LIV. Emris

My head is splitting. Like someone took a steel spike to the inside of my skull and decided to hammer it in rhythm with my heartbeat. I open my eyes and instantly regret it—moonlight slices through the bedroom window, turning into a sharp blade that stabs straight into my brain.

Great. Fantastic. I want to peel my own face off.

I sit up slowly, hands pressing against my temples like that'll stop the pounding. It doesn't. My mouth is dry, cotton and salt and something bitter. My tongue feels like it's been sandpapered.

There's a heavy, sour weight in my gut—not just the hangover, though that's doing a number on me. It's the creeping regret. The foggy replay of something I know happened but don't want to revisit.

I swing my legs out of bed. My bare feet hit the floorboards with a faint thud. Cold. My knees pop as I stand, body stiff from...what? Fighting? Training? No. Just existing. I grab a hoodie off the chair and pull it over my tank top. It smells like vanilla and lavender and something I don't want to name. Something... Bucky.

The hallway is quiet. Everyone's asleep, probably dreaming of normal things. Freedom. Safety. Not me.

The kitchen is darker than the rest of the house, curtains pulled tight, no lights on. I don't bother flipping the switch. I like the dark. It feels honest.

I move on muscle memory, fingers skimming over the counter until I find the bottle of Advil. I pop the cap and dump two into my palm, dry swallowing them with a grimace. Then I down an entire glass of water, fast enough that it burns going down. Refill. Drink again. My stomach sloshes.

I lean against the counter, both hands gripping the edge like I might fall through the floor. Maybe I should. Maybe I deserve to.

The memory hits in pieces. The press of leather against my body. A lap—his lap. The soft rasp of his voice in my ear:

"Careful, sweetheart."

God.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I asked him to kiss me. Told him I knew he wanted to. I remember that part. The way my voice dropped. The way I looked at him like he was something worth wanting.

And then I remember how close we were. The heat of him. The way his hand curled around my waist like he'd done it a thousand times. The way my heart betrayed me and fluttered.

I press my fist against my sternum like that might kill the sensation. It doesn't.

"Stupid," I mutter to the empty kitchen. My voice sounds hoarse, scratchy. "So fucking stupid."

I don't know what's worse—the memory of me, drunk and ridiculous, or the thought that he might have liked it. That I might've liked it.

I lower myself into one of the kitchen chairs, the wood cool against my thighs. I stare at nothing. Just breathe. In. Out. Count the seconds. Try not to feel.

But then—

"Emris."

The voice isn't real. Not here. Not now. But it slices through me anyway, clear and sharp and soft with familiarity. It sounds like him. It shouldn't, but it does.

Bucky.

I rub the back of my neck hard enough to bruise. My skin crawls.

I should never drink. Not with them. Not with him. It's a vulnerability I can't afford. Not now. Not ever.

I close my eyes. Just for a second.

And hate myself a little more.

The bathroom tiles are ice under my feet. I shut the door behind me and twist the lock. Not because I think someone will come in. Just—habit. Control. Thin illusions of it.

I peel off the hoodie and tank top, wincing as my back aches from the awkward position I slept in. The air is sharp against my skin. Everything smells like soap and eucalyptus and whatever sadness is clinging to me this morning like a second skin.

The mirror's fogged at the edges, but I catch a glimpse of myself before I turn away—eyes shadowed, jaw clenched, hollow in a way I can't explain. I strip the rest of the way down and step into the shower, twisting the knob until steam rolls around me like smoke.

The first blast of water is too hot. It scorches across my shoulders, but I welcome it. Let it scald the guilt out of me. Let it burn away the memory of lingering cinnamon and his voice in my ear.

Steam rises fast, clinging to the glass. The pounding water muffles the world. I close my eyes.

And the floor vanishes beneath me.

I'm falling.

Wind tears past my ears, screaming. My stomach drops, weightless and sickening. My limbs flail against the empty sky. I can't find up or down, only the blur of clouds and blue and speed.

I'm not in the shower anymore. I'm in it. In his dream.

Sam.

His panic slams into me like a punch to the chest. His terror coils around my ribs like barbed wire. There's no parachute. No wings. Just endless air and the awful, clawing knowledge that I'm going to hit the ground and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

My heart's jackhammering. My breath's gone—ripped from my lungs by wind that doesn't exist. I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out, then water rushes in.

Reality crashes back.

I stagger backward into the shower wall, palms slapping wet tile. My chest heaves. I suck in air like I've been drowning. The water beats down on me, still hot, but I'm shivering.

The pressure behind my eyes spikes again, but it's not the hangover now. It's the echo of fear. His fear. Felt like it was mine. Felt too real.

"Get out of my head," I whisper, teeth chattering. "Not yours, not mine, not real."

My knees buckle. I don't fall—but I almost do. I brace myself, shoulder against the wall, fingers digging into the tile. I can still feel the air rushing past, the phantom wind biting into my skin.

I blink rapidly. Once. Twice. Three times. Focus. Anchor. Tile. Steam. Shower.

My legs finally obey me. I twist the knob off, and the water dies in a hiss.

Towel. Clothes. I move fast, mechanical. Shirt sticks to damp skin. Hoodie back on. My hands tremble as I pull it over my head. I press my back to the sink for a second, grounding myself against solid porcelain.

Sam's nightmare is still clawing at the edges of my mind like it wants back in. But I slam the door on it. Hard.

"You're okay," I mutter to myself. A lie. But a necessary one.

I let his dream slip in. I hadn't let anyone's dreams in for a while.

I unlock the door, step back into the hallway, and force myself to breathe like a normal person.

Nothing to see here.

Just another morning in my brain.

As I walk down the hallway, I almost miss the door.

The hallway's dim and quiet, morning light bleeding through the window's cheap curtain. But there's a subtle shift in airflow—barely a draft—where there shouldn't be. I double back, running my fingers along the wall until I find it.

A seam. A latch.

It's already open.

I narrow my eyes. I didn't open it.

Slowly, I slip inside.

The stairs descend into darkness. I don't hesitate. My feet are nearly silent on the creaking wood as I move downward, senses sharpened, pulse steady. The air grows cooler, heavier with the scent of dust and sweat. Familiar.

A low thud echoes from below.

Then another. And another.

I step off the last stair and into a hidden training room, tucked beneath the foundation like a secret the house is trying to forget. The ceiling is low. The floor is concrete. One bare bulb swings above an old punching bag, throwing shadows across the man hitting it.

Bucky Barnes.

His back is to me, bare except for a sheen of sweat and a few fresh scars. Black training pants, wrapped hands, no shirt. His flesh hand hammers the bag in clean, practiced rhythm. The metal one stays still at his side, like it's waiting to be unleashed, only using it every other punch.

I reach for the blade tucked into my waistband.

Then I flick it.

The knife clinks into the leather right next to his knuckles, quivering an inch from his hand.

He freezes mid-swing.

Then turns his head, slow and deliberate.

"What the hell?" he grits out, glaring at the blade, then at me.

"Good morning," I say sweetly.

He pulls the knife from the bag and eyes it.

"How did you find this room?" I ask.

"Knowing you, I figured there'd be a training room," he answers. I step further in, letting the door whisper shut behind me.

He tosses the blade back. I snatch it out of the air without breaking stride and slide it back into my waistband.

"You gonna tell the others?" I ask.

Bucky shrugs, grabbing a towel off a nearby bench and wiping the sweat from his face. "That depends."

"On?"

"Whether this is your secret Red Room or just a conveniently located murder basement."

I snort. "Not everything is a trauma vault, Barnes."

His smirk says he doesn't believe me. "I wasn't talking about that Red Room."

My eyes flick to his. How the hell had he seen Fifty Shades?

Whatever.

I pull on a pair of gloves from the shelf, pulling them on tightly. The leather creaks, the sound sharp in the silence. I move toward the mat in the center of the room and begin stretching. Limbering up. Breathe in, breathe out. Focus. Control.

We train in silence, the only sound the dull rhythm of strikes on padded surfaces. I throw a series of punches at the wall dummy. Hard. Fast. Focused. He resumes with the bag. I can feel the heat of his presence even across the room, like gravity trying to pull me sideways.

Then he breaks the silence.

"What exactly did you drink last night?"

I don't answer.

My elbow slams into the dummy's head with a satisfying crack.

He moves closer. "You gonna pretend that didn't happen?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I mutter.

His hand—his human hand—snaps out and grabs my wrist mid-strike.

I freeze.

He steps in close, not enough to be threatening—not quite—but enough that I feel the ghost of his breath against my face.

"I asked a question, princess," he murmurs.

I meet his eyes. Steady. Ocean Blue. Neither of us blinking.

"Mmm," I say with a tilt of my head. "No."

That earns me a huff of laughter. Low. Rough.

"That means you remember." Not a question, a statement.

"I'm choosing not to."

His grip tightens for a second—just a second—before he lets go. I take a slow step back, suddenly aware of how close we were. My skin feels too tight.

"You regret it?" he asks casually, grabbing a water bottle and unscrewing the cap.

I shrug, feigning indifference. "Regret implies I was in control."

He raises a brow. "You sure seemed in control when you climbed into my lap and told me you know—"

I throw a kick at the dummy hard enough to twist the frame. "Don't."

He chuckles under his breath and finishes his water. Tosses the empty bottle into the trash.

I can feel him watching me. Studying me. Like he's trying to decide what pieces to push just to see how I break.

He turns to leave.

And I realize—only when he moves—how close we'd gotten again. Close enough that I was bracing for impact and didn't even notice it.

"Don't tell anyone about this place," I say, voice low.

He stops at the stairs, glancing over his shoulder.

"I won't tell them about your Red Room, princess."

He disappears up the stairs before I can respond.

I exhale slowly.

Then I take the dummy by the shoulders and drive my knee into its chest so hard the bolts rattle in the wall.

I follow him up after a moment, ensuring I lock the door behind me.

The second I walk into the kitchen, Sam turns around and erupts into laughter.

"Ohhh, look who's alive."

I scowl. "Barely."

He leans on the counter, grinning like a hyena. "You should've seen yourself last night."

"I'm trying very hard not to remember," I mutter, grabbing a mug.

"You had a few shots, Emris. Maybe three. And you went full chaos gremlin."

"Fuck you, Wilson."

"'Oh, fuck you, Wilson!'" he mimics, pitching his voice high and dramatic as he flails one arm like he's casting a drunken hex. "'I've survived brainwashing and knives in my spine, I can survive your smug face!'"

I stare at him, deadpan. "I stand by that."

He sips his coffee, unfazed. "You tried to arm-wrestle Steve."

"Of course I did."

"You lost. In four seconds. Claimed he was juicing."

"I mean... he is."

Sam barks out a laugh. "Then you made a toast to 'female rage and found family,' tried to fight Natasha and the jukebox, and then disappeared. Didn't even say goodbye."

I focus on pouring coffee, pretending my ears aren't burning. "Where did I go?"

"Oh, I know exactly where you went. You wandered off toward the corner booth with Barnes like you were on a damn mission."

I freeze, mid-sip.

He grins wider. "Yeah. You went straight to his table, climbed into his lap like it was a throne, and whispered something. Then you two just—sat there."

"Yeah, right."

"Honestly? He looked like he got hit with a tranquilizer dart. The man didn't blink."

I resist the urge to bash my forehead against the counter. "Tell me I didn't say anything stupid."

He thinks I don't remember. I'd like to keep it that way.

"Oh, you definitely purred. Like a drunk little panther. 'Mmm, comfy,'" he imitates in a sultry voice, wiggling his shoulders.

"I'm going to kill you."

"One day," he nods, raising his mug in salute, "but until then, I will cherish that memory."

I mutter, "I hate you with the fire of a thousand collapsing stars."

Then the kitchen door swings open behind me—and of course, because fate has a sick sense of humor, it's Bucky.

He steps in, eyes flicking from me to Sam. "What'd I miss?"

Sam chuckles and backs off. "Nothing. Just reliving some of Emris's greatest hits from last night."

I glare at him over my mug. "You're lucky I'm too hungover to commit murder."

Bucky raises an eyebrow, smirking just a little. "Morning."

Acting as though I didn't just see him in the training room.

Good. Hopefully, he can keep that secret.

I don't answer.

I just sip my coffee and wonder if I can make myself spontaneously combust.

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

Sleep is a lie.

Every time I close my eyes, Sam's dreams claw their way into my skull—crashing sky, screaming metal, the helpless plummet. My body jerks awake, breath shallow, fingers clenched in the sheets like I'm the one falling.

I sit up and press the heel of my hand against my temple.

The air feels wrong. Tight. I can't stay in this bed another second. Not with this itch beneath my skin, not with the ghosts whispering through the walls.

I slide out from under the covers, barefoot and silent. The floor's cold. Doesn't matter. I move like muscle memory—past Bucky's room, past our shared bathroom, down the dark hallway. I don't make a sound.

The house creaks under its own age, but I know which boards to avoid. I've always known how to be a shadow, especially in this house.

The basement door is already open when I reach it.

Of course it is.

I descend slowly, feeling each stair under my foot. The training room waits at the bottom like a loaded weapon.

And there he is.

Bucky. Again.

He's shirtless once again. Black sweatpants, hair loose, fists wrapped tight. His body glistens with sweat under the dim overhead light, muscles taut, chest heaving.

I stop in the doorway, eyes narrowing.

"Why are you here again?"

He doesn't answer.

Just throws another vicious punch into the bag, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. The chain rattles. Dust floats.

I cross my arms. "Is this your thing now? Haunting basements shirtless?"

Still nothing. Just the steady rhythm of his fists, like a war drum.

I hate how easy he makes it look. Like violence is a language only we speak.

The itch flares again—bright and hungry under my skin. I need to hit something. I need to feel the pain sing through my knuckles, remind me I'm real. I hate this. I hate that I'm wired like this. That even now, after everything, the only thing that settles me is the thought of cracking bone.

I move past him, ignoring the way my shoulder brushes his arm. Too close. Too charged.

He doesn't flinch.

Of course he doesn't.

I roll my neck and walk to the far wall, drop into a slow stretch. My joints pop. My muscles scream. It feels good.

He finally stops. Turns.

We stare at each other.

The silence is thick. Electric.

His chest rises and falls, but he doesn't move. I hold his gaze, even when I want to look away. Even when the weight of it crawls under my skin and sparks heat where there shouldn't be any.

He's looking at me like he sees too much.

Like he knows.

I glance away first. Scoff. "Whatever. Knock yourself out."

I start toward the bench where the throwing knives are lined up, then pause. "You could've picked anywhere else in the house, you know."

Still silence.

"You're not the only one who can't sleep."

He shrugs, finally. "Didn't know you'd be here."

"Liar."

I grab a blade and toss it up, catch it by the hilt. My fingers itch to throw it. At something. Someone.

But I don't. Not yet.

I turn my back to him and let the quiet swallow us both.

This is what I've become—an animal pacing in a cage, waiting for a reason to break.

And maybe that's why I don't leave. Why I don't demand he go. Because I don't want to be alone with the part of me that still craves blood.

I hear him shift behind me. Not footsteps, just the subtle shift of weight. My spine tightens. Every nerve goes on high alert.

"You always come down here when you're mind is messed up?" he asks finally.

I don't turn. "Don't pretend you understand or care."

"I'm not."

I breathe out slow, trying not to explode.

"You want the room?" I ask.

"No."

Another silence.

Then he says, softer, "You just want someone to hit."

I turn to him, jaw tight. "You offering?"

His lips twitch. "Wouldn't be the first time."

I walk away before I do something stupid.

Like say yes.

The only sounds are fists hitting leather and knives sinking into wood.

Bucky's been pummeling the heavy bag in a steady rhythm for what feels like hours. I've been throwing blades just as long. We don't talk. We don't look at each other. We don't need to. The air between us is already too thick with tension, with something sharp and heavy and unspoken.

I lose myself in the repetition. Step, breathe, throw. Step, breathe, throw. The blades thud into the wall with a satisfaction that almost scratches the itch under my skin. Almost.

But it's still there. That gnawing, buzzing hunger. The one that says hurt something. The one that says you're not a person, you're a weapon that forgot its holster.

I miss the blood.

Fuck.

I grab more knives and turn. He's there.

We collide.

Nothing serious. Not really. But I jolt like I've been electrocuted.

My jaw clenches. I keep walking. Keep pretending like my blood isn't boiling, like the contact didn't short-circuit something vital in my brain.

I'm halfway back to the target wall, fists tightening around the blades—

And then he grabs me.

A sharp, firm hand—his real one—wraps around the back of my neck, stopping me cold.

I don't even have time to snap.

He yanks me back, turns me around, and kisses me.

The world explodes.

His mouth crashes into mine with no warning, no permission, no hesitation. And I hate—hate—how quickly I melt into it. How much I kiss him back like I've been waiting for this.

Because maybe I have.

My brain tries to protest, but my body betrays me. Every inch of me leans into him. My chest to his, my mouth moving like I've wanted this all along. Like I need it.

His mouth is hot and rough, all scrape and heat and unfiltered fury. Our teeth clash. I grunt into him. He doesn't let go. If anything, he deepens it—his tongue pushing into my mouth like he owns it.

Like he owns me.

I press forward, slamming into his chest, and he stumbles back with a grunt. I shove him into the wall—don't ask why, maybe it's instinct, maybe I need to feel control for a second—but he drags me right with him, lips never breaking from mine.

He doesn't let me be in control for long, flipping us so I'm caged against the wall.

My hands slide up his torso, and holy hell.

His skin is fire. Sweat-slicked and iron-hard, like sculpted stone come to life. My fingers splay across his abs, and I feel every twitch, every breath, every restrained ounce of strength vibrating beneath my palms.

He tastes like mint and cinnamon and something darker. Something dangerous. I bite his lip. He growls into my mouth.

His metal arm stays still at his side.

It doesn't touch me.

That shouldn't matter.

It does.

Because this—whatever this is—feels human. It feels real. And it terrifies me.

We kiss like we're trying to punish each other. Like we're trying to win. Like neither of us understands softness but both of us know how to burn.

I hate him.

I hate that I want more.

My body arcs into his, and he swallows the noise I make when his tongue flicks just right. My lungs are screaming. My skin is on fire. I don't remember how to breathe and I don't care.

We could die like this.

I'd let it happen.

And then, finally—finally—he pulls back.

Slowly.

Reluctantly.

I gasp quietly, lungs pulling in too much air, too fast. My lips are swollen. My skin tingles. My whole body feels like I've just been slammed into a wall and liked it.

Well, I was. And, I did.

Bucky looks wrecked. Chest heaving, eyes hooded, mouth red.

I feel wrecked.

My heartbeat's going a thousand miles a minute. I can't move. I won't move.

He stares at me like he doesn't regret a goddamn second.

Then he says it—quiet, smug, a low rasp at the edge of a smirk:

"Guess you were right, princess."

My stomach flips.

He's talking about the bar. About when I told him he wanted to kiss me.

Before I can say a word, before I can piece together a thought that isn't just what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck—he turns and walks away.

Just like that.

Leaves me standing there, fingers trembling, lips still parted like I might call him back.

I can't.

I won't.

My fingers brush my mouth, as if checking if it really happened. As if that kiss didn't just crack something open inside me I've been trying to seal shut for years.

My thoughts stutter, spinning in circles.

What. The. Fuck. Just. Happened.

And why did I like it?