LXXIII. Bucky

She's wrecked.

Chest rising in uneven breaths, lips parted, lashes fluttering as she looks up at me like I just pulled her out of the grave and back into her body.

But I'm not done.

I never am when it comes to her.

My hands skim up her sides, slow and deliberate, memorizing the shape of her beneath my fingers. She twitches under my touch like she's still not used to being handled like this—with care. With patience. With anything close to love.

She doesn't know what to do with gentleness. That much is obvious.

But she doesn't push me away either.

Her eyes don't leave mine as I lift the hem of my shirt—the one she's still wearing—just enough to reveal her stomach, the delicate lines of her ribs, the scar that curves down her hip. I trace it with my thumb, not asking about it, not needing to. I know what kind of place it came from.

I settle between her legs, still covered in sweatpants, still pressed tight against her heat, and she lets out this soft, broken sound that has my control unraveling fast.

"Look at you," I murmur, pressing my mouth to her jaw. "Still so fuckin' perfect."

She huffs out a breath like she wants to scoff, like she wants to argue—but I kiss her before she can.

Slow this time. Deep. The kind of kiss that drags your ribs apart and leaves you aching for more. Her mouth parts beneath mine and she kisses back with that same fire she always carries—sharp, desperate, too much and never enough.

Her fingers are in my hair again, tugging hard, dragging me closer like she's afraid I'll pull away if she doesn't hold me here.

I won't. Not tonight.

My hand moves down, palm flat against her thigh as I coax her legs apart again. She's already soaked again. Her hips shift, trying to grind against me, searching for friction.

"Needy little thing," I whisper against her lips, and she shudders.

Her hips roll again, more insistent this time. I growl softly, rocking forward just enough to tease her with the hard line of my cock through the cotton.

She whimpers—and fuck, if that doesn't go straight to my spine.

I sit back on my heels just enough to strip my shirt off, her gaze locked on every inch of exposed skin like she's trying to memorize me. Her hands trail down my chest, hesitant at first. I let her touch. Let her take what she needs.

Then I'm peeling her shirt off too—my shirt—watching as it slips off her shoulders, exposing every inch of her to the low light and the heat between us.

She's perfect.

Even when she doesn't think so.

Even when she looks at me like she's waiting for me to flinch.

I never do.

I slide my hand back between her thighs, dragging her leggings down fully now, leaving her bare and already trembling beneath me. Her breath catches, her legs twitch as my thumb finds her again, slow, teasing circles that make her back arch off the couch.

Her fingers claw at my shoulders. Her head tips back.

"God, Bucky," she gasps, and I grin, sharp and feral.

"That's it, baby. Let me hear you."

She moans—louder this time—and I feel it in my fucking soul.

I hook an arm around her waist and pull her into my lap, grinding her down against the outline of my cock still trapped in my sweats. She's panting, nails digging into my skin, her body moving with mine like we've done this a thousand times, even though we're still pretending this doesn't mean something.

But I feel it.

Every time she gasps my name.

Every time she opens up for me like this.

I feel it.

She rocks harder, hips chasing more—chasing me—and I let her. I let her take control, let her use me like she needs to, because sometimes that's what she really wants.

But when I slide two fingers into her again, thrusting deep and slow, she comes undone in my arms all over again. Moaning into my shoulder. Shaking around my hand.

And I hold her through all of it. Just like I always will.

She collapses against my chest, limp and sweating and silent.

And still so fucking beautiful it hurts.

I kiss her temple. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth.

I don't say anything else. I just stay there, holding her close, letting the storm outside rage on.

Because in here—with her like this—I finally feel still.

She goes quiet in my arms, but her body's still trembling. Not from what I did to her—no, that's already fading—but from everything she doesn't want me to see.

I can feel it in the way she holds herself, how her breaths start to quicken again—not with pleasure, but panic. Her mind's running, too fast and too loud. I've felt that kind of unraveling before. I've lived inside it.

She starts kissing my jaw, soft and deliberate, like she's flipping a switch. Like she's not allowed to rest.

And I know that look.

I know that silence.

I know that kind of survival.

Her lips trail down my chest and I feel her hand drift low, toward my waistband. It's slow, careful—almost too careful.

I catch her wrist before she gets there.

"Em," I murmur.

She doesn't stop.

Her mouth moves against my skin, like she's trying to erase the last hour, or maybe everything we've said in the last twenty-four. Her fingers push again, like she thinks this is what I want. That she has to give me this now.

But it doesn't feel right. It feels like a reflex. A mask she's slipping back on.

"Emris," I say again, firmer.

She finally looks up at me. Her eyes are distant, guarded, the way they were when I first met her—cold and unreadable, like she's buried herself somewhere deep just to survive.

"You don't have to," I tell her.

"I know," she says, too fast. Too flat.

But she tries again anyway.

Her hand brushes lower and I catch it again—tight this time. Not to hurt her. Just to stop her from running.

"Stop."

She stiffens.

And just like that, she shuts down completely. Pulls back. Reaches for her shirt like she needs armor again. The air around us turns cold, like I just said the wrong thing, like I just reminded her of everything she's spent years trying to forget.

"Yeah, well," she mutters as she yanks the shirt over her head, not meeting my eyes. "Too late for that."

"Emris."

"No, it's fine." She stands up fast, not looking at me. "You don't need to say anything. I'm good."

She's not. I can see it all over her. The way her jaw clenches. The way her hands twitch. She's running headfirst back into that shutdown state, back into that version of herself that feels safer behind a wall.

"You're doing it again," I say, sitting up but not chasing her.

She pauses. Shoulders locked. Head still turned away.

"Doing what?"

"Punishing yourself," I say quietly. "Pretending this didn't mean anything. Acting like you owe me something just because you let me see you."

She doesn't respond. Doesn't move.

"You're not just something for me to use, Em."

She flinches—barely—but I see it. Like the idea that I don't want her just for her body is more painful than the opposite.

"I don't want you like that. Not if you're using it to disappear again."

Still no answer.

She presses a hand against the doorframe like she needs it to stay upright. Her head's bowed, hair hiding most of her face, but I can see the tension in her back.

So I stand.

I don't go to her. Not yet. I give her the space, but I let my voice soften.

"You don't have to perform with me," I say. "You don't have to turn it on every time you feel too much."

She finally turns her head, just a little, like she's trying to decide whether she hates me for saying it or needs to hear it again.

"You don't have to be anything but here," I say. "With me."

It's quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like a tightrope walk—one wrong word and she'll vanish again.

But she doesn't move. Doesn't speak. She just stands there, breathing hard, like she's trying not to cry.

And I stay still. I let her decide. I won't push.

If she walks away, I'll let her.

If she stays—I'll be right here.

She's standing there like the weight of the world is on her shoulders, and maybe it is. Maybe it always has been.

I don't move. Not yet. I'm waiting—watching her shoulders rise and fall with uneven breaths. She hasn't walked away, and she hasn't asked me to come closer either. And in a strange way, I think this is her version of trying. Of trusting me with this silence.

I replay everything I just said to her in my head, every word I meant more than I've meant anything in years. And I wonder if I've gone too far. If I've cracked open something she can't afford to leave exposed.

Because the truth is, I don't hate her. Not anymore.

And that pisses me off.

I should hate her. She was there in my nightmares long before she ended up in my bed. She was part of the machine that broke me. That held me down and rewired my soul. Hydra. Lotus. Pierce. Dragunov. All the ghosts that danced behind my eyes when I closed them at night—she was one of them. But now... now she's different.

Now she's not a shadow. She's human. She's real. And somehow, she's the only person who knows what it's like to be ruined and reshaped and still breathing.

I run a hand through my hair, jaw clenched, frustrated at the ache in my chest.

Why her?

Why the hell am I falling for the woman they used to destroy me?

My eyes stay on her, locked on that familiar curve of her spine beneath one of my shirts, the fabric hanging off her like it belongs there. Her hair's a little messy, her posture tense, but even now—she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

And somehow, in the middle of all this mess, I haven't thought about Steve.

I haven't thought about who I used to be.

I haven't thought about the Winter Soldier.

I've been too busy thinking about her.

I've been trying to help her get over what I did, what they did, without even realizing she's been doing the same thing for me. Every sarcastic jab, every stupid argument, every time she shoved me in training and told me to keep up—it was pulling me forward.

And yesterday—yesterday changed something.

I think about her voice when she said it, soft and almost broken: "When the baby—my baby—didn't have abilities, they took care of it."

She never said the word.

She couldn't.

But I knew what she meant.

They killed her baby.

Because it wasn't powerful enough.

Because they treated her like a science project, not a person. Like breeding stock for their next weapon.

And I've never wanted to murder someone as badly as I did in that moment.

There's a quiet fury in me still—burning low but steady. I want to go back in time and tear every last one of those bastards apart with my bare hands. I want to rewrite her past, unmake every scar on her body and in her mind. I want her to have had a choice.

And I hate that I can't give her that.

But I can give her this.

A second of peace. A moment of safety. The kind of silence that doesn't scream.

"Em," I say, my voice softer now. Not demanding. Just letting her know I'm still here.

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't walk away. And that—God, that feels like more than I deserve.

I take a slow step forward. She doesn't stop me.

Another step. She's still quiet.

When I reach her, I don't touch her. Not yet. I just stand close enough for her to feel the heat off my chest, close enough to let her decide.

Her breathing is calmer now, still shallow but not panicked. Her fingers twitch by her side.

Then, slowly—so slowly—I see her lean back just enough for her shoulder to brush mine.

It's not a hug. It's not an invitation.

But it's something.

I raise my hand and rest it lightly on her back, right between her shoulder blades. Just enough pressure to say: I've got you.

And when she doesn't pull away, I let myself breathe again.

She drops.

No warning, no gasp, no sound.

Her knees buckle like the weight of it all finally gave out beneath her. And I'm right there, right behind her, so she doesn't hit the floor hard. I catch her, arms hooking under hers before her head can snap back, before she can even process it.

But I don't lift her.

I don't carry her to the couch.

I don't try to fix it.

I just hold her right there on the floor.

Her body curls into mine like muscle memory, like it knows what to do even when her mind doesn't. She's trembling, but there's no sound—just the faintest hitch of breath, the softest inhale that catches in her throat.

Then the tears come. Silent.

I feel them before I see them. The heat of them soaking through the cotton of my shirt, the slow damp against my chest where her face is buried.

She's crying, and she's trying so damn hard not to.

I wrap my arms tighter around her, my hand finding the back of her head, fingers weaving into her hair as I pull her in. I press my forehead to hers. I don't let go.

"Hey," I whisper. "It's okay."

She doesn't respond. Her hands are fists now, gripping the fabric of my shirt like she's scared I'll let go if she doesn't hold on tight enough.

"It's okay," I repeat, softer this time, like maybe if I say it enough, she'll believe it.

Like maybe I'll believe it.

Her breath stutters again, another tear rolling down her cheek, and I catch it with my thumb. I wipe it away before it falls.

Then another.

And another.

I keep wiping them. One by one.

She's still silent. No sobbing. No shaking. Just these slow, steady tears she can't stop.

I hate this. I hate that all I can do is hold her. That I can't go back in time and stop any of it from happening. That I can't erase the memories that eat her alive every time she closes her eyes.

But I can do this.

I can be here.

I can stay.

"You're safe," I whisper, voice barely above the sound of the storm outside. "You're not there anymore, Em. You're safe."

Her body curls in tighter, like she's trying to disappear inside me, and I let her. My hand never leaves her hair. My other arm stays wrapped around her back, solid and unmoving.

"I've got you."

More tears fall. Slower now. Her breath is starting to even out, but her fingers haven't loosened. Not yet. She's still scared. Still braced for the next thing to break.

I press a kiss to the side of her head.

"I'm not going anywhere."

She shifts just enough that I can see her face—her lashes soaked, her skin flushed, lips trembling from the effort of staying quiet.

God, she's beautiful.

Not like this. Not because she's crying. But because even broken, even unraveling, she's still trying. Still surviving.

"I wish I could take it all from you," I murmur. "Every second. Every scar. Every scream."

She doesn't speak. But she doesn't need to.

She's letting me hold her. That's enough.

Minutes pass like that—her in my arms, the storm battering the windows, the weight of the world quiet for once. We're just two people on a wooden floor in the middle of nowhere, trying not to fall apart.

Eventually, her grip loosens. Just a little. Her fists relax, and her breath finally comes without a shudder. I feel her cheek slide against my chest as she shifts, wiping away the last of the tears herself.

I hold her tighter.

"You don't have to be strong right now," I whisper. "You don't have to be anything for me."

Her fingers twitch at my side. The smallest nod.

I close my eyes.

And for the first time in what feels like years, I don't feel the hum of violence under my skin. I don't hear the echo of the Winter Soldier's footsteps in my head. I don't see red. I don't see blood.

I just feel her.

Alive. Soft. Real.

And mine to protect.