LII. Emris

The air in Caracas sticks to my skin like wet gauze.

It's late—maybe midnight—but the city never sleeps. Motorbikes snarl past in packs, trailing cigarette smoke and the scent of fried plantains. Neon signs flicker overhead, sputtering half-alive Spanish slogans in blinking pinks and electric blues. I slip between bodies in the marketplace, my hood pulled low, sunglasses shielding my eyes from flickering floodlights. The crowd pulses, heat-slick and restless, like a living organism built of sweat, suspicion, and desperation.

Jeremy walks ahead of me, easy and loose-limbed, like he doesn't have a care in the world. He's always been like that—charming, casual, annoyingly talkative. I see the Glock tucked under his shirt. He knows better than to reach for it. Not with me behind him.

"Target's three klicks south, cutting through the east corridor," Luke's voice crackles through my earpiece. His tone is sharp, clipped. "Got him in sight. Waiting for green light."

I pause to check a street vendor's tray of cheap watches. "Hold until he hits the clearing. Too many civvies. Dragunov doesn't want too much cleanup."

Jeremy doesn't even glance back, but I see it. The slight twitch in his shoulder. The hesitation. He heard something in my voice—something colder than usual. He knows.

Good.

The target—a cartel lieutenant turned arms broker—is easy to spot. Wears gold-like armor and walks with a bodyguard sandwich, one in front, one behind. We've been tailing him for twenty minutes, weaving through the city's veins like smoke. Jeremy keeps his pace relaxed, but his fingers hover too close to his waistband now.

I know the feeling. That tickle at the base of the skull when the clock starts counting down.

"Em, you ever think about getting out?" he asks suddenly. Casual, offhand, like he's talking about vacation plans.

I arch a brow behind my shades. "Out of what?"

"This. Blood, guns, targets, ghosts. Wouldn't it be nice? Just once, not be the monster in someone else's story."

I smirk, lips twitching. "We don't get nice things, Jeremy."

He hums, like he already knows that.

"Target's in the open," Luke says. "Three seconds."

I stop at the corner, adjust my earpiece, and tilt my head slightly skyward. Luke is up on the fifth floor of an abandoned apartment building, all angles and shadow. He's the best sniper I've ever worked with. And the most reliable.

Which is why he's not the one I'm here to kill.

I don't flinch when the shot cracks across the plaza. It's clean—center mass—and the target folds like paper, blood painting the tiles. Screams ripple out from the impact point. The crowd scatters. Horns blare. Vendors abandon carts as chaos erupts.

Perfect.

Jeremy jolts, instinctively reaching for his weapon. I grab his wrist, yanking him toward the alley. "Not here. Move."

He doesn't fight me. That's his last mistake.

We duck into the narrow corridor, the noise from the plaza muffled by cement walls and dripping pipes. I can smell the rot of stagnant water and engine oil. Somewhere, a dog barks.

Jeremy's panting now, adrenaline kicking in. "That wasn't the plan. We were supposed to grab him, question—"

I drive the knife into his gut.

He gasps—wet, shocked, too fast to scream. My other hand clamps over his mouth as I shove him against the wall. The blade sinks up to the hilt. Warmth spreads across my palm.

His eyes go wide, confused, and then full of betrayal.

I lean in, voice like silk. "Should've kept your mouth shut."

His pupils dilate. His breath rattles against my palm. He tries to speak, to beg, to curse me—I don't care which.

I twist the knife once.

Then I grab his jaw and snap his neck.

The alley falls silent.

I let him slide to the ground, limp and broken. The blood pools fast, soaking into the trash-littered pavement. For a second, just one, I hesitate. My reflection stares back at me from the glint of his dropped pistol. Cold eyes. No expression.

He leaked intel on a Cairo mission. Four agents died.

This isn't justice. It's housekeeping.

Dragunov doesn't like traitors.

I wipe the blade on his shirt, pocket it, and melt back into the chaos. Sirens wail in the distance. Helicopters buzz overhead. I toss my comms into a storm drain and pull up the hood again.

No one sees me leave.

I disappear into Caracas like smoke into the wind.

The bar stinks of sweat and spilled rum.

It's loud—country music thumping in my chest, laughter slurring into arguments—but none of it touches me. I sit at the edge of the counter, one boot hooked on the bar stool rung, fingers wrapped around a sweating glass of something sharp and local. My knife is sheathed inside my jacket. My gun's within reach. I'm not here to drink.

I'm here because I knew he'd come.

"Could've at least worn black," Luke says behind me.

I don't flinch. I tilt my head just enough to catch him in the mirror behind the liquor shelf—tall, sharp-eyed, his jaw locked tight. Civilian clothes, but his shoulders are still military-rigid. His hand is resting too casually near his hip.

"Jeremy's dead. Thought we were supposed to be in mourning," he adds.

I sip. "Jeremy's been dead a long time. You just didn't want to see it."

Luke slides onto the stool beside me. He doesn't order a drink.

"I went back to the alley," he says, voice low. "No bullet casings. No gunfire. Just blood and a broken neck."

I shrug. "It's Caracas. Probably tripped."

"Don't insult me."

My grip tightens around the glass.

"You think I don't know you?" he snaps. "You didn't even try to cover your tracks."

"Didn't have to."

And just like that, the air shifts. His hand shoots out—fist aiming for my throat—but I'm faster. I duck, slam my elbow into his ribs, and twist off the stool. He crashes into the counter, knocking over bottles. Glass shatters.

"Fighting in a bar?" I taunt. "So predictable."

He lunges. I grab a beer bottle, smash it against the counter, and rake it across his forearm. He hisses but doesn't stop. We crash into a table. A woman screams. The crowd erupts like gasoline catching fire—scrambling bodies, broken chairs, flying glass.

Luke tackles me into a booth, forearm pressing against my throat. I jam my knee into his side and wrench free. He swings. I duck. My fist finds his jaw. He stumbles back.

I follow him, pin him against the wall, blade out and pressed under his chin before he can blink.

"Touch me again," I whisper, voice like poison, "you'll end up in an alleyway just like your brother."

He freezes.

There it is—the fracture. The raw nerve.

I see it in his eyes: betrayal, grief, confirmation. He already knew. I just gave him permission to believe it.

"You... bitch," he breathes.

"I gave him a clean death," I say. "Cleaner than he gave our agents in Cairo."

"You killed him."

"He earned it."

Something flickers in Luke's expression. Something cold.

He moves.

I feel the gun's muzzle before I hear it. The flash. The sound.

The bullet punches through my chest.

The world folds in on itself.

Everything slows—spins—colors dragging like paint in water. I stagger, warmth blooming down my sternum, and then I'm on my back, gasping. The lights overhead stretch and smear, and all I can hear is the drumming of my own heart. Louder. Louder. Then—

Flash.

Luke stands over me, barrel smoking. Face stone-cold.

"That's for my brother."

Flash.

Luke's hands are pressing down on my chest, shouting something I can't hear. Blood on his palms. Mine. The panic in his voice cracks.

"Stay with me! Emris—! Goddammit, stay with me!"

Flash.

Passenger seat of a car. Everything's red. Lights strobing past the window. I'm cold. My vision tunnels in and out. Luke's driving like a maniac. Cursing. Begging.

"You're not dying like this! You don't get to—!"

His voice fades.

Flash.

White lights. The beep of machines. A nurse's face comes into view.

"She was gone for forty-seven seconds," she says to someone. "We brought her back."

Flash.

I'm in a hospital bed. Tubes in my arms. Chest bandaged. Pain like a brand splitting me in half. Luke sits beside me, haunted.

I turn my head, throat raw, and whisper the only word I can summon.

"Pussy."

He doesn't laugh.

But I do.

Darkness drags me under again.

I wake with a gasp, half-choked, heart jackhammering like I've just outrun a war zone. My hands fist in the sheets, damp with sweat. My jaw's so tight it aches, like I've been grinding my teeth for hours.

The room is dark, except for the sliver of moonlight cutting across the ceiling. Shadows breathe at the edges. I lie there, pulse screaming through my ears, until the world stops spinning and my lungs remember how to work.

Caracas is gone. I'm not bleeding. Jeremy's already dead.

I sit up slowly, peeling the blanket away like it's cling wrap. My skin feels too tight, my breath uneven. My fingers move without thinking, brushing the thin strap of my tank top aside. My hand hovers over the scar—left side, just under the collarbone. A bullet, straight through the muscle. I press until it stings.

Still there. Still real.

I won't sleep again. Not tonight.

I throw on a hoodie and slip down the hall barefoot. The safe house creaks beneath me—old floorboards, old ghosts. I move past closed doors, each one holding someone who'd probably sleep easier if I didn't exist. The kitchen is dark, lit only by moonlight bleeding through the blinds.

I flick on the faucet and splash cold water over my face. Again. Again. My reflection in the window is a wraith—sunken eyes, jaw clenched, sweat-slick hair sticking to my forehead.

"Nightmare?"

I freeze.

The voice cuts through the silence like a blade. Low. Rough. Too calm to be casual.

I look over my shoulder.

Bucky's leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He's in a t-shirt and sweatpants, like he'd been on his way to sleep but got intercepted by the sound of my insomnia. Of course he did.

"Didn't know you lurked in the dark like a serial killer," I say, voice rasped raw from sleep and memory.

"You're one to talk," he mutters. "You practically haunt this place."

I grab a towel and pat my face dry. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't."

I roll my eyes. "Right. Just hanging out by the fridge at 1:30 in the morning for the ambiance."

He pushes off the wall, walks toward me with that silent, predatory grace that always makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. I don't move. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

"You wanna talk about it?" he asks.

"Nope."

"Didn't think so." He stops near the sink, too close. I can smell the cedarwood and leather along with the small hint of cinnamon of his cologne, low and warm beneath the cold sting of tap water. It settles under my skin.

A beat of silence.

Then, quiet: "Was it about Luke?"

That stops me.

I turn my head slowly, meet his eyes. They're too steady, too perceptive. He doesn't know the story, but he knows something. Must've caught a name. A reaction. Something in my sleep.

"You don't get to ask about him," I say flatly.

"I'm not asking for him," he replies. "I'm asking because you're bleeding from something that's not physical, and it's starting to leak onto the rest of us."

I glare at him. "You want honesty? Fine. I killed his brother."

Silence slams into the room like a gunshot.

I watch him for a reaction—judgment, shock, disgust. Anything.

But he just nods, slow. "Okay."

Okay?

"That's it? You're not gonna ask why?"

"I figure if you wanted to explain, you would've started with that."

I narrow my eyes. "You always this irritatingly understanding?"

"No," he says, turning toward the stove. "Just when I'm too tired to fight you."

I watch him move—measured, deliberate. He opens a cabinet, grabs a mug, then a second, clicks on the kettle. The scent of him lingers in the air, grounded and warm, infuriatingly familiar.

"You don't have to—"

"Don't flatter yourself," he says. "I'm making coffee for me. You just happen to get one too."

He sets a mug in front of me when it's done. No sugar. No milk or creamer. Exactly how I take it.

I stare at it for a long beat.

"...Thanks."

Bucky shrugs, already heading for the door.

And just like that, I'm alone again—with the coffee, the silence, and the taste of memory still thick in my throat

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Luke's invite wasn't really an invite.

It was a threat.

No "come talk," no "let's clear the air." Just the bar's name, a time, and a whiskey glass emoji. Classic Luke—cocky, cryptic, and violent in ways people don't see until it's too late. But I'm not people. Not anymore.

I stand in front of the mirror, towel around my body, hair still damp from the shower. My fingers trace the hem of the black bodysuit laid across the bed—long sleeves, low collar, zip back. Second skin. I step into it without thinking. Routine.

The mirror catches my reflection as I move—black bodysuit clinging like ink, shadows pooling in the curve of my shoulder where the scar peeks out. Pale and raised. A memory etched in flesh.

I don't cover it. I let it show.

Let him see what he did. Let him remember where this is going.

Black denim shorts, combat boots, my favorite knife slipped into the side pocket. I roll my shoulders back, stretch my neck. My jaw's been tight all day. The air feels like it's holding its breath.

Downstairs, the others are waiting.

Steve leans against the kitchen island, arms crossed, a soft navy henley straining across his shoulders. Tactical, but casual. It's the same look he gives briefing rooms before battles: neutral calm masking calculated readiness.

Natasha is perched on a stool, legs crossed, red hair slicked back in a braid like a whip down her back. She wears leather pants and a sleeveless top that says she came to kill someone and look good doing it. She raises an eyebrow when she sees me.

"Subtle," she murmurs.

"Would you prefer sequins?"

She smirks and stands.

Sam's in black jeans and a dark bomber jacket, wings offline for now but never far. His expression shifts the moment he sees me. Not soft. Not pitying. Just... there. Solid. Reliable.

And then there's Bucky.

He's in all black, of course—black shirt, black pants, black boots. His hair's pulled into a loose tie at the nape of his neck. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't look away, either.

"Everyone ready to drink overpriced beer and maybe throw a few punches?" I say, trying to sound bored.

Steve nods once. "Keep it clean unless it gets dirty."

"I never start fights," I lie, striding past them.

The bar's on the edge of town, where the streetlights flicker and the alley smells like piss and old secrets. It's nearly empty inside—just two guys playing pool, an old jukebox humming something slow and bluesy, and the stink of stale smoke clinging to everything.

We walk in as a unit.

Natasha flanks my left. Steve slightly ahead on the right. Bucky takes up the rear, eyes scanning like the soldier he'll always be. Sam holds back a beat, watching our six. We don't talk. We don't need to. We move like a pack.

And Luke?

Luke's behind the bar.

Same smug grin. Same damn hat. He's wiping down a glass with a dirty rag, like he didn't shoot me and technically kill me.

I step up and flick the brim of his hat with two fingers. "Still alive. Disappointed?"

He leans forward. "Depends. Still bleeding?"

"You'll have to check me for holes later."

He chuckles, low and sharp. "What'll it be?"

"Vodka Cranberry" I say, leaning one elbow on the bar.

"Gone fancy, have you darlin'?"

His hands move smooth, casual. But I watch him pour—watch the slight shake in his wrist as he slips something from beneath the counter and tilts it over the glass. Just a drop. Barely visible. But I know that smell.

"Trying to poison me now?" I ask, voice dropping.

He blinks.

I smile, slow and cold. "Next time use something odorless, Luke. Belladonna stinks like rot and leaves."

He straightens, defensive. "You're paranoid."

"Alive, though." I pluck the glass from the bar, swirl it under his nose, then pour it out—slowly—into the sink behind the counter.

Then I step around him, sliding behind the bar like I own the place. My fingers dance over the shelves—vodka, cranberry juice, lime. I mix my own drink and prep beers for the others, tossing them one by one across the counter.

"Cheers," I say, raising my glass and locking eyes with Luke. "To old friends."

His jaw ticks. The hat stays on.

And I smile wider.

Let him simmer.

The night's just getting started.

The first drink tastes like nothing. Burned citrus, fizzy vodka, a squeeze of lime—and nothing.

Good. That's the point.

The second one tastes like numb.

I down it before Luke can comment and pour another myself. He watches from the far end of the bar, trying to act like he's not watching. I don't care. I'd rather focus on the burn sliding down my throat than the way the wooden floor keeps shifting beneath me, like it remembers too.

Because I remember.

Right there—by the pool table. That's where I bled out the first time. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally. Arterial spray. Slippery tile. My own fingers shoved inside the hole in my side while Luke crouched and said something I don't let myself remember.

I blink hard and pour a third drink.

"Slow down, Em," Sam says behind me, his voice all teasing warmth, but there's something tight at the edges of it.

I turn, grinning too wide. "Gotta keep up with the boys, Wilson. Unless you're scared of getting shown up by a lightweight assassin with trauma and tequila?"

He huffs a laugh and points a cue stick at me. "You want in on this game or just heckle from the sidelines?"

I slide off the stool with the grace of someone one-and-a-half drinks from falling on her face. "Heckle. Always heckle."

Sam and Bucky are mid-game. Sam's winning. Barely. Bucky's leaning over the table in that concentrated, slow-breathing way he does, metal fingers wrapped around the cue. He sinks a stripe and barely reacts. His eyes flick to me for half a second—cool, unreadable—and then back to the table.

It hits me, then.

Flash. Memory. Body blow.

The way I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. That moment on this floor, vision going black, Luke leaning down—

My stomach twists. I toss back the rest of the drink to drown it.

Behind me, Steve and Natasha are deep in conversation by the jukebox. He says something low, and she tilts her head with that soft smile that only shows up when she forgets to be deadly. He brushes a knuckle over her wrist. She lets him. Their body language hums with something new, tentative and real.

Good for them. I mean it.

Even if the sight of something tender in a place where I nearly died makes my teeth ache.

"Hey, Sam," I call, swaying a little. "See that spot? Right there? Next to the third leg of the pool table?"

He looks. "Yeah?"

"That's where I almost died." I say it too loud. Too cheerfully. "Like, full-on gurgling blood death. I think my soul tried to leave my body. Twice. But I was like—nah."

Sam straightens slowly. "You okay?"

I wave a hand. "I'm drinking."

"That wasn't the question."

Another flash. My hand pressed to my chest, blood soaking my shirt, the smell of gunpowder and old wood. Luke whispering something cold, maybe "Should've known better."

I giggle.

Sam exchanges a look with Bucky. I catch it. Narrow my eyes. "Don't start looking at me like I'm gonna shatter."

"No one said that," Sam says gently.

I jab a finger at him. "That's your concerned face. Don't think I don't know."

Bucky sinks another shot. He's racking up quiet points while the rest of us pretend this is fine. His face is unreadable again, but I feel him watching me. Like he's cataloging every tick, every stumble, every deflection wrapped in bad humor.

Sam nods toward the door. "Maybe we call it. Head out. You've had enough."

"I've had exactly enough," I shoot back. "And I'm not leaving just because this place gives me homicidal nostalgia."

Bucky lines up his final shot. With a calm, surgical flick, the cue ball kisses the eight and drops it in the corner pocket. Game over.

He doesn't smile. Just looks at me.

"You done?" I ask, lifting a brow.

He steps back and nods toward Sam. "Loser buys the next round."

Sam groans but heads toward the bar. I hop back onto my stool and tap my fingers against the wood in time with the slow beat of the blues track curling out of the jukebox.

Bucky moves beside me. Not close, not touching. But I feel the heat of him. His cologne hits next—leather, cedarwood, cinnamon—and it short-circuits my brain for half a second.

"Nice win," I murmur.

He hums. "You're drinking to forget."

I glance sideways. "What gave it away?"

"The way you're holding your glass like it's the only thing keeping you from falling apart."

I look down.

I am gripping it too hard.

He doesn't press. Just waits.

I don't thank him. Don't tell him he's right.

I just raise the glass and say, "Cheers, sergeant," before throwing back what's left.

Luke still watches me.

The ghosts still circle.

And I smile anyway.

Because I'm still here.

Bucky's staring at me again.

Has been for the past three minutes—maybe longer. I feel his eyes like a burn at the base of my spine, slow and steady, dragging over every inch of me like he's trying to read a language he never wanted to learn.

I don't look at him right away. Let him stew.

When I do finally turn, I arch a brow, voice silk-wrapped steel. "What are you looking at, Barnes?"

His mouth twitches, just enough to make me hate him a little more. "Never thought I'd see you drunk."

I take another long, unnecessary sip. "I'm not drunk."

"You're arguing with a pool cue."

"It started it."

He exhales through his nose, something almost like a laugh, and leans back in the booth. His arm stretches along the top, casual, but his body stays sharp—spine too straight, jaw too tight, like he's waiting for an ambush that might be me.

I slide into the booth across from him, pause—and then shift.

A beat later, I'm sitting on his lap.

His whole body goes rigid beneath me. Human hand finds my waist like muscle memory. The vibranium one stays on the seat beside us, a cold dead weight between us that still manages to buzz in my peripheral awareness like a warning.

"What," he says carefully, "are you doing?"

I lean in, slow and deliberate, lips just inches from the shell of his ear. "Luke over there has to believe we're really here on our honeymoon," I murmur. "Just giving him a show."

"You could've warned me."

I grin. "Where's the fun in that?"

His hand tightens slightly on my hip. I can feel the outline of each finger through the fabric of my bodysuit. It's not gentle. It's not rough either. It's something else entirely—possessive, reluctant, furious.

I live for it.

I let my eyes roam over his face. That stubbled jaw. The silver in his temples. The scar just above his lip, barely visible in this light. He smells like leather and soap and aftershave, like heat and violence and something clean underneath all the mess.

"I know a secret of yours," I purr.

His gaze locks on mine, voice low. "What's that?"

I lower my voice to a whisper, lips brushing the edge of his. "You wanna kiss me."

His jaw ticks. His eyes flick to my mouth for half a second—half a second—before they dart away again. "You're mistaking that with my urge to strangle you."

I hum, mock-thoughtful. "Are you sure it's not both?"

The heat between us isn't subtle. It's suffocating. Thick and electric and coiled so tight I feel like I might snap from the tension alone. My thighs tighten against his, and his breath stutters just once—just enough for me to notice.

"You gonna kiss me, soldier?" I ask, leaning in so close I can feel the words against his lips.

He doesn't pull away.

But he doesn't close the gap either.

His hand—still just the human one—flexes once more at my hip. "You're drunk, Emris."

I tip my head, blinking slowly. "So?"

"So I'm not taking advantage of that."

"Oh, please. Like I couldn't pin you to this seat sober."

"That's not the point."

"No," I murmur, letting my forehead touch his for just a second. "The point is, we need to keep up the act. Remember?"

His gaze lifts over my shoulder—toward Luke. I know he's watching. I can feel it like a needle pricking the base of my neck. Bucky's eyes harden, some internal shift I can't see but feel in the way his body locks beneath mine. The tension spikes again.

That's when Sam appears.

"Oh hell no," he mutters, stepping in and dragging me off Bucky's lap like a big brother pulling his sister out of a bonfire. "You're done. Get off the super soldier before someone ends up arrested—or worse, married."

I cackle, half letting myself be hauled up, half leaning into the dramatics of it. "Jealous, Wilson?"

"Of him? Nah. Of your complete lack of survival instinct? Maybe."

Bucky mutters something under his breath that might be "Thank you."

I pretend not to hear it.

As Sam pulls me toward the door, I glance back over my shoulder. Bucky's still in the booth, eyes dark and unreadable, mouth pressed in that hard line that always means he's thinking too much. Always means he felt something.

I flash him a grin like a dare.

Then I raise my voice and shout toward the bar, "Bye, Lukey! Thanks for the drinks!"

Luke doesn't respond.

But I see the twitch of his jaw. The flare of his nostrils. The way he adjusts something under the bar that's probably not a glass.

Message received.

Outside, the air hits cooler, cleaner.

I stumble slightly, but before I can trip, Bucky's beside me—already there like he knew I'd falter. He loops an arm under mine without a word, careful but firm.

His mouth is by my ear when he says, low and gritted, "Next time, warn me before you climb into my lap, princess."

I smirk, unrepentant. "Where's the fun in that?"

He doesn't answer.

But his hand stays on my waist all the way to the car.

I don't remember getting in the car.

One second I'm waving at Luke through the glass like a deranged honeymoon Barbie, the next—darkness. Not blackout darkness. Not memory wipe. Just the kind that happens when everything slows and the weight of the day crashes down like a drug.

The seat's warm beneath me. The engine hums low. There's music playing—some old slow rock song, soft and gritty and forgettable.

My legs are stretched across something solid. My head's on something firmer.

Someone shifts.

I crack one eye open.

Sam's face is a weird mix of how did I get here and don't you dare puke on me. I'm half-sprawled across him, my knees angled toward the door, but my feet are firmly draped across his lap. His hands are hovering, like he doesn't know where it's safe to touch.

My head... is in Bucky's lap.

I blink, once. Twice. Yep. Still there.

His thigh is too comfortable. Warm. Real. Unfair.

If I had a knife right now, I'd stab him for how comfortable his lap is.

Not fatally. Just enough to inconvenience him.

Bucky doesn't move. Not even a twitch. But I can feel the tension under his skin. The subtle way his posture's locked like a loaded gun, how his human hand is clenched in the space between us, and his vibranium arm is resting along the doorframe, knuckles twitching every so often like they're trying not to reach for something.

Or someone.

My hair's probably tangling in his belt buckle.

Good.

I shift slightly, nuzzle deeper. Mostly to be annoying.

He stiffens more.

Sam glances over at him, raising his brows like, You good?

Bucky doesn't look back. Just gives the world's smallest, grumpiest shrug.

I don't know why he doesn't push me off.

Maybe it's Luke. Maybe it's the mission. Maybe it's something else.

But he lets me stay.

I drift again. Not quite sleep. Not quite awake.

The headlights strobe through the windshield like ghost-light, carving shadows across Steve's face up front. Nat murmurs something I don't catch. Steve grunts in response, both of them low-voiced and serious, like they're plotting how to clean up the mess I made.

A different memory flickers. Not a flashback—worse. One of the almosts.

Almost bled out. Almost didn't make it. Almost wanted to stay down and let the dark take me.

Same floor. Same bar. Same damn song playing.

I twitch.

Bucky's thigh tenses under me.

For half a second, I forget it's him.

And for half a second more—I don't care.

His breath is slow. Even. But I feel his eyes. On me, not the road. Watching like I'm a wild animal curled in his lap and he doesn't know whether I'll bite or sleep.

Maybe both.

I curl slightly, bringing my arms in tight. My fingers brush the fabric of his jacket. Rough canvas. Familiar.

He doesn't flinch.

Neither do I.

We drive like that for miles.

The car is quiet. The road is long. The world feels like it's holding its breath, and somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, I do too.