed, moonlight painting silver streaks across the asphalt. The engine throbbed beneath them, but the ride was secondary now—just a backdrop to something far more dangerous.

Bucky's hand didn't stay on her thigh for long—not really. Just enough to make a point. To make her think about it. But it burned, a slow heat that lingered, echoing across her skin long after he pulled away. And now, she wasn't just touching him out of curiosity—she was doing it with intention. Like she knew the rules now, and she wanted to break every single one.

Her fingers swept up his torso again, slow and deliberate, pausing to trace every dip, every line. She circled her thumbs just beneath his pecs, her touch feather-light but full of purpose.

"Y'know," he said, voice rough and low, "I was gonna be a gentleman tonight."

"You still can be," she said sweetly, dragging her fingers lower—down past his ribs, across his stomach, and dangerously close to the waistband of his jeans.

He let out a bark of laughter. "That ain't helpin', sweetheart."

She leaned in, her lips close to his ear. "Then stop pretending you mind."

His groan was low and primal, the kind that wrapped around her spine and made her knees weak. His grip on the handlebars tightened, knuckles white under the soft streetlight glow.

"Damn," he muttered. "You were shy a few hours ago."

She grinned against his shoulder. "Guess I just needed the right motivation."

He glanced down, just enough to catch her hands sliding over his thighs again, slow and sinful. His hips twitched under her touch—just a small shift, but enough to make her smile.

"Keep doin' that," he warned, "and we're not makin' it to your place."

"Sure we are," she murmured. "Eventually."

His breath hitched. She felt it in the way his body tensed, in the way his jaw clenched. And God, she loved it. Loved the power in her hands, the way he was unraveling bit by bit under her touch.

"Bet you're proud of yourself right now," he muttered.

She bit her lip. "A little."

He turned his head slightly, just enough to meet her eyes over his shoulder. His look was smoldering—dark, intense, and laced with a challenge.

"Might have to wipe that smug little smile off your face later."

"I dare you."

That shut him up.

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was electric. Every beat of the engine, every shift in the wind, every breath between them added to the pressure building under their skin.

He made a sharp turn onto her street, tires crunching over gravel as they pulled into the driveway. The bike rolled to a slow stop, the engine idling for a moment before he cut it off.

But neither of them moved.

Her hands were still on his thighs. His breathing was shallow, almost ragged. The tension between them stretched taut like a wire about to snap.

"You gonna invite me in?" he asked, voice low and intimate.

"I haven't decided yet," she said, her fingers drifting up his stomach again—light, teasing. "You think you earned it?"

His laugh was quiet and dark, more exhale than sound. "Baby, I'm the one who drove you home."

She leaned closer, lips brushing the stubble along his jaw. "Then you're halfway there."

Bucky reached down and turned the key.

The engine died.

The silence that followed?

Deafening.

And full of promise.

The sudden silence was jarring—so sharp it left her ears ringing. Or maybe that was just the blood, rushing fast and wild through her veins, thudding against her skull like a war drum.

Before Madison could catch her breath, Bucky swung off the bike, boots crunching against the gravel. He turned to her without a word, his movements smooth and sure as he reached for her helmet. Fingers brushed her hairline as he lifted it free, strands spilling out in tousled waves. Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted, chest rising and falling with each uneven breath.

She looked wrecked—in the best way.

Still, he didn't speak. Didn't hesitate.

Bucky dropped the helmet onto the seat and closed the space between them in one stride. One hand found the back of her neck, firm but gentle, guiding her forward as he crashed his mouth against hers.

There was nothing slow about it.

No warning. No build.

Just fire.

The kiss was hard, messy, hot—his mouth demanding, his teeth catching her lower lip as if he couldn't get close enough. Madison gasped, but he swallowed the sound like he needed it, like it fueled him. His other hand found her waist, pulling her tight against his body, hips pressed to hers. The warmth of him soaked through her clothes, and suddenly, she was gripping his shoulders like a lifeline, kissing him back like she might come apart if she didn't.

Her back bumped the side of the bike, but she barely noticed. Her world had narrowed to the feel of his mouth, the weight of his body, the raw heat pulsing between them.

She dragged her hands over his chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt, needing something solid to hold onto. Her fingers curled, bunching the fabric in her fists as she pressed closer, chasing the friction, the contact, the chaos of it all. Her hips rolled against his without thinking, and the noise Bucky made—low and wrecked—lit her up from the inside.

"Jesus, Mads," he growled against her lips, breath ragged. "You're driving me fuckin' crazy."

She couldn't help the grin that tugged at her mouth. "That's the idea."

He kissed her again, deeper this time, slower but no less intense. It melted her knees, made her sag into him, fingers clutching his jacket for balance. Her heart hammered in her chest, thudding in time with every brush of his tongue, every stroke of his hands.

He groaned into her mouth, hands sliding lower, over the curve of her ass, gripping tight enough to draw a gasp from her lips.

The air between them was thick, crackling with the kind of tension that couldn't last much longer. Every second they stood there, every shift of their bodies, brought them closer to that edge.

And when he finally broke the kiss—just barely—he didn't move far. His forehead leaned into hers, both of them breathless, lips brushing.

"You wanna take this inside?" he asked, voice rough and low. "Or should we give your neighbors something to talk about?"

His lips ghosted over hers as he added, quieter this time, "Can we...?"

The way he said it—like he wanted to devour her but still needed to be sure—sent a thrill down her spine.

Madison didn't even hesitate. "Yes."

His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide, and that cocky smirk returned. "What about your roommate?"

"Darcy?" Her brain fumbled to keep up, already half-melted from the way his thumbs were sliding just under the edge of her jacket. "She's probably not home. And even if she is..." Madison's mouth curved into a wicked smile. "She owns headphones."

That was all he needed.

And from the way Bucky's hands tightened on her hips, the way his mouth found hers again, hungry and unrelenting—he planned to make damn sure Darcy needed them.

She grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the front door, practically dragging him up the walkway. He followed with a low chuckle, the sound sending a shiver down her spine. Her keys fumbled in the lock, nerves and anticipation making her hands unsteady, but the door finally gave way. They stumbled inside—lips crashing together again before it even clicked shut behind them.

He kicked the door closed with a boot, their mouths never parting as she backed him into the living room. Their jackets were discarded in the chaos—his hitting the floor with a heavy thud, hers landing somewhere near the coffee table.

"Tell me to stop," he muttered between kisses, his voice gravelly and burning with need, "and I will."

She hooked her fingers into the belt loops of his jeans, tugging him closer until their bodies were pressed against each other, no space left between them.

"I'm not gonna," she whispered, her voice low, sultry. "So don't."

That was all it took.

Control snapped.

Bucky spun her around, lifting her effortlessly, and she wrapped her legs around his waist with a surprised laugh. "Bucky, wait—put me down," she said, a flush rising to her cheeks. "I don't want to hurt you."

He paused mid-step, brows furrowing as he looked at her. "Madison," he said gently, "you couldn't hurt me, baby."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he kissed her quiet—soft at first, then deeper, more insistent. "You think I don't know exactly how strong I am?" he murmured against her lips, already walking them through the apartment again. "You're perfect. Let me hold you."

Her breath caught as his mouth trailed from her lips to her jaw, down her neck, his touch sure and demanding.

By the time her back hit the wall just outside her bedroom, Madison was trembling, hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as he ground against her.

"Bedroom?" he rasped, eyes dark with want.

She nodded, eyes heavy-lidded, her breath shallow and erratic.

With one last kiss—hard and claiming—he carried her through the door, like he already knew he'd never get enough of her.

Darcy had just settled into bed with a glass of wine and the latest episode of The Bachelor queued up. She sat cross-legged on her bed in her favorite oversized hoodie, a bowl of popcorn in her lap, eyes glued to the screen as one of the contestants fake-cried into a rose.

"Girl, he is not that into you," she muttered, tossing popcorn at the TV just as the front door opened.

She didn't even have to look—those heavy boots and that low murmur? Bucky. Madison's laugh followed, soft and breathy, and Darcy just smiled to herself. Finally.

The bedroom door across the hall shut quietly.

Darcy was just getting into a juicy confrontation on-screen when a faint thump echoed through the wall. Then a pause.

And then— yep. That was Madison.

Darcy blinked, tilted her head slightly like she wasn't sure she heard right, then heard it again—softer, a little breathy, unmistakably not part of the TV show.

The door clicked shut behind them, and Bucky didn't hesitate. He tossed her onto the bed, descending after her with a primal growl. His hands slipped under her shirt, his warm palms gliding over her skin, igniting electric sparks of desire wherever they lingered

Madison gasped, arching her back, her skin alive with sensation. His lips found the hollow of her throat, teeth grazing her pulse point, making her tremble beneath him. "God," she breathed, fingers tangling in his hair again. "Where did this come from?"

He smirked against her skin. "Been holding back."

"Well, don't."

Bucky paused, just enough to gaze into her eyes, which were smoldering with need. His chest heaved with a raw, electric tension. In one fluid motion, he stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside, revealing the sculpted strength of his body. Madison's breath caught in her throat as she absorbed the sight——his body lit by the soft bedside lamp, a powerful contrast to the hunger in his gaze.

"You sure, Maddy?" he murmured, his voice thick and gravelly with longing. "Once I start, I'm not stopping unless you tell me to."

She gave a fervent nod, pulling him back to her with urgency, their lips colliding in a heated embrace. "Shut up and kiss me, Barnes."

It was all the invitation he needed.

His mouth crashed onto hers with a consuming hunger, his body pressing her firmly into the mattress. His hands wandered with intent—over her ribs, tracing her plush waist, and caressing the curve of her thick hips—each touch igniting a blazing inferno within her. She couldn't pinpoint when she had become so daring, so insatiable for him, but with him? It felt utterly right.

As if she was finally seizing the desires she had longed to embrace.

Bucky devoured her lips like a man famished, as though he had been yearning for this moment for an eternity. Her clothes disappeared, piece by tantalizing piece, his lips trailing every newly revealed inch of her skin. His touch was both worshipful and voracious, as if he could never have his fill.

When he finally slid her pants down her legs and settled between her thighs, he gazed up with a wicked, knowing grin.

"Still with me, darlin'?"

Madison's breathless reply escaped in a trembling whisper: "All the way."

His grin widened with wicked intent. "Good. Because I'm just beginning."

Bucky's lips descended upon her inner thigh, each kiss and languorous lick igniting torrents of molten heat through her core. She quivered, her hips arching instinctively toward him, drawn like a moth to flame. He chuckled, a low, dark rumble that reverberated against her skin.

"Easy," he murmured, his lips grazing the tender spot below her hip. "I intend to savor every moment."

Madison's fingers clutched the sheets, her heart a wild drumbeat in her chest. "You're driving me insane."

"That's precisely the plan, darlin'," he murmured, his voice a sultry caress, thick with desire.

His strong hands firmly gripped her hips, anchoring her in place as he traced a fervent path of hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Each electrifying touch ignited an inferno within her, a fire that blazed and spread through every fiber of her being. She whimpered his name, a desperate plea that echoed with urgency, and he succumbed, tasting her with a ravenous intensity, as though he could not endure another moment of restraint.

He licked and sucked at her clit, maintaining a rhythm that had Madison writhing beneath him, breaths coming in ragged gasps. His name tumbled from her lips over and again as pleasure mounted, coiling tightly deep within her. Bucky responded by deepening his ministrations, his movements both teasing and assertive.

Madison's fingers found purchase in his hair, guiding him insistently, her body language spelling out exactly what she needed from him as pressure began swirling into an overwhelming crescendo. Her back arched off the bed, pushing against his face as her voice broke on a high, keening wail.

The world narrowed down to the overwhelming sensation spiraling from where Bucky's mouth was fervently at work. Then, with a final cry torn from deep within her throat, Madison climaxed intensely, waves of pleasure breaking over her like a relentless storm her vision burst into a kaleidoscope of stars.

Gradually, the waves ebbed away, leaving her panting and spent on the tangled sheets.

Bucky lifted his head, his lips wet and glistening in the dim light, grinning with the satisfaction of a man who had just conquered untold territories. His eyes sparkled with pride and an unmistakable look of adoration as he watched her come back down to earth.

"Okay?" he whispered, voice husky and laced with affection.

Madison nodded weakly, still catching her breath, her chest heaving. "More than okay," she managed to say, her voice a sultry murmur. She tugged him up by his hair gently to bring his face close to hers.

Their lips met again, this time in a kiss that was sweeter, slower, grounding them both after the intensity of their passion. Bucky's weight shifted as he maneuvered above her, each careful movement calculated not to break their connection. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead tenderly, his gaze locked on hers.

"Ready for more?" Bucky's voice was a whisper against her lips, laced with both challenge and promise.

"Yes," she whispered back, pulling him down for another kiss, her hands roaming over his powerful shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle that tensed under her touch.

Bucky's grin was pure mischief as he shifted his body, aligning himself with hers. The flushed head on his weeping cock breached her slowly.

"Oh fuck me—" Bucky grunted.

Madison's nails dug into his shoulders as he thrust into her, their mutual groans filling the room. The intense, carnal sensation of their bodies joining was almost unbearable, their desire having reached a fever pitch.

"Y-you feel so good," Madison moaned.

His movements were deliberate, each shift and touch sending a new wave of anticipation rushing through Madison. He took his time, kissing her deeply, thoroughly, as if each kiss could tell a story of its own.

She wrapped her arms around him, vice-like, crushing her body against his, desperate to feel every inch of him.

Their rhythm started languidly, a primal dance of rediscovery, each sensation raw and exhilarating. But patience was not a virtue they possessed tonight. Their movements quickly turned wild and untamed, each chasing their own pleasure, hungry and relentless. Bucky's hands roamed her body, fingertips mapping the landscape of her curves with reverence and a desperate hunger. Madison met each of his thrusts with an urgency that matched his own, her hips rising to meet him, urging him deeper.

"You're so beautiful," Bucky breathed, his voice raw, eyes hungry.

Bucky's hand slid up her side, slow and sure, then higher—until his fingers curled gently around the front of her throat. Not tight. Not rough. Just there.

The weight of his hand made her breath catch.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, something sharp and electric pulsing between them. She didn't expect to like it. But the truth hit her fast and hard—she loved it. The heat of his palm, the way his thumb rested just below her jaw, grounding her, claiming her. It was possessive in a way that made her knees weak.

Bucky didn't say a word, but his eyes darkened when he saw the way her lips parted, her chest rising faster. He felt it—the way her pulse jumped beneath his fingers. The way she arched into it, into him. Her velvety pussy gripping his cock like a goddamn vice.

"Didn't know you liked that," he murmured, voice low and rough with want.

Madison swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. "Didn't know I did either."

But now? She never wanted him to stop.

Madison's breaths came in short bursts, and every nerve in her body seemed to sing with pleasure from Bucky's relentless pace. He watched her beneath him, his gaze burning with intensity as he studied every reaction, every little sigh and moan that escaped her lips.

Darcy was knee-deep — The Bachelor was on, and the current episode was packed with tears, too much champagne, and a surprise elimination. When the unmistakable sound of something thudding against the wall rattled her picture frames

She froze.

Then came the rhythmic creak of a mattress and—oh god—Madison's voice, soft at first, then not-so-soft.

Darcy's eyes widened. "You've got to be kidding me," she muttered, staring at the wall like it had personally betrayed her.

Another bang against the shared wall had her reaching for the nearest throw pillow and launching it with a dramatic groan. "Guys! Some of us live here too !"

No response. Just more sounds of passion and what she could only assume was a particularly enthusiastic movement of furniture.

Darcy grabbed the nearest object—a shoe—and thumped it against the wall. "Hey! I swear to god, you're emotionally scaring me!"

Still nothing.

"Ugh!" She leapt up, practically spilling her wine, muttering, "Where the hell are my headphones—oh my god, is that a moan ? That's it. I'm moving."

She dove into her nightstand drawer like it held the key to salvation, snatching up her noise-canceling headphones like they were sacred relics. As she jammed them on, she mumbled under her breath, "Madison, I love you, but if I hear one more ' Bucky ' like that——"

"Bucky," she gasped out his name, her voice quivering under the onslaught of sensations he provoked.

Hearing his name spoken with such desperate passion only drove him further, and he adjusted his angle slightly, eliciting a sharp cry from Madison that echoed off the bedroom walls. Her response urged him on, and he moved faster, each thrust deeper than the last. Bucky shoved her thick legs further up, adjusting his angle driving his fat cock deeper into her deliciously, wet heat.

The sound of their bodies colliding was punctuated by heavy breaths and soft moans that crescendoed into the night, filling the room with the evidence of their unabashed need for each other. His pace quickened, the air charged with electricity as every muscle in his body worked in intense focus.

Bucky could feel like pressure building at the base of his spine, the way her greedy cunt sucked him back in with each thrust made his balls pull tight.

"Oooh....nnugh," she whimpered.

Madison could feel another climax building, stronger and more forceful than before. Her moans turned into cries as she clutched at his back, nails scoring his skin as pleasure washed over her again, wave after crashing wave.

"That's it darlin'—Jesus fuck," he groaned.

Bucky's movements became erratic, his breaths ragged against her neck. And then, with a low growl and a final deep thrust, he shuddered above her, his body tensing as he reached his own powerful release, collapsing onto her in a heated, exhausted heap. Their slick bodies melded together as he buried his face into the crook of her neck, breaths slowing, but heartbeats still racing.

The room settled into a quiet calm, save for the occasional soft murmur or chuckle that escaped one of them, punctuating the silence with the intimate sounds of their recovery. As they lay entangled, skin sticky and gleaming with the sheen of their exertion, Madison felt a wave of contentment wash over her. Here, in Bucky's arms, everything felt right—like all the pieces of her world fit perfectly.

Eventually, Bucky propped himself on one elbow to look down at her. His hair was a wild array of tangles, his eyes soft with affection. "You okay?" he asked again, his thumb tracing idle circles on her hip.

Madison smiled up at him, her hand reaching up to trace the lines of exhaustion and satisfaction etched across his face. "Better than okay," she murmured, pulling him down for a gentle kiss that spoke volumes of the gratitude and love swelling in her chest.

Bucky smiled against her lips, a contented sigh escaping him as he settled beside her, pulling her close until she was nestled against his chest. The steady beat of his heart was comforting, rhythmic and reassuring.

They lay like that for a while—quiet, tangled together in the afterglow. Madison traced lazy patterns across his chest, her fingers feather-light as they skimmed over the planes of muscle, the curve of his collarbone, the fine trail of hair that led beneath the sheet. Bucky's breathing had evened out, his eyes closed, a rare look of peace softening the edges of his face.

But then her hand started to wander.

Lower.

And lower still.

Bucky's brow twitched. He let out a low groan, his voice rough with amusement. "What do you think you're doing, sweetheart?"

Madison didn't answer. Not with words.

She pushed herself up on her knees, hair tumbling around her shoulders as she leaned in, brushing her lips along the line of his neck. Her mouth was warm and deliberate, kissing just beneath his ear, trailing down to the hollow of his throat. Bucky shifted beneath her, a low rumble in his chest.

Then, with a wicked little smirk, she adjusted the blanket—peeling it back just enough—and swung her leg over him in one smooth motion, settling herself atop his waist.

Still, she didn't speak.

She just smiled, lip caught between her teeth, eyes full of fire.

Bucky's hands lifted for a moment, as if to touch her, but then he chuckled and let them fall behind his head, the picture of smug surrender. "I think Sam was right about you book girls," he drawled, his gaze drinking her in. "You girls really are a bunch of kinky little things."

Madison leaned in close, her mouth brushing his as she whispered, "You haven't seen anything yet."

Darcy was nestled in her cocoon of blankets, resembling a snug burrito ready to be devoured by the Sandman. Her trusty white noise machine hummed like a sleepy bee, and the toasty flannel sheets were the perfect recipe for a snooze-fest. Just as she was teetering on the brink of dreamland, it hit her—a sound low and rumbly, like a bear with indigestion, vibrating through the wall.

A groan. But not just any groan. The kind that should come with a parental advisory warning.

Darcy blinked her eyes open, staring at the ceiling as if it held the secrets of the universe. She was frozen for a moment, like a deer caught in the headlights of her roommate's bedroom antics.

The bed frame squeaked next, confirming her suspicions. She groaned, lifting her pillow and pulling it over her head.

" Again ? Seriously?" she muttered into her pillow, her voice a mix of amusement and muffled resignation. "Girl's gonna kill him."

With a chuckle and a shake of her head, she blindly reached for her headphones on the nightstand. "Guess it's a lo-fi beats and love taps soundtrack tonight."

She giggled, nestling her headphones in place and burrowing deeper into her blanket burrito. "Go get 'em, Mads," she whispered with a grin, allowing the soothing tunes—and the occasional wall-shaking thud—to guide her back into the embrace of sleep.

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#marvel #fanfiction #bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #mcu alternate universe #plus size character #bucky barnes x plus size original female character #thick and juicy #motorbike

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