Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bucky stood near the pickup counter, the little paper ticket folded between his fingers. His red hoodie was zipped up halfway over a worn black Henley, jeans damp around the cuffs where snow had melted through, and black boots.

The coffee shop was almost too warm—the kind of heat that clung to your skin after stepping in from the cold. The air was thick with cinnamon syrup, scorched espresso, and the faint dampness of people shaking snow from their coats. Steam curled against the fogged glass of the pastry case, softening the edges of the pastries like a dream you couldn’t quite remember.

He’d already ordered his usual—vanilla latte. Extra shot. Always.

Not that he needed caffeine. His pulse had been jittery since morning—half from the cold, half from the fact that he’d been avoiding his sketchbooks sitting on his desk.

Art had started as therapy.

His advisor suggested it last semester, something to quiet his brain when the anxiety got loud. 

And it worked—sort of. 

Art was different. Quieter. Even when it was messy. Even when his palms were stained black with graphite or his back ached from hunching over a still life for too long, it made sense.

There was something about watching a blank page become a person. He liked the routine of it. The clean newsprint pads, the charcoal smudges on his fingertips, the way the world narrowed down to lines and shading instead of deadlines and whatever fresh disaster his inbox held.

He’d always drawn, even as a kid—on napkins, notebook margins, school tables, and his sneakers. But this was the first time anyone had told him to take it seriously. To study it. To push himself.

For months, they’d been sketching still lifes—the safe stuff. Objects arranged under perfect lighting, carefully posed to make amateurs feel competent. Apples. Wine bottles. A crumpled leather jacket on a stool. Once, a rusted bike tire was hanging from the ceiling like it was part of a museum exhibit called Objects That Are Supposed to Teach You Perspective.

Bucky liked the structure of it. The quiet discipline. The way each object demanded something different—the waxy shine of fruit versus the dull glint of glass, the texture of cloth versus cold metal. It gave him something to focus on that wasn’t his inbox or his blood pressure.

Which was why the next assignment felt like a betrayal.

“Nude figure studies,” Professor Hill had said, the syllabus said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Some of the students snickered. One guy said “hell yeah” out loud and got a warning glance.

For Bucky, it was anything but.

Other people in class already had models lined up—friends, flings, exes, and Hinge matches. They’d laughed about it in the hall, trading stories about who was posing and when, like it was just another Saturday plan.

Bucky didn’t have that kind of roster. Didn’t want that kind of roster. And the truth was—he didn’t want a casual arrangement. Not really. The whole idea made his palms sweat and his brain short-circuit.

The only person he’d ever been remotely close to doing something like that with was Gail Richards. His high school girlfriend.

Three months. That was the entire relationship. 

They’d gone to prom together, dancing until his palms were slick with sweat. Later, at the after-party, she’d tugged him into the backseat of her mom’s sedan, giggling against his mouth. They kissed there in the parking lot, beneath the sickly yellow glow of a buzzing streetlight.

He remembered the way her perfume clung to the air and how his hands fumbled nervously at the zipper of her dress. He’d managed to get the top down far enough for her to guide his hand to her bra, whispering, “It’s okay, you can touch me.”

And he had—light, tentative, like he was afraid she might actually break. Her hand slid down his chest, lower, cupping him through his dress pants, and his whole body short-circuited. Heat punched through him so fast his knees nearly buckled.

Before she could say another word, the survival part of his brain hit the eject button.

“Can’t—morning shift,” he blurted, fumbling for the door handle like it might save his life.

He tumbled out into the night air—straight into the path of a Honda. The driver laid on the horn, swerving just enough to miss him.

She texted him the next morning: it’s over.

Figures.

And that had pretty much been it.

That was two years ago, and he still couldn’t think about it without wanting to crawl out of his own skin.

He wasn’t bad with women exactly—he just… didn’t have any practice. Sure, he’d had conversations with girls since. Mostly about group projects or where the restrooms were at his part-time job at Burger Frog. But actual flirting? The kind that led somewhere? Not his strong suit.

Which was why he was currently standing in a line that felt like it was moving backward, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, trying not to think about how the syllabus for his figure drawing class might as well have read: Get naked in front of a stranger.

The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous the whole thing sounded—asking someone, point-blank, if they’d pose nude for him. Wrong tone, wrong person, and he’d end up on a campus-wide watchlist.

He was halfway through debating whether he should just drop the class altogether when the bell over the coffee shop door jingled—sharp and bright, slicing clean through his thoughts. A rush of cold air slid across the back of his neck, and before he could stop himself, he glanced up—

—and froze.

And just like that, every thought—Gail, prom night, the assignment, all the reasons he wasn’t cut out for a normal conversation—vanished.

You unwound your scarf in quick, practiced movements, shaking the last bits of snow from your hair. A tote bag bumped against your hip, heavy with textbooks.

Bucky caught sight of you in his peripheral vision—and then realized, with dawning horror, that you were heading straight toward him. His spine stiffened. He jerked his gaze back to the counter like it was suddenly fascinating, cleared his throat, and pretended he hadn’t seen you at all.

Stepping into line behind him, your coat brushed his arm, carrying a warm, bright scent—citrus with something softer beneath it. You smiled to yourself, like you’d just decided something, then leaned slightly forward and called over his shoulder:

“Hey.”

Bucky didn’t turn. Could’ve been for anyone. People said "hey" all the time—half the time it wasn’t even to him. He kept his eyes on the menu like it held the answers to something. The line inched forward. He moved with it.

“Hey,” you said again, your voice a little louder, closer now—unmistakably directed at him.

He glanced over his shoulder—just a quick look—

And froze.

You were looking right at him.

“… Were you talking to me?” He asked quietly, the words slipping out with a hesitant lift, like he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice bright with recognition. “You’re Bucky, right? You’re in art class with my friend Natasha.”

Bucky blinked, the name hitting him a second too late. “Oh—Nat,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. Redhead, funny, kinda scary?”

“That’s her,” you confirmed warmly, the corners of your eyes crinkling like you were already in on a private joke. “I’ve seen you a few times, actually. When I’d swing by after class to walk back with her. Your class ends right before ours starts, I think? Same building.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, a little dazed by the idea that you had noticed him. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense. Small world.”

“Small campus,” you corrected gently, tone soft and teasing—like you didn’t want to contradict him, just couldn’t help it. 

The line shuffled forward, and so did you. Bucky was aware of your presence the way you’re aware of an open flame—close enough to feel the heat, careful not to touch. Your coat brushed his arm again, and a soft floral scent threaded through the bitter cloud of espresso and scorched milk.

Someone squeezed past with a mumbled “sorry,” shoulder bumping his as they ducked out the door. A pair of students with iced lattes balanced on textbooks slid into the window seat. The door chimed again. The world kept moving.

You stepped up to the counter with a bright “good morning” for the barista—light and cheerful, like you actually meant it. You rattled off your order with easy confidence, something with oat milk and extra cinnamon. 

Bucky found himself watching—not in a creepy way (he hoped), but in the kind of way you’d watch someone who didn’t seem to notice how magnetic they were. The way you smiled at the barista, the way you said thank you like it wasn’t just a reflex—it all landed in his head like an uninvited song. A distraction. A daydream. The exact opposite of what he needed right now, which, of course, only made it worse.

“So,” you said, voice lilting like you were about to tell a secret, “I heard you’ve got a… pretty interesting assignment this week.”

The words slid through the haze like a match strike.

His head snapped up, a little too fast. “Oh—uh… yeah?”

“Mhm.” You tilted your head, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness. “The, uh… life drawing one?”

“Oh. That.” He tried to sound nonchalant and landed somewhere between mildly concussed and actively drowning. “Yeah. That’s—still happening.”

“Yes, how’s that going?” You shifted your weight onto one leg, letting your hip bump the counter as the barista called out a name that wasn’t yours. “Nat got our friend Clint. He caved the second she promised to Venmo him for Taco Bell and threatened to smash his Xbox.”

Bucky huffed. “Clint’s got guts.”

Someone brushed past behind you, mumbling an apology. 

“So,” you went on, sweetly, “found someone yet?

Bucky blinked, buying time.

His mouth opened and then closed again.

God.

It was a simple question. Normal. Casual.

But somehow it landed in his brain like a glitch in the system.

You were looking at him. Waiting.

Not in a weird way—just… expectant. Friendly.

And yet his pulse was suddenly crawling up his throat like he’d swallowed it wrong.

The second it left his mouth, he winced internally. Process? Really? That’s what you’re going with? He could practically hear Steve snorting in his head.

You raised an eyebrow, drawing the word out like you were taste-testing it. “Process?”

In his head, it sounded solid. In his head, it sounded solid. Out loud, it flailed like a kid pretending to swim. He hadn’t even thought about asking anyone—mostly because of the idea of actually saying the words, “Would you pose nude for me? It’s for class, I swear" made him want to walk directly into traffic.

He scrambled for cover. “Yeah, just—uh—seeing who’s available. Weighing my options. Timing. Stuff.”

Stop talking. Stop. Talking.

You gave him a look that cut straight through the bluff.

“You haven’t found a model yet, have you?”

“Nope,” he said, way too cheerful about it. Nailed it, Barnes. Now she definitely thinks you’re pathetic.

You laughed—not mean, just amused—and the sound landed somewhere low in his stomach. Warm. Distracting. Dangerous.

“You’re not much of a people-asker, are you?”

He shifted his weight, eyes darting back to the menu board.

“Not really my thing.”

“Talking to people?”

“Among that.” He waved a hand vaguely, like the concept itself might catch fire if he held on too long.

You laughed again, quieter this time, and for a second, he forgot they were standing in line at all.

“Thought so.”

He huffed out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… Guess I’ll just fail the class. Add it to the résumé—professional quitter.”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly, like you were actually picturing him doing it. 

“Shame,” you said finally. “You’d probably do a good job if you could just… get out of your own way.”

That shouldn’t have felt like a challenge, but it did.

The line moved, and you stepped forward. Bucky followed, a beat behind, still trying not to stare at the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His brain, ever helpful, served up a highlight reel of how badly asking you might go—your polite smile, raised brows, and the inevitable eww, no. He’d rather eat his own sketchbook.

But then you turned back to him, just slightly, like you couldn’t help yourself. Like maybe you’d been waiting for him to say something.

“You know,” you said, like you were offering a napkin or asking the time, “I could do it.”

For a second, the words just bounced off his brain.

His order number slipped straight out of his hand and hit the floor.

“Oh—shit—sorry—” He bent down so fast he nearly headbutted the guy behind him. Straightened again, cheeks burning. “What?”

Your smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, like you knew exactly how much you’d thrown him.

“I’m being serious.” You met his eyes without flinching, a small smile playing on your lips. “It’s weird, sure—but kind of cool too, right? I feel like that’s what college is for. Doing stuff you’d never have the guts to try later.”

He swallowed.

You just offered to let him see you—really see you.

And you’d said it like it was nothing.

“I’m down if you’re down,” you added, almost casually, like you hadn’t just detonated the assignment in his head.

Was this a joke? No—your face was too calm for that. You were just… actually fine with it. Like it was nothing.

Bucky’s brain stalled, the way an old computer does when you open too many tabs. Half of him was already saying yes on instinct, the other half screaming do not sound like you’ve been dreaming about this since freshman year.

He blinked. Once. Twice. His tongue felt like it had forgotten how words worked. What did people even say in moments like this? Cool, thanks? Neat, let’s schedule your nudity? His pulse thudded in his ears, his hoodie felt too warm, and his hand tightened around the little paper ticket until it crumpled.

“I mean,” you went on when he didn’t answer right away, “if you don’t want to, that’s fine. Forget I said—”

“I’ll do it.”

It slipped out before he could think.

The words hung in the air like he’d just signed a contract written in permanent marker. His palms went damp. His hoodie felt too warm.

For half a second, his brain short-circuited—flashing straight into a scene he hadn’t meant to imagine but couldn’t stop once it started.

You. In his room.

Late golden hour bleeding in through the blinds, streaking softly across the hardwood. You’d be on the chair he dragged from his desk, legs crossed loosely, back straight because he’d asked you to hold still—and you listened.

He’d put on jazz—something low and slow, humming beneath the silence like a secret. The kind of song that made time feel heavy and intimate.

His sketchbook would be open on his knee, pencil in hand, but his focus wouldn’t waver between strokes. Not with you sitting like that, completely comfortable under his gaze. Not when you let him look. Really look.

And he’d take his time.

Eyes dragging over every line, every shift of light on your skin. He wouldn’t speak much, just the occasional quiet “Hold that” or “Chin up,” voice low enough to make the air hum.

And you’d obey.

Because you trusted him. And because the weight in his voice made it impossible not to.

By the end of it, the room would be warm with silence. You’d exhale slowly, about to ask if he was done—

but he’d already be standing.

He’d set the sketchbook aside. He stepped toward you, slow and sure, hand braced on the back of the chair as he leaned in.

“You did perfect,” he’d murmur, eyes flicking to your mouth.

And then he’d kiss you—firm, certain, like he already knew you’d taste as good as he’d imagined.

One hand on your jaw. The other slipping behind your neck, anchoring you to the moment. Holding you still while he deepened it, like he wanted to memorize the way you melted for him.

Heat bloomed in his chest, sharp and sweet and hungry, and—

Jesus Christ, pull it together, Barnes.

His breath caught. Reality crashed back in like cold water. You were still standing there, real and close and waiting.

“Great, gimme your phone,” you said, hand out like you already knew he’d cave.

“What?”

“Your phone,” you repeated, palm open, like you were asking for a pen.

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” He fumbled it out of his hoodie pocket, nearly dropping it when the cord to his headphones snagged on his keys. 

You typed your number in with quick, confident taps, then hit Call. A second later, your own phone buzzed in your hand.

“Perfect. Now we’re official.”

His mouth opened, brain scrambling for something to say—anything that didn’t sound like holy shit, we have each other’s numbers now, should I send you a meme or my will?

You glanced up at him, and your mouth curved in that way that made his ears burn.

“And now you can’t pretend you lost my number when you chicken out.”

Chicken out?

The words lodged somewhere between his ribcage and throat, but before he could prove he was absolutely not chicken—

“Order seventy-three!”

The barista’s voice cracked through the air, sharp enough to make Bucky flinch. He didn’t move. Just stood there, phone still in his hand, like he’d forgotten how arms worked.

“Seventy-three!” the barista called again, more impatient this time.

You glanced down, spotted the crumpled ticket in his fist, and plucked it from him before he could react.

“That’s you,” you said, voice warm but threaded with amusement.

Bucky blinked, brain lagging a solid five seconds behind, before stepping toward the counter like a man learning to walk for the first time.

He muttered something unintelligible—might’ve been “yep” or “kill me now”—and grabbed the cup, every step feeling like he’d forgotten how to walk like a normal person.

Bucky shuffled up to the counter, the ticket still warm from your fingers, and grabbed his cup like it was evidence. The cardboard sleeve squeaked against his palm, hands still a little sweaty. He fished out a couple of crumpled bills for the tip jar, mumbled something that wasn’t quite “thanks,” and turned back—ready to salvage whatever cool he’d lost.

But you weren’t standing alone anymore.

You were leaning against the counter, head tilted toward some friend who had appeared out of nowhere, laughing at something she’d just said. Your eyes were bright. Engaged. Pulled fully into that moment—one that didn’t include him.

Bucky hesitated, cup halfway to his mouth, and lifted a hand in a gesture that wasn’t quite a wave—just an awkward, halfway-raised palm. You didn’t see it.

Or maybe you did. But you didn’t look his way.

So he nodded once to himself, like that was totally fine, and pushed out through the door.

The bell gave a sharp little chime on his way out.

And then the cold hit him—crisp and biting, enough to sting his cheeks—but it barely registered.

His body moved on autopilot. Hands stuffed deep in his hoodie pocket. The coffee warmed one palm. His brain lagged several minutes behind.

Your voice was still there.

Clear as if you were walking next to him.

I could do it.

He didn’t replay it once. He replayed it on loop—every syllable, every casual rise and fall of your tone. Like you were just offering him a pen. Like you didn’t know what it did to him.

The sidewalk shimmered from last night’s rain, the pale winter light catching in sharp reflections across the concrete. He stepped around a puddle without looking, eyes unfocused.

People passed him in clusters. Laughter, conversation, movement—and all of it felt distant, like he was underwater.

The cup in his hand was too hot. He shifted it. Flexed his fingers inside his pocket. The seam was frayed there—threads curling against his skin—and he tugged at them absently, like it might tether him to something real.

That shrug you gave. That glint in your eyes.

It wasn’t just the offer.

It was the way you’d meant it.

Like it was no big deal. Like you trusted him with something most people wouldn’t even joke about.

That’s what stuck.

A sharp squeal of brakes cut through the fog in his head.

Bucky jerked up just in time to see a blur of neon windbreaker and spinning spokes. A cyclist swerved past him, close enough to rattle his hoodie strings.

“Watch it!” the guy yelled over his shoulder.

Bucky stood frozen for a second, coffee sloshing dangerously near the rim. 

Again?

Then he blinked, muttered something that wasn’t quite a word, and turned back to the sidewalk.

His dorm room was dim except for the yellow light spilling across his desk.

The heater clicked every so often in the corner, loud enough to remind him it was on, but not enough to keep the air from being just a little too cool against his bare forearms.

Bucky sat hunched over the desk.

He’d been trying to draw anything—the curve of the mug on his shelf, the messy folds of his blanket, the fire escape he could just see from his window—but none of it stuck.

Every time the pencil touched paper, it slid into you.

On the far side of the desk, tucked beneath a couple of sketchbooks, was the one he’d been avoiding all week. The one he only worked on when he was alone, late, and certain no one could walk in.

He pulled it out slowly, as if he could still talk himself out of it.

The page inside was already half filled.

Weeks of work—fine lines layered over and over until the softness of your mouth felt real, until the light in your hair looked like it could shift if you moved the paper.

The truth lived in his camera roll.

A little folder buried under innocuous names like “study refs” and “figures” — but it wasn’t fruit bowls and anatomy sketches. It was you. 

The tilt of your smile. The way your hair caught late-afternoon light in the quad. That little shrug you gave whenever you were embarrassed to be the center of attention — despite seeming like it without even trying.

Half-candid photos from those afternoons you came to meet Natasha after class — laughing at something, head tipped back just enough to catch the sunlight along your cheekbone. One of you sitting cross-legged on the steps outside the art building, eating a muffin and absolutely annihilating the crumbs. A blurry shot through the window of the campus coffee shop because he was too chicken to say hello that day — but he’d tried to capture the curve of your mouth around a straw anyway.

He told himself it was harmless — reference pictures, fuel for sketching practice. He was an artist; wasn’t observation half the job?

Still, on nights when he couldn’t sleep or felt anxious and overwhelmed, he’d find himself pulling them up just to sketch you again. And again. Each time chasing whatever it was that made you look like you were lit from the inside — like you hadn’t just caught his eye, you’d rewired the whole way he saw the world.

Every time he swore this’ll be the last one, he’d end up sharpening his pencil and starting over — because no matter how many times he drew you, he still hadn’t managed to get it right.

Bucky pressed the pencil to paper again, his hand moving before he could think.

Shading in the last strands of hair. Deepening the curve of your smile. Softening the line of your jaw until it matched exactly what he saw in his head.

The door banged open.

“Yo—” Steve’s voice hit first, followed by a blast of cold air and the sharp scent of soap. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead, a towel slung low around his hips. “Showers were finally empty. Feels like a goddamn miracle.”

Bucky jolted like he’d been caught sneaking into the locker room after hours. The sketchbook snapped shut with a sharp thwack, his knuckles whitening as he yanked it toward himself.

Steve paused mid-step. “What’s that?”

He turned to grab a shirt off the foot of his bed, but his grin gave him away—slow, smug.

“Nothing,” Bucky said—too fast, too flat. He angled his arm over the sketchbook like a human paperweight.

His gaze flicked from Bucky’s face down to the corner of the notebook poking out from under his arm. “Uh-huh. ‘Nothing.’ Okay.”

Steve didn’t sprint so much as casually snatch — nimble as only someone who’d grown up stealing extra dessert at dinner could be. One second the sketchbook was in Bucky’s grip, the next it was tucked under Steve’s arm like a football.

“Steve,” Bucky groaned, diving up from his chair.

“Buck,” Steve answered cheerfully, already backing across the room, holding the notebook overhead. “What secrets are we hiding today? Sad trees? Angsty poetry in doodle form? Another moody drawing of my terrible haircut freshman year?”

Bucky swiped at him, half-panicked, half-laughing. “I swear to God—”

Steve leapt up onto his own bed like it was home base. “Ooooh, now I have to look.”

“Don’t you—Steve, I’m serious—”

But Steve had already cracked it open with all the flair of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.

Bucky’s heart hit his shoes. He knew exactly what sketch was on top.

Steve’s eyebrows shot up.

”Dude…”

Steve looked down at the sketchbook like he’d just discovered buried treasure. “You have got to do something about that crush already.”

Bucky’s ears went hot. “It’s not a crush—”

“Uh-huh.” Steve smirked, tapping the page with maddening calm. “And this isn’t a full-on Renaissance-level love letter in graphite?”

“Give it back.”

“Not until you admit you’re gone for her.”

Bucky threw his hands up like he was completely unbothered by the impending social death. “Okay, first of all, I am deeply insulted by your assumption that every drawing in my possession is fueled by some tragic, unrequited longing. I’m an artist, Steve. I draw things. Shapes. Light. Composition. Ever heard of it?”

Steve blinked once. Twice. “Uh-huh.” He turned another page. “And yet… your shapes and composition keep circling back to the same girl you’ve been borderline staring at for an entire semester.”

“That’s—no. No. See, this is where you’re twisting the narrative.” Bucky backed up a step like he needed a podium to complete the performance. “It’s not about her. It’s about… humanity. The human form. The joy of capturing a moment in—”

Steve held up the sketchbook without looking at him. “The moment being her laughing at something that wasn’t even you.”

Bucky opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed an accusatory finger. “Exactly!” Bucky jabbed a finger at him. “It’s raw, unposed—very… photojournalistic, actually. Think National Geographic, but with coffee instead of wildebeests.”

Steve just stared. “You’re impossible.”

Bucky spread his arms, smirking like the idea of being “impossible” was a compliment. “Look, man, I’m not some weirdo pining in the shadows. I’m just… appreciating beauty where it exists. Like, if you saw a sunset, you wouldn’t accuse me of having a crush on it, right?”

Steve deadpanned, “If you drew that sunset, hid it under, and snapped a secret picture of it on your phone? Yeah, I might.”

Bucky pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Wow. Accusations. Hurtful.”

Steve tossed the sketchbook onto his bed. “Just saying—you either ask her out, or you’re gonna end up with, like, forty drawings and a restraining order.”

Bucky snorted, flopping back in his chair. “Please. I’m fine. Totally fine. Cool as a cucumber.”

Steve started toweling his hair dry, grinning. “Sure you are. A cucumber that’s been boiled in denial for twenty minutes.”

Bucky leaned back, folding his arms, wearing that smug half-smile that meant he was absolutely not fine. “Call it what you want, Rogers. I’m in control here.”

“You know what your problem is?” Steve dropped back on his bed with a soft oof. “You’re treating college like high school with worse food. This is when you’re supposed to do stupid things. Take risks. Ask the girl out. If she says no — whatever. If she finds out you’re the lovable loser you actually are? That’s her loss.”

Bucky spun his chair halfway toward him, frowning. “Lovable loser?”

Steve spread his hands. “Hey, lovable. That’s the key word here. Own it. That’s how you win. Girls don’t want a mystery. They want someone real. You don’t have to be Mr. Brooding Tortured Genius — just be you.”

“Right. Lead with: ‘Hey, so I’ve been accidentally drawing you like a stalker — can we pretend that’s casual?’”

Steve smirked. “Ohhh, that was a sentence that wanted to be finished. What, you’ve been staring at her for weeks and… what?”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest like that might hide how flustered he actually was. “I can’t ask her out. Even if I'm into her.” He immediately winced. “—Which I’m not,” he added, fast. “I’m just saying if I was, I couldn’t. Especially not now.”

Steve blinked. “Why not?”

“It’s…” Bucky ran a hand over his face, stalling. “…complicated.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “You keep saying that. Complicated how?”

Bucky hesitated, eyes flicking toward the door like he might make a break for it. Then he let out a long groan, sounding like a man admitting to murder. “…she kind of already offered to help me with this assignment.”

Steve straightened. “What assignment?”

Bucky stalled. “Art.”

Steve stared. “You’re an art major. Be more specific.”

Bucky shifted in his seat, cheeks already flushing. “…the nude figure drawing assignment.”

Silence.

Steve blinked once—slow—then slapped a hand over his heart like Bucky had shot him. “You absolute menace. A girl offered to get naked for you and you buried the lead?!”

“It’s not like that,” Bucky hissed. “She was just being nice. College. Experiences. Blah, blah.”

Steve cackled. “If a girl I liked said that, I’d be picking out tux colors.”

“Not. Helping,” Bucky grumbled, sinking lower in his chair.

Steve just pointed at him, grinning wide. “Buddy… girls don’t offer to take off their clothes ‘just because.’ She likes you.”

Bucky scoffed, spinning away in his chair like he was too dignified for the conversation. “No, she doesn’t. She was just—being chill. It’s college. Try something new, get a funny story, whatever.”

Steve’s brows shot up. “You think she’s baring it all for the bit?”

“Yeah,” Bucky deadpanned. “Probably does wild stuff all the time. This is just another box to check—‘Pose nude for art class,’ right after ‘Try kombucha’ and ‘Go to that neon foam party.’”

Steve stared at him for a long moment. “You’re insane.”

“I’m realistic,” Bucky sniffed, drumming a pencil on the desk like he’d won something.

“Realistic,” Steve echoed, laughing. “Barnes, you’ve had a crush on this girl for months. She volunteers to get naked in your dorm and you go, ‘Must be a social experiment.’”

Bucky smirked at the wall. “Exactly.”

Steve flopped back on his bed with a groan. “You’re either the most humble guy I’ve ever met… or a complete idiot—which, ironically, is also your charm.”

Bucky snorted. “I’ll be fine.”

Steve arched a brow. “Fine? Buck, you’re about to set a world record for flustered eye contact. And you’ve never even—”

“Don’t,” Bucky warned.

Steve grinned wider. “—never even gotten past PG-13 and you’re acting like this is casual.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “And you have?”

Steve paused just long enough to be shady. “Not the point.” He tipped his head at him. “Look — remember Gail Richards?”

Bucky groaned. “Don’t bring up high school.”

“I am bringing up high school.” Steve pointed at him accusingly. “She wanted you so bad she was practically writing sonnets in AP English. And what did you do?”

“I Panicked,” Bucky muttered.

“You panicked,” Steve echoed. “Jumped out of her car, nearly got hit by a Honda, and got dumped over text, dude.”

Bucky winced. “I was seventeen and stupid.”

“And now you’re twenty and somehow more anxious,” Steve said. “If you keep doing this thing where you dodge anyone who shows interest, you’re gonna end up twenty-five with a Nobel Prize in repression, a busted sketchbook full of nudes you never asked for — and a permanent hard-on and a panic attack every time someone flirts with you.”

Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face. “Jesus, dramatic much?”

Steve just shrugged. “I call it like I see it.”

Bucky tried to glare, but it came out more like a pout. “Point is — she’s not into me.”

“Sure,” Steve said. “And when she’s standing in here next week — in your room — we’ll see how long that realism holds.”

Bucky pushed up from his chair with a snort. “I’ll let you know when I start panicking.” His boots thudded to the floor as he toed them off, grabbing a towel, T-shirt, and sweats from the closet in one quick motion. “Try not to snoop through my stuff while I’m gone,” he muttered, already heading for the door.

Steve shot him with finger guns. “I make no promises. Maybe.”

Bucky just muttered something about “pain in my ass” and headed for the showers, door swinging shut behind him.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Bucky had been sharpening the same three pencils for three full minutes. Not because they needed it — they were already sharp enough to perform minor surgery — but because his hands didn’t know what else to do.

He’d deep-cleaned the room twice,, stolen two slightly wobbly stools from the dorm’s common area, and even spritzed himself with the expensive cologne his mom bought him last Christmas “for real dates.” Still, he kept glancing at the clock — four minutes past when you said you’d come by. Which was fine. Totally fine. People were late all the time.

From the bed, Steve watched with open amusement. “You know most people tidy before company comes over, right? You’ve rearranged those pencils four times. You building suspense or a shrine?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “It’s called being prepared.”

“It’s called being whipped,” Steve shot back, tossing his phone aside. “You reek of Le Male.”

Bucky scoffed, but his shoulders stayed tense. “Shut up.”

“Hey — no shame. If I had a girl willing to strip down for my homework I’d be—”

A knock at the door cut him off.

Bucky nearly snapped a pencil in half. His stomach swooped like he’d just been asked to present in a lecture hall.

Before he could blink, Steve — already grinning — bellowed, “Come in!”

The door swung open… and there you were. Hoodie. Leggings. Hair loose and slightly damp from the snow — casual, effortless, and somehow still the most magnetic thing in the room.

“Hey,” you said, smile tipping toward Bucky first.

“Hey,” he echoed — a little too fast — shooting to his feet so abruptly his chair squeaked in protest.

Steve hopped off the bed like he was the one you’d come for. “Ah, the human distraction has arrived — that explains the cologne.” He offered his hand with a grin. “Steve Rogers. Roommate, best friend, and designated catcher in case our boy here swoons.”

Bucky shot him a glare sharp enough to peel paint. “Steve.”

But you just laughed — warm, easy — shaking Steve’s hand. “Nice to meet you. And don’t worry, I’ll try not to distract him… too much.” You glanced back at Bucky, catching the way his ears instantly went pink.

Steve grinned like a shark who’d tasted blood. “He’s been flustered since you texted yes, so – pace yourself.”

“Alright,” Bucky cut in, nudging a stool toward the desk, “we’re working now.”

You stepped further inside, letting your gaze travel around the room. “This is a nice setup.”

Bucky opened his mouth to thank you—

—but Steve beat him to it. “Please. “You should’ve seen it an hour ago. He was practically on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor. For you.”

Your brows lifted, amused. “Really?”

Bucky’s ears went even redder. “He’s exaggerating. I just… didn’t want you to trip over shoes or anything.”

“Well, that’s sweet,” you said, softer now — and something in Bucky’s chest did a weird, embarrassing flutter.

Steve, not missing a beat, leaned back against the wall with a grin. “So, you sticking around? Or should I just cut straight to all his embarrassing childhood stories?”

You laughed. “Oh, I’m definitely sticking around — and I want the stories.”

“Oh, you’ll get ‘em,” Steve promised. “I’ve got a starter pack.”

Bucky thunked his pencil down. “Steve. Don’t you have literally anywhere else to be?”

Steve spread his hands, pure innocence. “Nope. I’m free until four.”

“Out.”

He began shuffling toward the door way too slowly, still grinning. “Fine. But if you two start making out, my bed’s off-limits.”

“Steve,” Bucky warned, pointing.

“I’m going.” Steve threw you a jaunty salute on the way out. “Good luck breaking his concentration.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence slid into the room like it owned the place — not real silence, but the kind filled with the hum of the heater, someone’s music down the hall, and the rush of Bucky’s own pulse in his ears.

You looked around slowly — like you were cataloging the setup. Your gaze caught on the stool longer than he was comfortable with (probably nothing, definitely something).

He shifted, cleared his throat. “Uh—”

Your eyes met his. You smiled — small, knowing, easy.

“So,” you said, stepping closer, “where do you want me?”

Bucky’s brain stalled like a car in winter.

They were harmless words — Where do you want me? — but his mind turned it into something that absolutely did not belong in this dorm room. For a moment he forgot this was for class — forgot about the stool, the pencils, everything — and just tried not to blackout.

He wrenched his attention back to your face. “Uh—” He pointed to the setup. Voice lower than intended. “Right there’s perfect.”

You crossed to the stool, fingertips skimming the back like you were checking its strength.

Bucky immediately began re-arranging his already-arranged pencils — because making eye contact right now felt like staring into the sun.

“So…” you said, slow and amused as you turned back to him. “When do I take my clothes off?”

His brain promptly faceplanted. “Now—” He coughed. “Or — I mean — whenever you’re ready.”

You smirked like you were having the time of your life watching him malfunction.

“I can leave!” he blurted suddenly, waving blankly at the door. “If you wanna… y’know… get settled.”

You just tilted your head.

“Or—uh—after, if you want to cover up… there’s, um—there’s a robe.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned toward his closet like the robe was suddenly the most urgent priority in the world. The door creaked as he slid it open, rummaging through the neat stack of folded clothes until he found it.

He shook the robe out once, trying for casual — but the sleeves flopped like dead jellyfish. “Uh—here,” he muttered, draping it carefully over the stool like he was unveiling a priceless exhibit.

He wiped his sweaty palms down his sweatpants, then cleared his throat. “Y’know… figured you might want something after. So. That’s… for you.”

You said nothing. Just… smiled. Way too knowing.

Bucky started babbling. “It’s clean, obviously. I washed it. Uh—twice. Just in case.”

Silence.

His panic spiked.

“Been in my closet for years,” he said, far too fast.

“It’s Hello Kitty,” you pointed out gently, like you were noting the weather.

He shrugged, trying for nonchalance but overshooting straight into guilty teenager territory. “What? Can’t a guy have… layers?”

Your grin deepened, eyeing the robe. “Sure. But this layer still has the price tag on it.”

“Sure,” you drawled, nudging the dangling price tag with your finger. “And I suppose this tag is vintage?”

His shoulders sagged. Defeat.  “…Fine. I bought it yesterday. But only because the plain ones were sold out.”

Your laugh burst out, quick and warm — and God, he felt it everywhere. “That’s actually kind of cute.”

“Not cute,” he muttered, ears going red. “It’s called being prepared.”

“Uh-huh.” Your grin didn’t budge. “And here I was thinking you went all out just for me.”

Bucky let out a sheepish huff, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t get attached. This is a one-time robe experience.”

“Tragic,” you said, letting your fingers trail over the sleeve as you slipped by him, “I was starting to think pink suits you.”

He swallowed, pulse stuttering. “…Maybe on you.”

Your smile turned slow and dangerous. “Guess you’ll just have to lend it to me sometime.”

Bucky froze, halfway to the desk, and you just smiled like you hadn’t just sent his brain into complete system failure.

You set the robe neatly on the stool and looked back at him, your tone lighter now, teasing melting into business. “So… should I just take off my clothes?”

For a second, he forgot the stool existed. Forgot there was an actual assignment to finish. All he could focus on was the way you’d said it—careless, like the words didn’t immediately detonate in his head.

Bucky felt every muscle in his shoulders tense. “Uh—yeah, I mean, whenever you’re ready. No rush. Totally… casual thing.” His words tripped over each other, too fast.

You hooked a finger in the hem of your hoodie, casual as anything. “Cool.”

Nope.

His brain was already waving the white flag.

“I’m just gonna—uh—step outside,” he blurted, already moving. “Give you privacy. And, uh… space. Space is good.”

He turned too fast, shin catching the edge of his chair. The thing tipped forward and clipped his knee, and for a second he had to grab it before it went crashing to the floor.

“Smooth,” you teased, laughter soft but unmistakable.

Bucky righted the chair, muttered something that might’ve been fine or cool — honestly, it was a miracle words even came out — and then bolted for the door like it owed him money.

He shut it behind him and sagged back against the cool hallway wall, palms pressed to his cheeks.

Okay. Breathe. You’re fine.

…He was not fine.

You were in there. Alone. About to be naked. For him. On purpose.

He scrubbed both hands down his face, pacing a tight circle like a caged animal. You’re an artist, he told himself. Professionals don’t panic when the model takes their clothes off.

Except you weren’t just a model. You were… you — the girl he’d been half in love with since the first time he saw you in the quad, hair in a messy knot, laughing at something he couldn’t even hear.

He pressed a hand to his chest, like he could physically tamp down the riot in his ribcage. You’re going to walk back in there, set up your pencils, and be normal. NORMAL. This is just another still life.

…A still life that talked. And smiled. And tilted her head like she actually enjoyed talking to him.

Bucky groaned quietly, tipping his head back against the wall. Steve was never going to let him live this down.

Then, from inside the room, your voice floated out — light, calm, completely unaware you were wrecking him.

“I’m ready.”

Bucky froze in the hallway. His stomach dropped like he’d missed a stair.

Ready.

He inhaled slowly — oxygen in, courage… maybe. His fingers tightened around the doorknob.

Serious artist mode. Professional. Totally normal day at work. Totally normal.

Click. The door opened.

You were already on the stool, robe tied loosely at the waist, legs crossed. The afternoon light caught in your hair, softening around you like a halo. You looked relaxed. Effortless. Like this was no big deal at all.

Bucky almost dropped his pencil.

Bucky hovered a second in the doorway, fingers tightening on the knob. “Uh—do you mind if I… lock it?”

Your brows lifted, surprised — then you smiled, soft and unbothered. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Click.

 He turned the lock with a shaking hand, like that tiny sound made it officially Real.

He dragged his own stool back a few inches, under the guise of “better angle,” when really he just needed his hands to do something before they started shaking.

You tilted your head, eyes dancing.

“Alright,” you said, “I’m ready. Draw me like one of your French girls.”

He blinked. “What?”

Your smile faltered, embarrassment flickering. “Y’know… Titanic?”

“…The boat movie?”

You pressed your lips together, mortified. “Forget it. Bad joke. Icebreaker.”

The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. “Well… since it's the Titanic you’re referring to, consider it broken.”

“Yikes,” you let out a shaky laugh, glancing at him from beneath your lashes. “Guess we’re even now.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. You toyed with the sash at your waist, like you weren’t entirely sure if this was still funny or about to become very real.

Bucky’s pulse skittered.

“So…” you said softly, teasing but uncertain, “should I just… start?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” he managed — voice rougher than he meant it to be.

You nodded once, lifted your hands to the collar of the robe… and eased it off your shoulders.

The fabric sighed down your arms. Paused at your elbows.

Another beat — giving him a chance to look away, if he wanted.

He didn’t.

Then you let it fall the rest of the way —

—and the room forgot how to breathe.

For a beat, Bucky just stared. His knuckles whitened around the pencil, but his mind was nowhere near the page.

The gentle slope of your collarbone. The curve of your breasts — soft, full, flushed from the warmth of the room. He caught the faintest tremor in them as you shifted, and something in his chest tightened — part awe, part oh, fuck. Light skimmed down your stomach, catching the dip at your navel, the slow flare of your waist into your hips.

Your thighs parted just enough to reveal the soft curve between them — the kind of skin that felt so off-limits it made his pulse stumble. Nothing abstract about it now. No textbook to hide behind. No polite distance. Just you, honest and bare and inches from him — and it hit hard enough to knock the breath right out of his lungs. His fingers tightened around the pencil like it was the only thing tethering him to earth, every nerve begging him to look longer, memorize faster, burn it into bone so he’d never forget.

This was you. Real. Warm. Naked. Beautiful.

He wanted to take all of you in at once — the faint imprint of a bra strap on your shoulder, the soft lines of your stomach — every piece making something deep and low in him coil tighter.

And the worst part wasn’t even the hunger — it was the trust. The open posture, the way you rested your hands on your hips like this was nothing to be scared of. That quiet confidence in being truly seen.

Heat pooled fast in his boxers, his sweats suddenly too tight. He shifted, trying to will his body into something manageable — useless. You were already stamped across his brain, every curve sharper than the last.

You shifted slightly. “So…” you said lightly, a little uncertain, “should I be doing something with my hands or—?”

Bucky’s throat worked. “Uh—no. No, you’re good. Very… still life.”

You smiled — real, less perfect, more nervous — and that somehow made the moment settle a little. “Were you going for comfort or terrifying?”

“Honestly?” He dragged a hand over his face. “Can’t be certain.”

That pulled a laugh out of you — small, but real — and the knot in his chest loosened just enough for his pencil to actually touch the page.

“Okay,” he murmured, glancing up at you one more time, softer now. “Just stay like that. You look… perfect.”

Perfect? Who says that? She definitely thinks you’re a perv. God, even worse. A poet.

He tried to breathe around the size of the moment, lowering his gaze to the blank page. His hand moved, slow at first, sketching the faint suggestion of your shoulder, the line of your neck. But his brain didn’t care about art terms or proportions. All it wanted was to look back at you — like it was starving and you were the only thing it recognized as food.

Don’t be creepy, he ordered himself, keeping his eyes fixed on the page. Professional. Chill. Just shapes and shadows, that’s all. It’s fine.

Except then he glanced up — just to check the angle of your jaw — and there you were, sitting so calmly and so breathtakingly naked not ten feet away from him. Heat punched low in his stomach like an ache. His pulse spiked hard enough he thought you might somehow hear it. Every little detail on your body felt holy: the way your stomach drew in when you inhaled, the crease in your hip when you shifted, the softness of your thighs resting open, completely trusting him to look and not ruin this.

He forced his gaze back down, but his hand shook on the next line. The pencil dragged too far. He cursed quietly under his breath, rubbing at the mistake with his thumb — smudging it worse.

You tilted your head almost imperceptibly. “Everything okay?”

“Yep,” he lied, throat tight. “Totally fine. Just… figuring out the lighting.”

Figuring out the lighting, he repeated in his head. Like he was Rembrandt and not a virgin having a cardiac event.

Too bad he felt more like a runaway furnace than a functional human being.

He lowered his gaze like the sketchpad was a lifeboat and not just a flimsy sheet of paper. His heartbeat thudded so hard he could feel it in his teeth. Pencil to paper. Just lines, he told himself. Shapes. Shadows.

He started at the dip of your collarbone — just the faint suggestion of it, enough to angle the curve of your throat without daring to imply anything so dangerous as a face. He wouldn’t draw that. Couldn’t. Too personal.

His hand dipped lower, sketching the gentle slope toward your shoulder. You were soft there in a way he hadn’t expected — not textbook anatomy, but the kind of softness people earned from living: hauling groceries, sleeping at weird angles, laughing too hard. He tried to draw that, not perfection.

From shoulder to breast — his pencil hesitated as if it needed permission. He forced it forward. You trusted him. That mattered more than how his body reacted every time he caught the faint tremble of your ribcage as you breathed. His gaze skimmed the shape of you — full and flushed, skin pressing softly upward when you shifted — and then he stared back down at the page, shading slower than he ever had in his life.

Down further — the line of your sternum, the curve that dipped into your belly. He overworked the shading around your navel just to stay there longer, tracing that hollow again and again. He sketched where your ribs softened into your sides, the gentle sweep of your waist. His breathing had gone shallow. 

Neck down, he reminded himself. No further up. If he drew your face, he might actually die.

Your knees parted slightly, and he caught a faint freckle on the inside of your thigh — his pencil slipped, leaving a line too dark. Pulse spiking, he rubbed at it with his thumb, smudging it into shadow. Intentional, he lied to himself.

He traced your hips like he was trying to memorize them. Full. Real. Your thighs are soft at the tops, sleek where they meet your knees. He couldn’t stop imagining how they’d feel if he touched them — how much strength sat beneath that softness. His cock throbbed in his sweatpants, pressing almost painfully against the seam. He shifted on his stool, trying not to make noise, praying you couldn’t see how hard he was.

He swallowed and dragged the pencil down to capture where your thighs pressed slightly apart. He hadn’t meant to look that closely, but something about the light between them kept catching his eye. There was no hiding what was there. No polite angle, no coyness. It was you — bare, unguarded, and so achingly beautiful it almost hurt to draw.

The pencil trembled so hard he had to stop, lift his hand off the page.

You didn’t speak. Just watched him, steady, calm. He couldn’t look up — knew that if he met your eyes while you were letting him see you like this, it would break whatever fragile hold he had on himself.

He forced himself to finish: calves, ankles, soft shadows of feet against the stool rung. Every inch of the drawing felt soaked in want.

Then you shifted, voice soft — startling against the thick silence.

“…Are you okay?”

“What?” His brain stuttered.

You blinked, slow smile blooming. “Nothing. You’ve just got your serious face on.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m drawing.”

“I know.” You dragged a finger along your thigh with maddening calm. “It’s kind of hot.”

Bucky almost snapped his pencil in half. He made a strangled sound that was probably supposed to be a laugh.

You let out a quiet hum — and then stayed still. Silent again.

He spent another stretch of quiet moving back up the page, refining everything from your ribcage down. Not because it actually needed more work — but because once he said it was finished, you’d put the robe back on and this would be over. He sharpened his pencil once, twice. Rolled his tight shoulders. Tried to blink the burn from his eyes.

Somewhere around the twenty-fifth minute, your back gave a tiny stretch — nothing drastic, just a slow roll of your shoulders as though you’d been holding still for ages. He paused, flexing his cramping hand, and caught himself wondering if he should suggest a break. Then immediately panicked at the idea of acknowledging out loud how long he’d been staring at you.

He dove back in.

Waist. Hips. Thighs. Knees. Again. Again. Soft graphite shadows bloomed beneath his fingers, until the page felt almost warm from how many times he’d gone over the same places.

Finally — inevitably — the drawing was full. Alive. Too intimate to keep dragging the pencil over without giving himself away.

He stared down at it another long moment, chest tight, heartbeat heavy in his ears.

Bucky leaned back, flexing his fingers. His chest felt tight in that weird way it always did when he finished something he actually cared about—part satisfaction, part dread. “…Okay. I think that’s it.”

You straightened slowly, rolling your neck and wiggling your toes like you’d been holding perfectly still for years. “Can I see?”

Bucky blinked. His instinct was to clutch the sketchbook to his chest and launch himself out the nearest window. 

He probably would.

But you were already reaching for the robe — shrugging it back over your shoulders, tying it loosely with practiced ease — and padding toward him with that bright, open smile that made him feel like he was standing on a wire with no net.

Like if he looked at you too long, he’d forget where the ground was.

“I—I mean—it’s not… uh—perfect,” he stammered, even as his fingers betrayed him and turned the drawing slowly in your direction.

You beamed. “I didn’t ask if it was perfect. I asked if I could see it.”

He swallowed, thumb worrying the edge of the sketchpad. “It’s just— it’s kind of rough still. I should probably clean up the shadows and—”

“Oh, come on.” She leaned forward slightly, voice soft but coaxing. “Please?”

Something in his chest crumpled.

He could never say no to you — not when you asked like that. Not when you looked at him like what he had in his hands might actually matter. You could’ve asked for his sketchbook, his hoodie, the stupid Hello Kitty robe, the moon — and he would’ve handed them over one by one like he was born for it.

His fingers went slack against the spine of the sketchpad.

“…Okay,” he breathed — soft, helpless. “Yeah. You can see.”

You lit up like he’d just told you a secret. “Thank you.”

Sliding off the stool, you retied the robe as you crossed the room, belt trailing behind you. Then you were right there beside him, so close he could feel the warmth coming off your skin through the thin cotton.

He turned the pad toward you before he could second-guess himself.

Your eyes swept over the page — once — then widened. “Holy shit… I’m hot.”

Bucky startled into a laugh. “That… is definitely not what I thought you’d say.”

“What?” you said, gaze still locked on the drawing. “It’s a compliment. To you. I mean—look at me. You made me look unreal.”

He smiled, cheeks heating. “You look unreal anyway.”

That made you glance up — eyes crinkling, cheeks flushed with a smile that felt like it belonged to a secret only the two of you knew. The smirk you wore softened into something sweeter, like his words had wrapped themselves around your heart and tugged just right.

Your eyes dropped back to the sketch, fingertips brushing lightly over a line on the page. “Seriously, Barnes… this is insane. I don’t even recognize myself like this. But somehow it still feels like me.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly squirmy. “I, uh… might’ve had some practice.”

Her head jerked up. “What?”

“It’s nothing,” he said fast, waving his hand like he could physically shoo the words back into his mouth. “Forget I—”

“Absolutely not.” You stepped closer, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Practice? Practice how?”

Bucky wilted. He could already tell you weren’t going to let this go. He rubbed a hand over his face, sighed like a man surrendering his last shred of dignity. “Okay. Um. This… might not be the first time I’ve, uh… drawn you.”

A crease formed between your brows. “Excuse me?”

He lifted both hands defensively. “Not— not in a creepy way, I swear. Just… There was this day in the quad, and you were laughing at something, and the light hit you right and I was supposed to be sketching architecture but I…” He winced. “I took a picture. Just as… reference. For practice. Because I’m bad at drawing people when they’re moving. One picture led to another, and now I’ve got a bunch of them.”

You stared at him. He braced for impact — rejection, weirded-out silence, maybe you’d yell at him and call him a stalker. Instead, something softened in your expression.

“You’ve been drawing me?” Your voice was quieter now.

He gave a helpless little shrug. “I guess so.”

For a moment, you just looked at him — no teasing, no judging — like you were doing the math on who he was, and whether this fit.

“You’ve… been drawing me,” you said again, more slowly, letting the words settle.

Color rushed high in his cheeks. “I know it sounds bad. God, it is bad. But… you’ve just got this thing you do. When you’re walking and you don’t think anyone’s paying attention, your mouth moves a little—like you’re rehearsing something, or arguing with someone in your head.”

Your brows lifted, startled. You did do that. You hadn’t even realized it was visible.

“And that face you make when you’re reading,” he continued, half-laughing at himself now. “Like the words are talking back. Sometimes you smile, sometimes you frown. Once you rolled your eyes so hard I thought you were gonna fall off the bench.”

A laugh broke out of you without warning.

“And when you laugh,” he added, softer now, “your whole body kind of… folds in, like you’re trying to keep it small. Like you’re not used to taking up space.”

That one stopped you. Something inside you tugged, your smile dimming into something quieter. Something real.

“I just—” he swallowed, eyes darting down. “It’s not just your face. It’s all of it. How you move. What you do when you think no one’s watching. That’s the part I kept trying to get right.”

You looked down at the sketch again, fingertips grazing one of the lines like it might hum beneath your touch. Then up at him, expression soft.

You looked back down at the sketch, then up at him again. “You really see me like that?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Most people don’t… notice me like this. Not in the good ways.”

His eyes flicked up, startled.

“I mean—sure, they notice things. My hair. My clothes. What I’m doing wrong.” Your voice stayed even, but your fingers curled just slightly against the page. “But this… it’s like you saw the best version of me and decided she was worth keeping.”

Bucky’s breath caught. He hadn’t expected that. You hadn’t either, probably.

Something in your face went gentle. It wasn’t exactly a smile — more of a melt.

“I actually think kind of sweet.”

He blinked. “Sweet?”

“Yeah.” You stepped closer again, gaze dropping briefly to the sketch in his lap. “If I’d caught you hiding behind a bush with binoculars, then yeah — weird. Would totally call the police on you. But… you kept it for you. You didn’t post it. You didn’t post it anywhere right?”

“Of course I didn’t show anyone,” he said quickly, almost offended by the idea.

You lifted your brows, amused. “Guess I’m flattered, Barnes.”

He gave an embarrassed huff of a laugh. “You don’t think it’s… too weird?”

You shook your head. “Maybe a little.” Then softer: “But I like that it’s you.”

The words landed heavier than he expected, dropping straight into his chest. He tried to mask it by clearing his throat and glancing back down at the page, but he could still feel the heat standing that close.

“Can I see it?” You asked, fingertips lingering on the edge of the pad.

He hesitated. “You’re… already looking at it.”

You smiled. “No — the others. You said you practiced.”

Bucky’s stomach did a little flip. “They’re not—uh—they’re not all finished.”

“I don’t care.” Your voice was soft, but there was something certain under it. “I just want to see what you saw.”

He exhaled, long and slow, like he was debating whether or not this was a terrible idea. Then he pushed himself up from the bed, crossed the room in three reluctant steps, and pulled the worn sketchbook from where it was wedged beneath two others on his desk. He hesitated, thumb brushing the edge like he might change his mind — then came back and handed it over without quite meeting your eyes.

You took it carefully, flipping the pages one at a time. Until you caught you for a moment— mid-laugh, head tilted down like she was listening to someone, hair falling over shoulder as you reached for something.

You traced the edge of that drawing lightly with your thumb.

“This is… wow.”

Bucky shifted on the bed, suddenly aware of how hot his ears were. “You don’t have to lie just because you’re caught off guard,” he muttered, voice gruff even though he was trying for light.

You looked up immediately, brow knitting. “I’m not lying. That’s… extremely flattering. And kind of insane. I’ve never had anyone look at me like this before.”

He swallowed, suddenly unsure where to put his hands. “I, uh… tend to fixate.”

You smiled at that — soft, disbelieving. “If that’s what fixation looks like, I’m honored.”

He snorted under his breath, embarrassed. “Honored’s not usually the word people go for.”

“Then they clearly weren’t paying attention,” you said, flipping to the next page. This one caught a softer expression — you sipping from a coffee cup, eyes down, hair a little messy from the wind. You traced your fingertip over the edge of that drawing too. 

You kept turning the page, slower now, like you were afraid of missing something on each one. He watched you do it, heart thudding, hands clamped uselessly between his knees.

Finally, your thumb paused on another sketch — one where you were half-turned away, caught from a distance. Not posed. Not perfect. Just real.

At some point, you murmured, “When did you realize you were… I mean—this good?”

Bucky blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

You tapped the page. “Seriously. When did you figure out you had talent?”

He let out a breathy half-laugh, rubbing sheepishly at his jaw. “Uh—second grade. Faked my mom’s autograph for a field trip form. Got away with it, too.”

You snorted. “That’s not talent, that’s forgery.”

“Exactly,” he grinned. “And forgery takes skill.”

Your eyes rolled, but your smile didn’t fade. “Come on. I’m serious.”

Bucky’s fingers hovered near the edge of the page, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was allowed to touch it while you were still holding it. His voice turned quieter. “I don’t know. I guess I always liked it. Drawing. It made things make sense when everything else didn’t.”

Your eyes flicked up to him.

“I used to sketch my surroundings just to remind myself I was really there,” he said, voice almost shy now. “Like—if I could draw it, I couldn’t forget it. If I could get it on paper, then maybe I wasn’t losing it.”

Your hand stilled on the sketchbook.

“I didn’t even come here for art. I’m technically still an English major — Shakespeare at nine a.m., creative writing workshop, literary theory that makes my eye twitch.” He winced slightly. “Around midterm last year I was having panic attacks over annotated bibliographies, so my advisor told me to pick up something ‘relaxing.’ Life Drawing was the only elective still open.”

You raised your eyebrows. “So you just… wandered in?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted. “Figured I’d last one class before I bailed.”

“And instead…?” you prompted.

He gestured vaguely at the sketchbooks and tubes of graphite like they’d multiplied on their own. “Instead I accidentally fell in love with it and kind of… double-majored without meaning to.”

You smiled — proud, a little bit dazzled. “That’s not accidental, Bucky.” You brushed your thumb along the edge of another page. “That’s special.”

He ducked his head a little, shoulders hitching in a small, self-conscious shrug. “…Or I’m just better at drawing than talking.”

“Then you showed up,” he added, glancing at you from under his lashes. “And suddenly everything else felt… loud. But you didn’t. You were just… there. And it made everything feel clearer.”

You blinked, something tugging behind your ribs.

“And I guess…” he paused, almost bashful, “I didn’t realize how much I’d been drawing you until I looked back and you were on every other page.”

You let out a breath—soft and disbelieving.

“And I didn’t show anyone,” he added quickly. “Not ‘cause I was ashamed, but because… I didn’t want to share you.”

That one landed.

Your heart kicked. Your throat tightened. You weren’t sure if he meant it the way it sounded—but the way he said it, quiet and steady and unbearably sincere, left very little room for misinterpretation.

You looked back at the sketch in your hands, then down at the earlier one on the desk, and then—finally—up at him.

“You know…” you said, voice dropping into something softer, “if this is how you see me, I think I should hang out around you more often.”

Bucky blinked up, caught off guard. “What?”

You smiled, slow and deliberate. “You make me look better than a mirror.”

He let out a short, awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Pretty sure that’s not possible.”

Your gaze lingered on him a beat longer, eyes glinting like you  were enjoying watching him squirm. “You really don’t realize how good you are at this, do you?”

“I—uh—” He tried to look away, but your presence so close made it impossible not to keep flicking his eyes back to yours.

You tilted your head. “Or maybe you just like having an excuse to stare.”

Bucky’s throat went dry. “That’s… part of art,” he said, aiming for nonchalant but landing somewhere closer to guilt.

“Mhm.” Your smirk deepened, like you didn’t believe him for a second. “Well… maybe I don’t mind.”

Bucky blinked, the words hitting harder than probably meant them to. “You… don’t mind?”

You shrugged, but it was a little too slow, a little too deliberate. “Why would I? You’re easy to be around. And…” Her gaze flicked to the sketch still in his lap. “…you notice things about me most people don’t.”

His mouth quirked in a small, hesitant smile. “That a good thing?”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing like you were weighing the answer. “Depends.”

He blinked. “On what?”

You took a step closer. “On whether you want it to be.”

For a moment, he looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe. “…Yeah. I do.”

Your expression shifted — something gentle flickering beneath it, like you’d been waiting for that.

“Then yeah,” you said quietly. “It is.”

Your gaze dropped to the sketchpad for a beat — then slid back to his face. “Also… I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re kind of distracting too.”

His eyebrows rose, slow and skeptical. “Me?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at him — really looked — like you were daring him to connect the dots. Then your lips tugged into a small, knowing smile. The kind that felt like a secret.

“You really think you’re the only one who’s been staring?”

Bucky blinked. Once. Twice. Then laughed — short, breathy, a little thrown off. He leaned back in his chair like he was brushing it off, but the flush at the tips of his ears said otherwise.

“You’re not staring at me.”

You cocked your head. “Aren’t I?”

He lifted his pencil and pointed it at you, smirking like he’d just cracked the case. “Nope. Can’t be. I’d notice. I have… excellent stare detection. Like Spidey-sense, but for thirsty glances.”

You laughed — softly, like you didn’t want to encourage him too much — and sat back on your heels, eyes narrowing like you were measuring him for a response.

“Pretty sure you wouldn’t notice, Barnes. You’re too busy pretending not to stare at me.”

He gasped — dramatically, hand to chest. “Pretending? Wow. You think this is pretend? No, no—this is a highly refined skill set. Months of practice.”

Your smirk deepened. “Mmh. So… you admit you’ve been staring.”

Bucky tilted his head, feigning deep thought. “I’m… observing. Professionally. Totally different. One is art, the other is creepy.”

You hummed, pretending to think it over. “Okay… then let’s call it art.”

Bucky nodded like that settled it. “Exactly. Art.”

You smile was small but loaded. “Good. Because… I like it when you look at me like that.”

His pencil stilled in midair. “…Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You leaned back just a little, like you’d just tossed him a challenge. “Makes me feel like I’m your favorite subject.”

Bucky blinked, and for once, had no clever comeback ready. “You… might be.”

Your eyes flashed with something playful, but edged with real curiosity now. “Might? Kinda bold for a guy with half a sketchbook full of me.”

His crooked smile tugged back, sheepish. “Okay. You are.”

You studied him closely, as if weighing how much to give. “And if I said I… like being that?”

He swallowed, pulse thudding. “Then I’d probably have to admit that I like you. A lot.”

As soon as it was out of his mouth, his brain lit up like a carnival in hell.

Idiot.

Too much, too fast.

Wow, cool move, Barnes. Might as well hand her a mixtape and propose while you’re at it.

He stood there in the half-second silence afterward absolutely convinced he’d just detonated his entire existence.

Too—oh God, what if you panic? What if you’re just being nice? What if you think he’s trying to wife you because you took your clothes off.  His lungs seized. Maybe he could fake his own death. Become a lumberjack. Or join the army.

But your smile softened, shoulders easing like you’d finally let yourself believe something you’d hoped was true. “Good,” you said, so quiet he almost missed it. “Because I like you too.”

Bucky stared. Brain empty. Hands weirdly sweaty. Logic gone. He’d always wondered what he’d do if those words ever came out of your mouth.

Apparently, the answer… was absolutely nothing.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sat there, frozen, eyes wide, looking like someone had replaced his spine with overcooked linguine.

You waited maybe three seconds — kind, patient seconds — then leaned in juuust a little. “Barnes?”

He squeaked. Actually squeaked. “Yep?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You okay over there?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, way too quickly, voice cracking halfway through. He cleared his throat like it might fix him. “Just, uh… processing.”

On the inside, he was not fine. On the outside, that too.

What the hell, is this real life? Did he pass out? Did Steve lace his coffee? Are his anxiety meds secretly hallucinogenic?

“You sure?” you teased, clearly delighted by how floppy his brain had become.

He glanced back at you, just to check, and—yep—you were still there. Still looking at him like you’d just casually dropped a grenade in his lap and was waiting to see what he’d do with it.

“This isn’t… like… a prank, right?” he blurted before he could stop himself. “Like you’re not about to reveal some hidden camera and sell this to MTV or something?”

Your lips parted in disbelief.

Bucky went bright red immediately. “I mean — obviously not MTV, that show hasn’t been on in, like, a decade — I don’t even know why I said that, I just— you’re so calm about this and I am currently disassociating — like you’re not about to FaceTime Natasha and be like ‘look at Bucky thinking I like him back’, right? Because I would evaporate. I’d have to move to Canada—“

You stepped forward, sliding your hands over his forearms — grounding him. “You’re not being punk’d.”

He stared at you like you’d just handed him a live grenade and told him to juggle.

“Right, yeah, no, I know. Because if Ashton Kutcher jumped out of my closet that wouldn’t make any sense. He can’t fit in.”

Bucky—”

“—and obviously I trust you, I do, I just have a history of catastrophic overthinking in all romantic contexts and I’m currently running every worst-case scenario in my head like a broken slideshow—”

“Bucky.”

“—because look at me, I can’t even hold a normal conversation when you’re wearing a robe , never mind when you’re—”

“Bucky.”

He swallowed, eyes wide. “Yeah?”

“Shut up for a second.”

Before he could apologize — or somehow start another sentence — 

Your lips brushed his — featherlight, tentative. Like you were testing gravity, like you were giving him a chance to decide.

He didn’t move at first. Just… blinked. Then blinked again, like his brain had to buffer.

He made a small, helpless sound in the back of his throat — then melted, all at once. Like his body had just remembered how to want something. His fingers twitched uncertainly before settling on your hips, tentative but desperate, like if he didn’t hold on, the moment might slip away.

His heart was pounding so hard he was sure you could feel it — pressed right up against him like that, mouth still warm from the kiss.

When you finally pulled back, your smile was slow, a little smug, like you already knew the answer. “Better?”

He stared at you like you’d parted the clouds. Like you’d just rewritten physics.

“Yeah,” he breathed, completely wrecked. “Holy shit.”

Your smile stayed close to his, your breath warm against his mouth as you lingered there — not kissing him again, but not pulling away either.

He could feel his own pulse in his throat. “So that was, um… you shutting me up?”

“Worked, didn’t it?” You said it casually, but your voice had gone a little uneven at the edges.

“Yeah,” he breathed, nodding helplessly. “Very effective. Highly recommend.”

You tried to hold a straight face and failed — your grin turned even softer. “Maybe I should do it again before your brain kicks back into overthinking.”

He choked on a laugh. “That seems… like science.”

You didn’t give him a chance to think about it — you leaned back in, catching his mouth with yours again. This time he met you faster. Less startled, more wanting. His fingers tightened at your hips, totally useless at pretending he had any semblance of composure left.

You kissed him slow. Confident. Like you were letting him feel how sure you were — and it worked, because by the time you pulled back again, he was flushed and dazed and kind of smiling. The kind of smile that looked like it didn’t know how to exist on his face yet.

“This is unreal,” he murmured, almost to himself — thumb brushing your waist like he was checking you hadn’t turned into smoke.

“Very real,” you promised, just above a whisper.

Neither of you moved at first. Just stayed there, still caught in that gravity-thick quiet, his hands hovering at your sides like he didn’t want to press too hard in case it all disappeared.

His gaze dropped briefly — to your mouth, your jaw, back to your eyes — and lingered like he was trying to memorize you from the inside out.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you said softly, “and I might start thinking you’re actually into me.”

He let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “You think I’ve been subtle?”

“I think you’ve been holding your breath around me since day one.”

That made him smile again — small, crooked, wrecked. “I probably have.”

A beat. Then your fingers slipped into his hair, light and absent, like you were still deciding what to do with the moment. He leaned into the touch without thinking.

“You okay?” you asked, quieter this time. It wasn’t a tease. It was genuine.

His voice came out a little raw. “Yeah. Just… taking you in.”

Your heart thudded. His eyes were so open — unguarded in a way that felt rare, even in this heat between you.

You tilted your head, brushed your nose lightly against his. “Don’t look now, Barnes, but I think you’re actually letting your guard down.”

He huffed a quiet laugh — one hand sliding to your back, resting there like a tether. “I don’t think I’ve had much of a guard around you in a while.”

You smiled at that — warm, honest, a little shy.

And then, finally, you leaned forward. Just enough to guide him back, palms gentle against his chest.

He blinked, startled when the mattress caught him, but he didn’t resist — only looked up at you, breath caught somewhere in his throat. Palms scrambled until they found the mattress. Before he could sit all the way up again, you took advantage of the opening and climbed into his lap, one knee at a time, until you were straddling him.

He absolutely forgot how to breathe.

His hands floundered for a second before resting against your thighs. His heart was pounding hard enough he felt dizzy.

“Is this okay?” you asked quietly, even though you clearly already knew he was going to say yes.

“Y—yeah,” he stammered. His voice broke halfway through and he tried again — cleared his throat, lowered it. “Yeah. I’m okay. Definitely okay.”

You laughing softly only made it worse. “You sure? You look like you’re about to faint.”

He screwed his eyes shut like that might help and let his forehead fall lightly against your shoulder. “Give me, like… three to five business seconds to cope.”

You ran your fingers through his hair gently, nails grazing his scalp, and he made a noise so embarrassingly guttural he might have thanked God you couldn’t see his face.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered.

You nudged your nose lightly against his temple. “That’s kind of the goal.”

His hands came up to your hips again, this time more certain. He opened his eyes, looked up at you like you were the best mistake he’d ever made. “Okay,” he murmured, voice still thick. “You can keep… doing whatever this is. As long as you want.”

You smiled — lazy, pleased — and leaned back in to kiss him again, slower, deeper, until his hands tightened and he made that helpless sound again against your mouth. The kind of sound that promised, if you kept going, he was going to unravel right there under you.

Bucky barely had time to catch his breath before your mouth was back on his — firmer this time, hungrier — fingers sliding into his hair as you kissed him like you’d been waiting to do it for a very, very long time.

His brain short-circuited again.

Right — right — you were into this. Into him.

Not a prank. Not a sketch. Real.

You tugged gently at his bottom lip with your teeth and he made a broken sound he would deny forever, hands tightening around your waist. Under his palms the robe was soft cotton — just cotton — and it hit him, all at once, that there was absolutely nothing else underneath it.

You shifted forward a little and the robe parted just enough for your bare thigh to brush his sweats. Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, every line of him going stiff.

You felt it — the way he froze like he’d been hit by lightning — and smiled darkly against his mouth. All the air left his lungs in a quiet wheeze.

“You okay?” you whispered, settled on his lap. The robe slid open against your thighs.

He nodded — speechless — trying to remember how to be a person. Or breathe.

Your hands smoothed up his chest over his t-shirt, slow and teasing. “You got so flustered when I sat over there. Wonder what this’ll do.”

You rocked your hips once against his lap — gentle, experimental — and Bucky’s head thunked back against the wall with a thud. His hands shot to your thighs like he might actually float away without anchoring himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he croaked.

You giggled — giggled — utterly unconcerned. “That’s a yes?”

He made a noise that might’ve been “yes,” or possibly just his soul leaving his body. Especially when you ducked forward, brushing your lips along his jaw, then down to the hinge of his throat, kissing lightly until he actually shivered.

And when you whispered, “Relax — I’ve got you,” he almost imploded.

You kept tracing your mouth down the line of his throat — slow, deliberate — while your hands slipped beneath his t-shirt. Your fingertips were warm against his skin, skating over the faint dip of his stomach, higher and higher until his breath caught sharp in his chest.

“God,” he muttered when you brushed his ribs, voice gone embarrassingly wrecked already.

You smiled against his skin, then tugged at the hem of his shirt. “Off.”

It wasn’t quite a question.

He scrambled to obey, dragging the cotton up over his head — nearly elbowing himself in the face in the process. His hair stuck up in half-wild tufts from the motion, cheeks flushed, lips pink and kiss-swollen.

You sat back on his thighs just long enough to actually look.

Bucky’s stomach was lean and pale, dotted with a few freckles like someone had flicked paint across him. A smattering of soft chest hair tapered down in a thin trail toward his waistband. One dark beauty mark sat just to the left of his sternum — something strangely vulnerable about that, like you’d found a secret.

He fidgeted under the attention, muscles jumping when you dragged your nails lightly over the center of his chest.

“You’re… staring,” he said weakly.

“Call it art,” you threw back at him, echoing his own excuse — and then you leaned forward again, pressing your mouth just below his collarbone.

His head tipped back, exposing his throat like he couldn’t help it. When you kissed up the column of his neck, hot and wet and unhurried, his fingers dug into your hips.

And then you rocked against him again — slow, intentional — and felt him twitch up hard against you through his sweats. His whole body jolted. His hands clamped tighter, like you might float away if he didn’t hold on.

“You’re…” he gasped, hips jerking involuntarily when you rolled against him again, “…gonna kill me.”

Your grin was pure trouble. “Maybe just knock the wind out of you.” You kissed just below his ear and felt him twitch hard beneath you.

Through his sweats you could feel him, hard and straining. You dragged your nails just barely along his lower stomach before dipping one hand under the waistband — just far enough for him to realize what was happening.

Bucky groaned, jaw clenched like he was hanging on by a thread.

“Okay?” you asked again, softer, thumb tracing the skin there.

“Uh-huh,” he wheezed. “I’ve literally never been more okay.”

He barely managed to lift his hips to help, too dazed to form words. You guided him with one hand, the other braced against his shoulder, your eyes never leaving his.

And when you finally shifted, slow and precise, sinking down to take him in—

Bucky swore, deep and hoarse, his head tipping back as though the moment stole the strength from his bones.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice cracking like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Your breath caught, but you didn’t stop — didn’t rush. Just let him stretch inside, your movements fluid and intentional, like you were taking your time memorizing him.

His hands gripped your hips without thinking, like he needed something to anchor himself to. His eyes found yours again — wide, wrecked, worshipful.

“You okay?” you asked, breathless but steady, voice just this side of teasing.

“I, uh…” His voice came out rough, almost hoarse. “I’ve… never—” He swallowed. “This is… new for me.”

Your expression softened instantly, all teasing gone. “You want to stop?”

He shook his head so fast it was almost comical. “No. God, no. I just—”

A breathless laugh slipped out of him. “I think I saw God for a second, and he winked at me.”

Your lips curved, slow and knowing, as you leaned in again — breath warm against his jaw.

“Then shut up,” you whispered, “and let me ruin you.”

And that was the last coherent thought Bucky had for a while.

Everything else blurred — heat and skin, the weight of you around him, your mouth saying his name like a secret and a promise.

He stopped overthinking.

Stopped apologizing.

Just felt.

Just had you.

Until—

The jolt.

That crash back into consciousness — no build-up, no gentle drift — just a sudden, sharp impact.

Bucky’s eyes flew open.

Heart pounding. Skin damp.

Mouth dry like he’d been breathing fire in his sleep.

The ceiling stared back at him, blank and disinterested, washed in the pale gray smudge of early morning light.

His chest was heaving. His sweatpants—wet. Sticky. His entire body was hot in a way that wasn’t normal for 3:37 a.m., confirmed by the red glow of the digital clock blinking from his desk shelf like it was mocking him.

And then the rest hit him.

A chainsaw revved from across the room.

Or, more accurately: Steve. Snoring with wild, unrepentant force. Sprawled on his stomach, face half-smushed into the pillow, limbs thrown wide like he’d lost a bar fight and accepted death.

Bucky didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You were gone.

But you’d never been there.

He stayed there for a full five seconds, blinking, brain loading at the speed of a dial-up connection.

Your voice still echoed in his head.

Shut up and let me ruin you.

Jesus Christ.

He groaned, low and wrecked, dragging a hand down his face. Sweat dampened his neck and clung to his shirtless chest, a bead rolling slow along his ribs. The cotton sheets were tangled at his waist, and there was an ache low in his spine like he’d actually been touched.

He’s hard. Really hard. Painfully so. And his boxers were sticking in places that made him want to punch a wall.

He reached blindly toward the mini fridge beside his bed, popped the handle, and grabbed the first water bottle he found.

Unscrewed the cap with shaking fingers and chugged half of it like he’d been wandering the desert.

But it didn’t help.

Not with the way your hands had felt in the dream.

Not with the memory of your skin, your mouth, the sound you’d made when he—

He let out a quiet, strangled sound and flopped back against the mattress like he’d just lost a battle with a ghost.

This was bad.

So bad.

Apocalyptic, even.

Because now he had to see you again.

And there was no goddamn way he’d survive that.

Not with the image of you burned behind his eyes.

Not with his body still wired for touch, still twitching with leftover sensation like his nerves hadn’t gotten the memo that it wasn’t real.

Next time you walked into the dorm — smiling, casual, just you — how the hell was he meant to look at you and not remember the way you kissed in his dream?

Yeah. He was so unbelievably, catastrophically screwed.