LXV. Bucky

Steam curls like smoke in the bathroom mirror, blurring the reflection I don't want to see. I lean over the sink, both hands braced on porcelain, water still dripping from my hair and down my spine. The air is hot, thick, like it's choking me out—but it's not the heat that's making it hard to breathe.

I kissed her. Again.

What the hell is wrong with me?

My eyes lock on the foggy glass, as if I can stare through it—see myself, see some kind of reason. I swipe my palm across the mirror. It clears just enough to catch the glare of my own eyes, red-rimmed and wild.

I don't understand it. I can't understand it.

Why did I do that?

Why did I let it happen?

She's not some innocent. Not some helpless girl caught in the crossfire. She's dangerous. Manipulative. Trained. A liar. And I should hate her for everything she's done. Everything she's been part of. Everything she's still hiding.

But then I think about this morning. About the way her hands shook. About the sound her voice made when she said please—so quiet it barely reached me.

About the way she grabbed my wrist like it was a lifeline.

My fingers curl tighter against the sink.

Her eyes were wild. Lost. Haunted.

Same way mine used to be. Still are.

I don't want to understand her. That's the problem. I do. I see it in her—the mess, the rage, the kind of grief that wraps around your spine and never lets go. It scares the shit out of me. Not because she's broken.

Because I am too.

I groan and push back from the sink, water beading on my chest before I drag the towel over my skin.

I pull on my shirt roughly, yanking it down like it's her fault it won't slide over my damp skin. My jaw's tight, pulse pounding in my throat as I pace toward the door.

I made her breakfast.

Why the fuck did I do that?

I should've left her. Let her get up on her own. Let her suffer through the pain like she makes everyone else do. She wouldn't have asked for help, not even if she was bleeding out.

But I did it anyway.

Because part of me needed to.

I'm an idiot.

I reach for the doorknob but pause when I hear the faintest sound beyond it—the soft scrape of a fork on a plate. She's still on the couch. Still eating. Still there.

And I hate that I noticed. Hate that I care.

She's sitting there in that damn oversized shirt, her hair a mess, lips probably still swollen from the kiss I shouldn't have given her. That's what she does. Crawls in under your skin and stays there.

I hate her.

I do.

I repeat it like a mantra as I open the door.

But the steam hasn't cleared. And I'm not sure it ever will.

The door creaks as I step out of the bathroom, towel slung over my shoulders, still rubbing it through my damp hair. The scent of soap and steam clings to my skin, but the air out here is colder, biting. I feel it in the back of my neck like a warning.

She's still there.

I glance up—and yeah, there she is. Curled on the couch like she never left it. Blanket draped around her shoulders, legs tucked up, one hand steadying the plate I gave her earlier. The other is slow, deliberate as it lifts the fork. She's eating in measured bites, like every movement costs her more than she'll admit.

I should look away.

But I don't.

Her profile's sharp even in the soft light filtering through the dusty window. Her expression's unreadable—bored, maybe. Or tired. But her eyes... her eyes flick up for just a second.

And they find mine.

That moment feels like it stretches too long—like I've been nailed in place, like she can see right through me. Then she looks away.

Like it meant nothing.

I mutter a curse under my breath and turn away before I do something stupid. Again.

My boots thud against the wooden floor as I cross into the bedroom. I toss the towel down onto the footlocker and kneel by my duffel, unzipping it with more force than necessary. I rifle through the side pouch until my fingers brush cold metal—the syringe.

The anti-toxin. The stuff Nat shoved into my hand before we left.

"Give this to her after breakfast," she'd said, like it was no big deal. Like I wouldn't be the one sticking a needle in a woman who flinches when someone gets too close.

"She's not gonna like it," I'd said.

Nat had just shrugged. "Tough shit. It'll help get the poison out of her system. You'll have to hold her down if she fights it."

Great.

I grip the syringe tighter than I need to, the plastic digging into my palm. Why is she so damn hard to ignore? Why do I even care if she's hurting? I should've handed the meds off to Natasha and been done with it.

But I didn't.

I'm the one carrying it. I'm the one watching her wince when she shifts. I'm the one who made her food, watched her sleep, kissed her like I meant it.

I hate this.

I hate her.

So why do I keep coming back?

I slam the bag shut and stand, syringe in hand, heart thudding louder than it should.

She looked away. But I saw it. That flicker in her eyes.

Not fear.

Recognition.

The syringe feels heavier than it should as I walk back into the living room, steps slow, calculated. I don't announce myself—no reason to. She knows I'm here. Her senses are too sharp not to.

Sure enough, Emris glances up from her plate the moment I cross the threshold. Her eyes catch the syringe in my hand, and something shifts in her expression. Barely. A flicker in those green eyes. The tiniest hitch in her breath.

"I hope you don't think you're gonna stick that in me," she murmurs, voice raspy but dry with sarcasm. Classic Emris deflection. Mockery as armor.

I sigh, dragging a hand through my still-damp hair. "It's to help you walk, princess."

The word slips out again before I can stop it.

Princess.

Shit.

I see the twitch at the corner of her mouth, but she says nothing. Doesn't mock it. Doesn't smile either. Just... watches me. And for the first time, I don't feel like I'm looking at an opponent.

I feel like I'm standing in front of a mine that might go off if I breathe wrong.

She doesn't argue, though. Doesn't roll her eyes or fling the plate across the room. She sets it down on the coffee table with slow precision and rolls her sleeve up without a word. Slightly tan skin, littered with some old bruises, freckles, and a tiny, faint scar I don't recognize.

I kneel in front of her.

The wood floor creaks beneath my knee. The space between us narrows, shrinks to inches. I can feel her eyes on me, heat curling under my skin like smoke. My fingers brush her arm as I steady it. Her pulse jumps beneath my touch.

I shouldn't notice that.

I shouldn't notice how smooth her skin is, or how delicate the bones in her wrist feel under my palm. I shouldn't let my thumb linger. But I do.

She says nothing.

The silence is thick enough to choke on.

I hold the syringe steady, find the vein with practiced ease. It's a clean stick. Smooth, precise. I inject the serum slowly, watching for her reaction, watching for tension, a wince, a breath too sharp.

But she doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink. She watches me.

And I can't look away.

I pull the needle out with care, set it aside on the end table without breaking eye contact. For a second, I forget to move. My hand still hovers near her elbow, like I'm waiting for something. Like I want to say something.

I don't.

I can't.

I'm close enough to kiss her again. I won't. I can't. I—

I stand. Abrupt. Mechanical.

The air between us feels like it might ignite.

I shove my hands into my pockets, turn away before she sees the war still raging behind my eyes. My shoulders are tense. My jaw's locked tight. I feel her stare on my back like a brand.

"It'll kick in fast," I mutter, voice lower than I mean it to be. "Just... don't push it. You're still not healed."

No response. Not out loud.

But I hear her exhale. Slow. Controlled. The sound of someone who doesn't want to be seen needing help.

I walk away, but my mind stays behind—kneeling at her feet, holding her arm, pretending I don't give a damn.

Lying to myself again.

I'm halfway to the kitchen when I hear it.

Soft. Like a breath. Like maybe she didn't mean for it to escape.

"Thanks," Emris murmurs.

I freeze.

It's not loud. Not sharp. Just... quiet. Almost tender. And it cuts through the room sharper than any blade.

I don't turn around. Don't move for a beat. My spine stiffens, a flicker of heat rising in my chest that I don't know what to do with.

That's not a word she uses. Not with me. Not often. Maybe not ever.

"Yeah," I mutter, my voice flat, a nod she can't see. I keep walking.

The kitchen's colder than the rest of the house. No fire in here. No blanket. No tension thick enough to chew through. Just the hum of the old fridge and the ache in my body.

I open the door and stare inside like it's gonna explain something. Like maybe if I focus hard enough on the eggs or that half-eaten jar of pickles, I'll figure out what the hell that thanks meant.

If it meant anything at all.

Maybe she said it without realizing. Maybe it was a reflex. Maybe it wasn't even for me.

But the sound of her voice lingers.

Warm. Frayed around the edges.

Not a weapon.

And that's the part that messes me up.

Because you don't thank people you plan to betray. Or kill. Or fuck and forget.

You don't say thanks like that to someone you hate.

The fridge hums louder. Cold air spills over my bare feet. I'm still gripping the handle like I might snap it off.

Behind me, I hear the soft scrape of her fork against the plate. The distant pop of the fire. The silence where her voice used to be.

I close the fridge slowly. Let the silence settle back in.

It doesn't feel like a truce.

It feels like something worse. Something better. Something I don't know how to name.

I lean against the counter, arms folded, jaw tight.

The cold from the fridge still clings to my skin, but it's not enough to cool the burn under my ribs. Not enough to stop my brain from circling the drain again. Always the same spiral. Always her.

Emris.

She's still sitting on the couch. I can see the edge of the blanket from here, a sliver of her hair catching firelight, dark and glossy like ink spilled across snow.

She's quiet now. No more thank yous. No more looks that slice me open and leave me bleeding just beneath the surface.

But she's still the most dangerous person I've ever met.

And it's not the mind tricks. Not the way she can make a grown man drop to his knees with a single thought.

It's the storm she carries inside her. The one she never talks about. The one I keep walking straight into like I don't know better.

I tell myself I won't kiss her again.

Not if she looks at me like she did on the floor this morning. Like she was unraveling and I was the last thread holding her together.

Not if she touches me—bare fingers on my wrist, voice cracked open, whispering my name like it's the only one she remembers.

I won't kiss her again.

But I know I'm lying.

I remember her in Hydra—expression carved from ice, mouth a razor line, eyes dead behind the green. I remember the way she moved, silent and sharp, like she didn't bleed, like she didn't breathe. Like she didn't feel.

But now... now she looks at me like maybe she does. Like maybe she wishes she didn't.

And that's what scares the hell out of me.

Because if she asks—if she reaches for me again, says my name the way she does when she's not thinking—I'll give in.

I'll always give in.

And I don't know if that makes me weak... or just already hers.

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

The cabin's gone quiet.

The kind of quiet that stretches too long, gets under your skin. There's a clock ticking somewhere behind me—slow, even, like a metronome. Outside, wind presses against the windows, soft and constant, brushing snow across the glass. The fire crackles low. Fading.

And she's sleeping.

Curled up on the couch under a mess of blankets, knees tucked in, dark lashes casting soft shadows on her cheeks. One arm is half-buried beneath her, the other rests loosely near her ribs—close to the wound. Her hair spills across the pillow like ink bleeding through paper.

I tell myself I'm not watching her.

That I'm reading.

That I care more about the dog-eared history book in my lap than the rise and fall of her chest, than the way her lips part every few breaths like she's dreaming of running.

But I'm a shit liar.

I haven't turned a page in ten minutes. My fingers hover near the corner of the one I'm on, eyes flicking between the text and her face like I'm keeping count of something I can't admit.

Hydra didn't teach me this.

Didn't train me to sit still, to listen for the smallest sounds, to keep checking someone's pulse from across the room like it matters.

But I listen anyway.

To the flutter of her lashes. The way her breath stutters sometimes, like she's caught on something invisible. Like a memory's got its hands around her throat.

It's just the meds, I tell myself. The poison's still wearing off. She'll sleep it off. She'll be fine. She always is.

Then her face tightens.

Barely. Just a flicker. A wince that passes like a cloud across the sun. Her lips twitch, brow pinching, and her hand—goddammit, her hand—moves toward her side.

I see the pain before it hits her. The stiffness in her shoulders, the way she tries not to gasp. I know that move. Stitches tore.

I'm on my feet before she finishes sitting up.

The book drops to the floor with a soft thunk. I ignore it. My eyes are locked on her hand, curled too tightly against her ribs, fingers trembling from the effort of not showing weakness.

She blinks slowly, disoriented. Green eyes glassy with fatigue. She doesn't see me at first.

Then she does.

And we both freeze.

Her mouth parts, breath shallow. "I—"

That's all she manages.

I don't let her finish. Don't need to hear whatever excuse she's about to spit out. I've seen the signs. Her pain's real. It always is, no matter how well she hides it.

I turn without a word and walk into the kitchen. Grab the suture kit Natasha gave me. My hands are steady. Too steady. That scares me more than it should.

When I come back, she's still frozen on the couch, like her body can't decide whether to push through the pain or collapse.

I make the choice for her.

She tenses when I kneel beside her, eyes flicking to my face, then to the kit. "Don't—" she starts, weakly.

But I don't let her finish this one either.

My arms slide under her knees and back. She's light. Too light. Heat radiates through the blanket, through her skin, through mine. I lift her in one smooth motion, ignoring the spike of awareness that shoots straight through my chest.

She stiffens.

Her breath catches—sharp, surprised. But she doesn't fight me.

Her fingers curl into the collar of my shirt.

And that—that—is almost worse than her silence.

I don't look at her. Not directly. Just keep walking down the hall, jaw clenched, eyes forward, heartbeat loud in my ears.

She doesn't say thank you this time.

She doesn't have to.

Not when her hand is still holding onto me like she's afraid I'll disappear.

Not when mine won't let go.

I set the suture kit down first. The tin clicks sharply against the countertop, the sound too loud in the quiet house.

Then I look at her.

She's still in my arms, light and warm and unsettling. She doesn't flinch or pull away. Just watches me with those unreadable green eyes, like she's daring me to feel something.

I take a breath, adjust my grip, and gently set her on the counter.

Her legs dangle off the edge, toes brushing the cabinets below. She stays quiet, her fingers curling slightly on the cool surface. Her shirt's wrinkled from sleep, one shoulder falling a little too low, exposing a hint of collarbone. Her hair's a mess, half stuck to her cheek.

But it's the way she looks at me that gets me.

Not with suspicion. Not with anger.

Just stillness.

Like she's waiting for something to break.

I don't step back right away.

I should. I know I should. But I don't.

I stay right there—between her knees, close enough to feel the heat of her legs near mine. My hands hover at my sides, clenched and useless. The kit's right next to us, untouched. I can't move.

Not yet.

Because she's looking at me like she sees through every wall I've ever built. Like she's thinking the same damn thing I am.

This can't happen.

But it's already happening.

Her breath hitches. Just barely. And mine answers it.

We don't speak.

The room holds its breath with us. The ticking clock, the low hum of the fridge, the fire popping in the next room.

It all fades.

Her knees shift slightly. Not toward me, not away. Just enough to remind me how close I am.

And then her voice—quiet, low, sharp as a wire pulled tight.

"Don't look at me like that."

I freeze.

Because I don't know how not to.

She's sitting on the counter like temptation carved into flesh, looking down at me like I'm the weapon she forgot to lock up. And I'm standing here pretending like I'm not five seconds from crossing a line I can't uncross.

I don't stop.

Because I can't.

Everything else falls away.

This is the moment.

The breath before a fall.

And neither of us moves.

Not yet.