LXXI. Emris

The steam hits me first—thick, warm, heavy with the scent of Bucky's body wash. Woodsy. Clean. It already clings to the tile, curling into the air like smoke.

He doesn't hear me at first.

His back is to me, head tipped forward under the water, arms braced against the wall. Muscles tight. That silver arm gleaming under the spray. His shoulders rise and fall slowly, like he's trying to exhale something that won't leave.

For a second, I almost back out. Almost shut the door and pretend I never stepped inside.

But then he turns his head.

His eyes land on me—blue, sharp, darkened by something I can't quite name.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't smirk or make a joke.

He just looks at me like I'm something he doesn't quite trust... but can't stop craving.

I step in.

The tile is cold under my feet, but the water is hot—scalding, almost, the kind of heat that scrubs your skin raw. I walk toward him slowly, deliberately. His gaze never leaves me, but his arm reaches behind him to turn the heat down.

My fingers brush his arm.

That's all it takes.

In a flash, he spins, crowding me into the wall. The water beats down over both of us now—soaking my hair, sliding down my back, between my thighs. His hand slams beside my head, caging me in, and I swear I can feel the tension vibrating in his bones.

His mouth crashes into mine—hot, wet, open, hungry. This isn't like before. It's not tender or exploratory. It's not about figuring each other out.

It's possession.

His hands roam fast, gripping my hips, sliding up my ribs, cupping my face like he's trying to memorize me. I arch into him, breath catching as his thigh slips between mine and pins me there.

The water doesn't slow us down—it only makes it worse. More intense. More desperate. Skin slick against skin. Breathless curses whispered between kisses. Hands everywhere, pulling, gripping, guiding.

He lifts me without warning, pressing me against the wall, my legs wrapping around his waist like it's instinct. I gasp, nails digging into his back, my mind a blur of heat and want and him.

His name slips from my mouth before I can stop it.

"Bucky—"

He groans like it's the first time he's ever heard it.

"Say it again," he mutters, lips trailing down my neck, over the curve of my collarbone.

"Bucky."

He shudders.

For a man who once said he hated me—he touches me like he's starving. Like the taste of me is the only thing keeping him alive.

And for someone who swore I couldn't stand him...

I let him have all of me.

Right there.

Under the pounding water.

Against the cold tile.

In the arms of the man I'm not supposed to want.

His hand snaps into my hair, yanking my head back hard, exposing my neck like I'm an offering. His lips descend, warm and rough—sucking, biting at the soft skin there. A sharp pulse of pain, but I don't pull away. I press my lips to the inside of his arm, taste the faint salt on his skin, then run my tongue over his skin like I'm marking territory.

"I want to taste you," I whisper, voice low and heavy with promise.

He pulls back, eyes dark and wild, filled with something raw—lust, hunger, maybe something I've never dared to admit I want from him. He lets go of my hair, and I slide down to my knees, never breaking eye contact.

My lips brush the head of him, his body twitches beneath my touch. A slow, wicked smirk spreads across my mouth. I take him fully, the heat of him filling me, swallowing every inch, even if I struggle. My tongue glides over the top, coaxing soft moans from my throat—moans that are almost drowned out by his deep groans.

He can't hold my gaze anymore. His head falls back, the tension in his neck raw and exposed.

I bob my head, slow and steady at first, then with growing urgency. My tongue circles him, slick and hot, driving him wild. His hips jerk, thrusting into my mouth as if he needs to bury himself deeper.

Tears sting my eyes, saliva leaks from the corners of my mouth, but I don't stop. One of his hands slams against the wall beside me. The other curls into the back of my hair, pushing me down further, hitting the back of my throat again and again.

He groans, loud and ragged. My hands trail up his chest, fingers gripping the hard planes of his abs as he fucks my mouth like it's the only thing holding him steady.

One last violent thrust and he spills inside me. I swallow every drop, a smirk curling on my lips.

I drag my tongue up his length one last time, locking eyes with him as he struggles to catch his breath.

He looks like he wants to say something—something dangerous. But all I feel is the dizzying mix of power and vulnerability tangled between us.

And I don't know if I hate it or want more.

The steam curls thick around us, fogging up the glass and pressing heat into my skin, but it's nothing compared to the fire still simmering between us. Bucky leans against the wall, head tipped back, chest heaving like he's trying to remember how to breathe. Water streaks down his body in rivulets, dripping off his jaw, running over his broad shoulders and disappearing between the sharp lines of muscle.

I rise slowly, licking my bottom lip as I do, my knees aching from the tile but my pride intact. My fingers trail up his stomach, over the scars etched into his skin like stories he'll never tell me. His vibranium hand twitches at his side, uncertain, like he doesn't know whether to pull me close or push me away.

So I choose for him.

I press myself against him, chest to chest, steam and skin and tension. My mouth hovers near his ear, breath hot. "You okay, Sergeant?"

His laugh is low and shaky. "You're dangerous."

I lean in closer, lips brushing the edge of his jaw. "Took you long enough to figure that out."

His hand—flesh this time—grabs my hip, pulling me flush against him. I feel him, already starting to harden again, and I don't fight it. I don't pull away. Maybe I should. Maybe I will. Just not yet.

I tilt my head up and he leans down to me, catching my mouth in a kiss that's rough and wet and teeth. He groans against my lips, gripping tighter, like he's trying to anchor himself. Or maybe he's trying to drown with me.

He spins me so my back hits the wall, water raining down on both of us. His mouth moves over my throat, biting the same spot he marked earlier, as if he needs to remind himself it happened. That I let him.

My fingers dig into his back as he lifts one of my legs, hooking it around his waist. I feel the weight of him between my thighs, the promise of more. But he doesn't move yet.

Instead, he pulls back, just enough to look me in the eye. His voice is rough, like gravel soaked in honey.

"You sure?"

I hate that he asks. I hate that he still gives me a choice, like I deserve that kind of gentleness. But I nod anyway, eyes locked on his.

"Yes," I breathe, "just—don't stop thinking I can break you."

His lips curl into something that isn't quite a smirk, but close. "Not a chance."

Then he's kissing me again, and this time, there's no restraint. No hesitation. Just fire and friction and that familiar push and pull that's been there since the beginning.

And I let it take me under.

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

The kitchen is warm with sunlight, the kind that filters in dusty through old windows and makes everything look softer than it is. The air smells like toasted bread and mustard. My legs swing lightly where I'm perched on the counter, bare feet brushing against the cabinet. I pick at a scar on my knee and watch Bucky move around the tiny kitchen like he doesn't know I'm staring at him. But he does. He always does.

He's making sandwiches. The kind of quiet domestic thing that would've felt foreign a month ago but now feels like... something else. Not normal, but something adjacent. Something dangerous in its calmness.

He's wearing a shirt this time, which is rude, honestly. Grey. Tight around the arms. His hair's still damp from his morning shower. He didn't say anything when I came out here in just one of his t-shirts and my underwear. He just raised an eyebrow and handed me coffee like we hadn't nearly torn each other apart in the shower twelve hours ago.

His hand pauses over the bread. I can hear the question forming in the silence.

"I've been meaning to ask you..." he says finally, his voice quiet, almost too casual.

I already know what it is. The tension in his shoulders gives it away. That particular kind of hesitation. My jaw tightens. I look down at my hands. "I can't get pregnant, Bucky."

He stills completely. "Oh."

"I mean—I can," I correct, sighing. "Biologically. Everything works. But I have an IUD. So, no. It's not happening."

He doesn't speak right away. Just nods a little, like he's processing. I can see the next question pressing behind his eyes, and I want to shut it down. I want to change the subject or make a joke. Something deflective. Sharp. But I don't.

I exhale through my nose, resting my palms on the edge of the counter behind me. "You wanna ask why."

Bucky looks up at me, guilt flickering across his face. "You don't have to—"

"No, I know." I shake my head, cutting him off. "But I'd rather tell you than let you spiral into whatever anxious warzone fantasy you've got playing in your head."

His lips twitch like he wants to smile but knows better. He leans back against the counter across from me, sandwich forgotten.

The sandwich sits untouched in my hand.

Bucky's already taken a bite of his, chewing slowly, eyes darting up to me between bites. He knows I'm holding something back. I can feel it in the silence between us, too loud to ignore. His shoulders shift like he's trying to be patient, but his jaw's tight. He's waiting for me to fill the space I created. I hate that I feel the urge to.

I set the sandwich down. My fingers curl around the counter edge beside my thighs, pressing hard enough to whiten the skin. I don't meet his eyes.

"The Black Lotus gives all their female agents IUDs," I say finally. My voice sounds strange. Distant. "It's part of standard conditioning. They implant them young. Sixteen. Seventeen. Maybe earlier if you're unlucky."

Bucky doesn't say anything, but I feel him stop chewing.

"It's not just about control. Or sterilization like the Red Room. The Lotus isn't trying to wipe out our reproductive abilities. They're... curious."

My eyes flick up. He's staring now. Like he knows he's standing on a minefield.

"They wanted to see what happened if someone like me had a child. If the abilities they forced into our brains—our cells—could be passed down. Inherited."

Bucky's eyes darken, and his jaw ticks. His mouth opens like he's going to speak, but I don't let him. I'm already unraveling, and I need to say it on my terms.

"I wasn't even a person to them. I was a test tube with knives. A walking experiment. They talked about it all the time. Like I wasn't in the room. As if my body was a breeding ground for their next project."

I try to laugh, but it comes out brittle. "Romantic, right?"

Bucky puts his sandwich down on the counter. I watch him move with that slow, deliberate weight he always carries. A quiet storm under his skin.

Then he's in front of me.

He steps between my legs, crowding into my space but not touching me. Not yet. His vibranium hand lifts slightly before resting gently on my thigh. His flesh one mirrors it.

And I flinch. Not from fear. From recognition.

"No," I say sharply. My voice is a rasp, more breath than sound. "Don't."

He freezes. His hands retreat instantly, open-palmed and non-threatening. He doesn't back away, though. Doesn't give me space. He just waits. That infuriating patience again. Like I'm something sacred and volatile all at once.

I hate that.

I hate that he doesn't pretend not to see me.

I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly too aware of how little I'm wearing. Just his t-shirt and my underwear. I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the lack of clothes.

My legs shift slightly on the counter, instinctively closing off. A barrier. His gaze doesn't dip—not once. He doesn't ogle or leer or grin like most men would. His eyes stay on mine, steady and heavy.

Too heavy.

He looks at me like he sees everything. Every cracked part, every shattered edge I've spent years welding shut. Like he understands what I'm not saying—what I can't say.

And I hate it.

I hate that he sees the pieces of me I haven't given him permission to look at.

"I'm not doing this," I mutter, turning my face toward the window, toward anything but him. "I'm not falling apart in front of you."

"I didn't ask you to."

His voice is quiet. Calm. Too calm.

"But you want me to."

"No," he says. "I want you to feel safe enough to choose it. That's different."

God, I want to scream. Or throw something. Or kiss him just to ruin the moment. Just to reset the board.

But I don't. I sit there with my heart racing and my skin burning and my chest twisting in ways I can't explain.

The thing is, I know he's telling the truth.

Bucky Barnes has never tried to strip me open. Not like Hydra did to him. Not like the Black Lotus did to me. He doesn't pry or push. He waits. Watches. Leaves the door open, even when I slam it in his face.

And that's what terrifies me most.

Because if he's not the enemy—if he's not trying to break me—then I don't know what to do with the way he makes me feel.

I close my eyes, inhale sharply, and let the silence thicken again.

His hands don't return to my thighs. He doesn't ask anything else. He just stands there, steady as stone, like a wall I could lean on if I'd just stop pretending I'm not bleeding.

But I don't. Not yet.

I sit there in his shirt, feeling naked in ways that have nothing to do with my body, and I let him look.

And I let him stay.

Silence stretches between us like barbed wire.

Bucky doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just watches me—blue eyes fixed, unreadable, like he's trying to figure out where the cracks are without pressing too hard. Like if he does, I'll shatter.

I already have.

I stare past his shoulder at nothing. The light from the window is too bright, the hum of the refrigerator too loud. I feel everything and nothing all at once.

"It didn't work," I whisper, breaking the silence like glass. The words hang there, sharp-edged and unfinished.

Bucky blinks, but doesn't react.

"When the baby—my baby—didn't have abilities..." My voice trails, my throat tightens. The words fight me. Even now, years later, the truth burns too hot to touch. "They tested it. Every day. Blood, spinal fluid, scans. When it came back normal..."

I pause. The next part lives behind a locked door I keep barricaded in the back of my mind. My hands tremble slightly on the edge of the counter. I stare down at my bare knees, suddenly hating how exposed I am in Bucky's shirt and nothing else.

"They, um... they took care of it," I say, voice barely audible.

I don't say they killed the baby. I can't.

I feel the words, though. Lodged behind my ribs like splinters. I feel the way they strapped me down. The cold sting of the IV. The sterile smell of failure. Dragunov's voice—"Next time, we'll try a stronger host. This one was... unremarkable."

The memory turns my stomach. I shift uncomfortably, like I can wriggle out of my own skin.

Bucky's still staring at me. His mouth parts like he wants to speak.

"Don't," I say quickly, my voice cracking. "Please don't."

I bring my knees up to my chest and cover my face with my hands. I don't cry. I won't. I can't. My body's locked in programming, like a machine that only knows one command: do not show pain. I had to be strong in Hydra and the Red Room. I had to be stronger in the Black Lotus. Crying was for the weak, for the ones who didn't survive.

Karpov used to tell me emotions were a defect. Dragunov said motherhood was only useful if the child could serve the cause. I internalized it all, until softness became something to fear. A weapon I never wanted used against me.

But now... I can't hide how badly I want to disappear.

For a long moment, there's nothing. No footsteps. No words. Just me breathing into my palms, locked in that liminal space where grief meets shame.

Then I feel him.

Arms, one warm and the other cold, slide beneath me. Bucky lifts me off the counter like I weigh nothing. I don't fight him. I'm too tired. My body curls instinctively into him, cheek brushing against the hollow of his throat.

His heart is beating faster than I expected.

The hallway passes in soft blurs. He doesn't speak. Just walks with that quiet, steady way he always moves, like every part of him is trained for war but doesn't want to make noise. When we reach the bedroom, he lays me down gently, tucks the blanket around me like I'm something fragile.

He turns to leave.

"Bucky." His name rips from my throat before I even mean to say it. My voice is raw, wrecked. I hate it.

He stops in the doorway, looks back. Something passes over his face—softness, sadness, guilt maybe. He walks back to the bed and sits beside me.

Doesn't touch me.

Doesn't say a word.

Just is there.

The stillness feels louder than anything else. It would be easier if he got angry. If he yelled. If he said he didn't understand or that it was wrong or that I was broken. That I should have fought harder. I could deal with that. I could defend against that.

But this?

This quiet acceptance, this gentleness—it unravels me more than any interrogation cell ever did.

I turn over slowly, the blanket clinging to my body. Inch closer to him, even though I don't know why. I don't want to need anyone. I don't want him. Not like this.

But I do.

God, I do.

Bucky doesn't say anything when I settle next to him. He just lifts the blanket and lets me tuck myself into the space under his arm. One arm comes around my shoulders, the other rests protectively on my waist.

His chest is warm. His breath is steady. He holds me like it's easy. Like it's natural.

I hate how much that comforts me.

I press my face into the crook of his neck and let out a breath I've been holding for years. I don't cry. Not fully. But something inside me cracks open, and for the first time in a long time... I let someone see it.

And he doesn't look away.

He just holds me tighter.

And says nothing.