Aaand Will Power Continues To Show That Australian Men Need Therapy A Lot More Than They Need Motorsport

My animation of a flour sack. Words can’t express how proud I am of these 11 seconds.

Guys I was hit with inspiration at 4am this morning while severely sleep deprived (and also lowkey sick) <33

So, enjoy my creation— the Quinnmp (the Quinn blimp)

Heat Check (18+)

Nate MacKinnon x reader

summary: enemies to lovers, friendship with the team, smut

—--------------------------------------------------

Disciplined. Focused. Dedicated.

That’s how Nathan MacKinnon was wired, and your mere existence threatened that. 

The Avalanche hired you before the season started to join the marketing team, and your job required you to work closely with the players.  You made sure they were always where they were supposed to be for different non-hockey events, and watched over press conferences and interviews - that sort of thing. 

Being in your mid-20s had a major advantage; you had enough years out of college that the players took you seriously, but still young enough that they messed around with you. You loved most of the players, but specifically, you were close with Jack Drury and Parker Kelly since they were the closest in age to you. 

They took pity on you for not knowing anyone in Denver when you moved and quickly integrated you into their friend group which you were very grateful for. Being friends with them was easy since you had pretty much the same hectic schedule. 

While those two loved you, there was one player who did not love you. Unfortunately, he just happened to be the most important one. 

Flashbacks

You were only two weeks into the job when Nate MacKinnon’s sharp voice echoed down the hallway.

"Why the hell am I the only one here on time?" he snapped, glaring at the half-empty media room.

You checked your clipboard and calmly replied, “Because you didn’t read the schedule. Your slot isn’t for another 20 minutes.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So I’m just standing here like an idiot?”

“If the shoe fits,” you said sweetly, not looking up from your notes.

His jaw clenched. You didn’t flinch.

—--------------------------------------

“I told you I don’t want to do this ad,” Nate muttered, arms crossed as you stood in the locker room doorway.

You didn’t blink. “And I told you it’s in your contract. You skipped the last two. You’re out of excuses.”

“I have a routine. This screws it up.”

“Then I suggest you adjust,” you said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the waiting car. “Or do you want to explain to PR why your face isn’t in the team’s biggest sponsorship campaign?”

He muttered something under his breath but followed you out.

—--------------------------------------

“You didn’t tell me I had to speak,” Nate hissed as you straightened his name tag at the pre-event check-in.

You raised an eyebrow. “I did. Twice. You rolled your eyes both times.”

“I’m not a public speaker.”

You gave him a cool smile. “Lucky for you, I already wrote your speech. Try not to make it sound like a hostage video.”

“Why do you always have an answer for everything?” he growled.

“Because someone has to,” you replied, turning on your heel and leaving him standing there, speech in hand.

End of flashbacks

Jack and Parker always chastised you for going toe to toe with Nate but you just brushed them off. You didn’t have to answer him the way that they both did. Most of the team found it amusing, how easily you could get under his skin but you were more irritated by it – he was living up to the stereoype of stuck-up athlete who thought they were above listening to people like you. 

During games, you sat in a team suite with other marketing people that had to be there and some operations folks. The Avs captain, Gabe, usually sat up here with you for away games and you had grown to really enjoy his company. The team was playing in St. Louis and you had just settled in next to Gabe who was intensely watching someone during the warm ups. 

“Who are you watching?” You asked curiously, handing him a water. 

“Nate,” he said, his eyes not leaving the rink. “Something is up with him, seems like he’s in a bad mood.”

“He’s always in a bad mood,” you muttered and Gabe let out a short laugh, grinning at you. 

"Just to you, but this is different," Gabe replied, his expression turning serious again. "He's been off since morning skate. Usually, he's laser-focused before games, but today he's... distracted."

You followed Gabe's gaze to where Nate was on the ice. Even from this distance, you could see the tension in his shoulders as he took shots with more force than necessary. One clapped off the crossbar so hard it echoed through the arena.

"Maybe he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed," you suggested, settling back in your seat.

Gabe shook his head. "No, this started after he checked his phone in the locker room. Something's bothering him."

"Well, whatever it is, let's hope he channels it into scoring tonight," you said, trying to sound nonchalant despite your curiosity being piqued.

He did not channel it into scoring. You watched shocked as things started off bad and then just kept getting worse. He got into a fight 5 minutes into the first period and ended up in the penalty box. Nate MacKinnon in the box for fighting??? This hadn’t happened in ages. 

The crowd was relentless, chirping him nonstop and for the man who prided himself on his ability to laser focus, you could see him starting to crack. 

“What the fuck is going on?” You mumbled, watching him get into it with another Blues’ player. 

Gabe was in just as much shock as you, “I have never seen him like this. I can’t even tell you the last time I saw him really in a fight.”

The two of you watched the rest of the third period in silence after Nate was pulled. You could tell, even from way up where you were, that he was fuming. The game ended, the Avs losing 2-0 and you packed up your stuff from the suite, heading down to one of the buses where you waited to leave with the team. You sat with another girl in marketing for the short ride to airport, boarding the jet quickly to get back to Denver. 

As much as you wanted nothing more than to pour a glass of wine and curl up on your couch, you had just a little bit of work to finish up before you went home. So your first stop when the busses brought you back to the facility was to your office. 

45 minutes later you decided to wrap it up and finally head out. You grabbed your coat and retreated downstairs, heading towards the parking lot. Someone came out from another part of the building and was a couple of steps ahead of you towards the same direction. 

It was Nate.

Of course it was Nate.

You debated turning around—just calling an Uber and coming back for your car in the morning—but then he turned his head, clearly hearing your footsteps behind him. His shoulders tensed, and you sighed.

Too late.

You kept walking, giving him a wide berth as you reached your car.

“What?” you snapped when you caught him glaring at you from across the row.

“You have something to say?” Nate barked, tossing his bag into the back of his SUV with more force than necessary.

“Nope,” you said, popping your trunk. “But apparently you do, since you're throwing bags around like a toddler.”

He scoffed. “You think this is funny?”

“I think you picking fights on the ice like a pissed-off frat boy is a little pathetic, yeah.”

Nate stalked a step closer, jaw clenched. “You don’t know what’s going on with me.”

“Because you don’t let anyone know,” you fired back, slamming your trunk shut. “You just sulk and snap at everyone who breathes too loud near you.”

“And you always have to be right, don’t you?” he bit out. “Every damn time, there you are—telling me what to do, acting like you’re better than everyone else.”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

He stepped even closer, tension radiating off of him. “You don’t respect me.”

“No,” you said, standing your ground, chin raised. “I don’t coddle you. There’s a difference.”

Nate was quiet for a moment, his breathing shallow. His eyes darted over your face like he was trying to figure you out for the first time.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered.

“Good,” you shot back. “It’s mutual.”

There was another pause, longer this time. Something charged in the air. You were both too stubborn to back down, standing in the glow of the parking lot lights, faces inches apart.

Neither of you knew it - but you weren’t alone in the parking lot. Cale and Gabe had also stayed behind and were standing by the doors, watching your little showdown. 

“Do you think we should intervene?” Cale asked, scratching the back of his head. They had watched the two of you yell at each other from across the row to now yelling in each other’s faces. 

Gabe started to say yes as your finger came up to Nate’s face but stopped short at what he saw. Your finger was in Nate’s face for less than a second before he pushed you back against his car, his lips on yours in a searing kiss. You were frozen for only a millisecond before you responded back harshly against him, wrapping your hand into his hair and pulling roughly. 

Gabe and Cale were both slack jawed watching the scene in front of them. 

"Holy shit," Cale whispered, eyes wide as he watched his teammate and you locked in what could only be described as the most aggressive make-out session he'd ever witnessed.

"We should... probably go," Gabe said, but neither of them moved, too shocked by the scene unfolding before them.

Meanwhile, your mind was racing even as your body responded to Nate's touch. His hands were everywhere—in your hair, gripping your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as if the space between you was personally offensive to him. The kiss was all teeth and frustration, months of tension finally breaking.

When you finally pulled away for air, your chest heaving, Nate's eyes were dark and intense. His hair was disheveled where you'd run your fingers through it, and a flush had spread across his cheekbones.

"What the hell was that?" you breathed, staring at him in shock. 

His jaw tightened, “Get in the car.”

“Make me,” you barked back, full of attitude. He yanked open the door behind you and pushed you in. You scooted back in his spacious back seat and he was on you again in an instant. 

His lips crashed against yours, hungry and demanding, as he slammed the door shut behind him. Your back pressed against the leather seat, his weight pinning you down as his hands found the hem of your shirt. The windows quickly fogged as your breaths came in short, desperate gasps.

"I fucking hate how much I want you," he growled against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.

"Shut up," you hissed back, tugging his hair hard enough to make him groan. "Just shut up for once."

“God I can’t wait to fuck that attitude out of you,” he growled, flipping you over to where your arms rested against the door. He yanked down your pants and ran his hand over your ass once before slapping it hard. 

“I’d like to see you try,” you said brattily, as you looked over your shoulder at him. 

His eyes darkened at your challenge, a dangerous smirk playing at his lips. "You always have to push, don't you?"

His hand came down again, harder this time, and you bit back a moan. The sting radiated across your skin as his fingers dipped between your thighs, finding you embarrassingly wet.

"Look at that," he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. "All that attitude, and this is what you really want."

You tried to maintain your composure, but it crumbled when he slid two fingers inside you without warning. Your head fell forward against the door as he curled them just right, making your knees weak.

"Fuck," you gasped, arching back against him.

"That's the plan," Nate replied, his free hand moving to unbuckle his belt. The sound of his zipper sliding down sent a thrill down your spine. He fingered you for a few more minutes before you pulling out, replacing them with the head of his cock at your entrance. 

You knew he was going to tease you and you weren’t going to give him the chance. Moving back quickly you pushed yourself onto his cock all at once, making him groan. 

"Jesus," he hissed, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you knew there would be bruises tomorrow. "You just can't let me have control, can you?"

"Not when you're so slow," you taunted, rolling your hips back against him.

That was all it took to snap his restraint. Nate growled low in his throat and pulled almost all the way out before slamming back into you with enough force to push you forward. One hand snaked around to grip your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your pulse quicken as he established a punishing rhythm.

"Still think I'm slow?" he panted against your ear, his other hand reaching around to circle your clit.

Each thrust was deep and deliberate, like he was trying to brand himself into you. The car rocked with the force of his body driving into yours. 

Your thighs trembled as you struggled to maintain your position, the dual sensation of his fingers and his relentless pace pushing you rapidly toward the edge.

"Answer me," he demanded, giving your throat a gentle squeeze.

"N-no," you gasped, pride still battling with pleasure. "But I bet you can't make me come before you do."

You felt rather than heard his chuckle, a rumble against your back as he leaned over you.

"Always a competition with you," he muttered, but his fingers moved faster, more precisely against your clit. "Fine. Challenge accepted."

Nate shifted his angle slightly, hitting a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His rhythm never faltered as he used everything he'd learned about your body in the last few minutes to dismantle you completely.

"Shit," you whimpered, feeling your orgasm building. But you still had one trick left up your sleeve. 

Clenching deliberately around him, you heard his breath catch. "Fuck," he groaned, his rhythm faltering for just a second.

"Not so confident now?" you managed to say between ragged breaths, even as your own control was slipping.

Nate responded by sliding his hand from your throat into your hair, gripping tightly and pulling your head back. His mouth found your ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "Nice try," he whispered, voice strained with effort. "But I know what you're doing."

He released your hair only to snake his arm around your waist, lifting you slightly to change the angle. The new position hit something deep inside that made your entire body jolt.

"Oh god," you gasped, your arms trembling as they braced against the door.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice husky and commanding. "Let go for me baby.” 

He thought he had you exactly where he wanted you but he caught sight of you in the reflection of the window and that sent him over the edge. Your hair was a mess, and you were panting hard but he had never seen anything hotter than you in this moment. 

Your name fell from his lips in a strangled groan as he came, his hips stuttering against you. The feeling of him pulsing inside you combined with his fingers still working against your clit sent you crashing over the edge just seconds later, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure rolled through you.

For a moment, the only sound was your shared ragged breathing fogging up the windows of his luxury SUV. Reality slowly began to seep back in as your heartbeat returned to normal.

"Fuck," Nate muttered, carefully pulling away from you. The loss of contact felt sudden, almost jarring.

You straightened up, wincing slightly at the soreness already setting in, and began to fix your clothes in the confined space. The post-orgasm clarity was hitting hard, and with it came the realization of what you'd just done. Not giving him a chance to say anything, you simply opened the car door and stumbled out. You didn’t look back as you walked towards your car and it honestly felt like you were in a fever dream. 

You hated Nathan MacKinnon. Hated him. So why then did you just fuck him in the back of a car like a tennager? 

—---------------------------------------

Work the next day wasn’t awkward but that was mostly due to the fact that you normally avoided Nate at all costs; you hadn’t even spared him a glance when you were both in the lobby that morning. Your game plan was calm, cool, and collected. There was no reason for him to know that he was the reason you didn’t get any sleep, your head playing the car scene on replay and then getting mad at yourself for doing it. 

Morning skate was over and you were standing outside the locker room talking to Cale and Parker about an upcoming charity event they both had to be at. 

“Just send us a reminder the week of please,” Parker begged and you laughed, agreeing to his request. 

“So y/n, do anything fun after getting back last night?” Cale asked randomly and both you and Parker gave him a weird look. 

“Can’t say that I did,” you said confused, “Just went home and hung out.”

“So you hung out at a home? Not anywhere else?” Cale pressed. 

You shot Cale a perplexed look. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," he replied too quickly, a strange smile playing at his lips. "Just making conversation."

Parker glanced between the two of you, clearly sensing something was off. Before he could question it further, the locker room door swung open and several players filed out. Your heart skipped traitorously when Nate emerged, his hair still damp from the shower.

His eyes locked with yours for a split second before he ducked his head, brushing past your small group without a word. The faintest hint of his cologne lingered in his wake, bringing unwelcome flashbacks of being pressed against him.

"That was weird," Parker commented, watching Nate's retreating form. "He didn't even glare at you. Are you sure you two didn't finally hash things out?"

“Yeah, like in a car or something?” Cale added and you froze. 

“What does that mean?” Parker asked and you turned ot Cale who had a shit eating grin on his face. 

“Can you give us a minute Parker,” you managed to stutter out, mind racing at the words that just came out of this man’s mouth. Parker nodded slowly before turning to catch Jack who was on his way out. 

“How do you know?” You seethed at Cale once Parker was out of sight. “And why would you fucking bring it up?” 

Cale just laughed and grinned down on you, “You two weren’t the only ones in the parking lot last night. Gabe and I got an eyeful.” 

Your stomach dropped to your feet. "Oh my god."

"Don't worry," Cale said, lowering his voice. "We left as soon as things... escalated. But maybe next time pick somewhere more private than the team parking lot?"

You covered your face with your hands, mortification washing over you in waves. "I'm going to die. Right here. This is how it ends."

Cale chuckled. "Relax. Gabe and I aren't going to tell anyone."

"Does Nate know that you saw?" you whispered, peeking through your fingers.

"No idea. We didn't exactly stick around to exchange notes." Cale's expression softened. "Look, whatever's going on between you two—"

"Nothing is going on," you cut in quickly. "It was a... momentary lapse in judgment. A stress relief thing. That’s all.” 

“Hmm,” he said, looking at you carefully. “Just interesting for a guy who has said he’s so focused on the team that he won’t even think about girls to be caught fucking one in the parking lot. Specifically one he claims he can’t stand.” 

You rolled your eyes but didn’t say anything, filing away that comment for later. 

—---------------------------------------

Gabe was standing in the locker room, hovering near Nate’s locker as he scanned the room for a perfect accomplice in what he was about to do. Cale had told him what you had said about the following night so now he wanted to put to the test if you were the only one hot and bothered about it. 

“Charlie!” His eyes lighted up as he caught side of the new Avs player passing by. Glancing over to make sure Nate didn’t have his headphones in he continued on. “Tough game yesterday.” 

“No kidding cap,” Charlie said. “Definitley was happy to get home.” 

“Good thing we have people on the team to support us,” Gabe tried to say casually. “Have you met y/n yet?” 

Gabe watched Nate still at the mention of your name while Charlie nodded. 

“Yeah - she’s cool,” he said. 

“Kinda hot too right?” Gabe urged on and Charlie gave him a bewildered look. 

“Yeah - aren’t you married?” Charlie asked. 

“Doesn’t mean I can’t call it like I see it,” Gabe said, already thinking of ways to make it up to his wife for this performance. 

“Enough,” barked Nate and Gabe grinned. “Don’t talk about Avs employees like that.” 

Charlie started to back away, desperate to get away from whatever was going on as Nate glared daggers into the side of Gabe’s face. Gabe pretended to ponder for a moment. 

“Hmm good call, what’s your take on hanging out with them outside of work? Like in the backseat of a car?” 

Nate was on his feet in an instant, shoving Gabe across the locker room. Shouts went out as other players watched Nate stalk over to where Gabe had landed. 

"What the fuck, man?" Nate growled, looming over Gabe who was sprawled against the lockers.

Gabe held up his hands in surrender, but couldn't hide his smirk. "Just asking a question."

The locker room had gone silent, everyone frozen in place watching the scene unfold. EJ took a hesitant step forward, ready to intervene, but Gabe waved him off.

"You saw," Nate hissed, his voice low enough that only Gabe could hear. "How many others know?"

"Just me and Cale," Gabe replied, getting to his feet and straightening his shirt. "Your secret's safe. Though I wouldn't call it a secret when you're going at it in the team parking lot."

Nate ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. “It didn’t mean anything.”

Gabe grinned, “Then why’d you throw me across the locker room?” 

—--------------------------------------

You were in your head at work these days and still had refused to talk to Nate. You wish you could say that you were over what happened but that definitely wasn’t the case, in more ways than one. 

“Are you sure I can’t stay the night?”

You looked up over at the guy you’d matched with on Hinge hovering near your door with mild sympathy. 

“Yeah - I’m sorry, I have a really early morning,” you lied, hoping your face looked like you meant it. 

“Okay, well this was great, let’s do it again sometime,” he said, coming over to kiss you one last time before heading out. You waited until you heard the door click shut to fall back on your bed and scream into your pillow. 

Everything about this guy was perfect. He was hot as fuck, had a great job, and seemed genuinely interested in you. But the whole time you couldn’t stop comparing him to that fucking asshole on the Avs. 

You shouldn’t have let him come back to your apartment but you did in hopes that it would snap you back into reality but the opposite happened. You had to fake it for god sake. 

It had been two weeks since your unfortunate parking lot adventure and this was the second time this had happened. You just couldn’t “get it up” anymore. 

You hadn’t meant to cross paths with him.

But of course, when you turned the corner into the media room to double-check tomorrow’s charity schedule, there he was leaning against the table, arms crossed, talking with Gabe and Cale.

You stalled for a second in the doorway, hoping maybe he wouldn't notice you. No such luck. His eyes locked on yours immediately, his expression sharpening like he’d been waiting for you.

You moved to the far side of the room, rifling through the papers you needed. He wasn’t going to rattle you today.

“I sent you the updated itinerary,” you said aloud, without looking at him. “So there’s no reason you shouldn’t be where you’re supposed to be tomorrow.”

“I know how to read a schedule,” Nate snapped, his voice curt.

You turned to face him, eyebrow raised. “Could’ve fooled me last week when you bailed on the hospital visit.”

“I told PR I wasn’t feeling well,” he replied, his tone clipped. “I’m not going to show up for a photo op when I’ve got a fever.”

“No one’s asking you to pose on a red carpet,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “It’s called being a professional.”

“Don’t lecture me about professionalism,” he said, stepping closer. “Especially not when you—”

“Nate,” Gabe warned gently, but you held up a hand to stop him.

“No, let him finish,” you said, eyes narrowing. “Since he’s so good at making things personal.”

The room tensed. Even Cale took a step back like he wanted to pretend he wasn’t witnessing this.

Nate’s jaw flexed. “You walk around here acting like you’re the one in charge of everyone. You don’t know what it’s like out there, what we’re dealing with.”

“And you think you’re the only one carrying weight?” you replied. “You think it’s easy managing egos the size of this building? Try keeping an entire media schedule from falling apart while you throw tantrums over a twenty-minute interview.”

He moved even closer, standing toe-to-toe with you now. “You really have a way of getting under people’s skin, you know that?”

“You’re not exactly sunshine and charm either,” you retorted, glaring up at him.

For a second, neither of you moved. The tension between you buzzed like an exposed wire. It wasn’t just anger—it was something else, something sharper, more dangerous.

Cale cleared his throat loudly. “So, uh... we’re gonna go.”

“Yeah,” Gabe mumbled, already walking toward the door. “Enjoy… whatever this is.”

Once they were gone, the silence between you was deafening.

You stared at Nate, heart pounding in your chest. “We can’t keep doing this.”

“Then stop starting it,” he replied, voice low.

You rolled your eyes and turned to gather your paperwork, but his voice stopped you.

“Don’t act like you don’t feel it too.”

You froze.

He was still standing there, arms crossed again, but his gaze had softened. There was something behind it—uncertainty, maybe even regret. And underneath that, the same pull that had been growing stronger since the moment you met him.

You swallowed. “Maybe I do,” you said. “But it doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”

His eyes darkened just slightly. “Most of the best things in life aren’t.”

You shook your head, but couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now. “But you don’t seem to be going anywhere.”

—-----------------------------------

All you wanted to do after the shit day you had was go home and take a bath and pop open a bottle of wine, but begrudgingly you found yourself at a bar in downtown Denver per Jack and Parker’s request. 

It was Ross Colton’s birthday and you were friendly with him so the boys insisted that you come. You did enjoy the opportunity to let loose and dress differently than you did at work. Your long hair was curled down your back, laying atop of a tight black top paired with cargo pants. 

The bar was loud, buzzing with bodies and laughter and music thumping just a little too hard through the walls. You were doing your best to pretend you were having a good time—smiling when Parker made a dumb face, clinking your glass with Jack’s—but you couldn’t shake the weight in your chest.

Eventually, you drifted away from the group, needing a break. You made your way to the bar, perched on the edge of a stool, and ordered a sparkling water, hoping the coolness would help ground you.

You didn’t notice the guy until he was already too close.

“Hey there,” he said, voice low and way too confident. “Been watching you all night.”

You glanced at him briefly. “Cool,” you muttered, turning your attention back to your drink.

But he didn’t move.

“You alone?”

“No,” you said quickly. “Just needed some air.”

He grinned like you’d invited him in. “Well, lucky for you, I’ve got time to keep you company.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

He leaned in anyway, his shoulder brushing yours. “You sure? You look like you could use a strong drink and a stronger distraction.”

You shifted slightly in your seat, trying to put space between your bodies. “I said I’m fine.”

“C’mon,” he said, lowering his voice as he moved closer. “Don’t be like that. I’m just trying to be nice.”

His hand landed on your leg—too high, too firm—and your entire body stiffened. You pushed it off immediately, heart rate spiking.

“Don’t touch me,” you snapped.

He smiled like it was a joke. “Relax. You don’t have to play hard to get.”

You stood up abruptly, your barstool scraping loudly across the floor. “Back off.”

He grabbed your wrist.

Not hard—but enough to freeze your blood.

“Let go,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady even as panic started crawling up your throat.

A second passed. Then another. Finally, he released you with a mocking smirk, like you were the one overreacting.

You spun on your heel, pushing past people, your breath shallow. You didn’t stop until you reached the hallway near the bathrooms. The music faded just enough that your pulse was the loudest thing you could hear.

You locked yourself in the farthest stall and sat on the closed toilet seat, burying your face in your hands.

Your fingers trembled. You felt sick. A few tears made their way down your face and you couldn’t stop your mind from flashing the look on that guy’s face when he looked at you. It chilled you. 

Pulling yourself together you made it to the bathroom sink, splashing water on your face to calm down. Your eyes were a little red-rimmed but you hoped that the low lights of the bar would fix that. Smoothing your hair, you gave yourself one last look before heading back out. 

Parker was the first person you saw and you beelined towards him, not even noticing it was Nate who he was talking to. 

“Hey,” Parker greeted as you barreled into him, he started to say something else but shifted gears. “What’s wrong?”

Nate’s attention snapped towards you, taking in your red eyes and the general nervousness you were exhibiting. 

“Nothing,” you said, trying to sound normal. “Just tired.” 

Parker accepted the answer and kept on what he was saying but Nate wasn’t listening, his eyes were trained on you. You met them for a second before blinking away and that was all he needed. He knew what he saw. Fear. 

“Who is he?” He interrupted Parker mid-sentence and you shifted from one foot to another. 

“It’s fine,” you told him. 

"It's not fine," Nate insisted, his voice low and dangerous. "Tell me who he is."

Parker looked between the two of you, confused. "What's going on?"

You shook your head. "Nothing. Just some creep at the bar, but I handled it."

Nate's jaw clenched as his eyes scanned the room. "Which one?"

"Nate, seriously—"

"Which. One." His voice left no room for argument.

You sighed, discretely gesturing toward the guy who was now leaning against the bar, watching you with that same smirk. "The one in the blue button-down. But please don't make a scene."

Nate was already moving before you finished your sentence, his shoulders set in a hard line as he cut through the crowd. Parker cursed under his breath and followed, clearly sensing trouble.

You scrambled after them, heart hammering in your chest. "Nate, don't—"

But he was already standing in front of the guy, his presence commanding even in the crowded bar. You pushed your way through just in time to hear Nate's deceptively calm voice.

"I understand you've been bothering my friend."

The guy's smirk faltered slightly as he looked up at Nate, clearly recognizing him. "We were just talking, man. No big deal."

"Grabbing someone isn't 'just talking,'" Nate replied, his voice dropping even lower. "And I don't like when people touch what's mine."

Your breath caught in your throat at his words. Parker shot you a surprised look, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from the scene unfolding.

The guy straightened, trying to match Nate's height and masking his panic with a fake sense of confidence. 

“Do you usually let your girl dress like a slut then?” He shot out and it wasn’t a second after the last word left his mouth that Nate’s fist was flying towards his face. 

The bar erupted into chaos. The guy staggered backward, blood already trickling from his nose as he crashed into a table of drinks. Glasses shattered across the floor. Someone screamed.

"Nate!" you shouted, lunging forward to grab his arm before he could land another punch. His muscles were coiled tight under your fingers, ready to strike again.

Parker was there in an instant, pulling Nate back with both arms. "Not worth it, man. Not here."

Security descended on your group within seconds, burly men in black shirts materializing from the edges of the room. One of them recognized Nate immediately, his eyes widening.

"Everyone out. Now," the head security guard commanded, pointing toward the exit.

The guy with the bloody nose was still sprawled against the broken table, clutching his face and cursing. "You're fucking dead, MacKinnon.”

Nate just grinned at him. A sadistic sort of grin that had heat flwogin through your body. 

“I’ll see you outside then.”

You followed close behind as security escorted Nate out of the bar. 

Parker and Jack flanked Nate on either side as you all spilled out onto the sidewalk, the cool night air hitting your flushed skin. Nate shook his hand out, knuckles already reddening from the impact.

"What the hell was that?" Parker hissed, keeping his voice low as curious onlookers gathered nearby.

"He had it coming," Nate replied flatly, his eyes still burning with anger.

You stepped in front of him, placing a hand on his chest. "Are you insane? You can't just punch people in public. You're the face of the franchise!"

His eyes locked with yours, intense and unrepentant. "He put his hands on you."

"I handled it," you insisted, though your voice wavered slightly.

"Not from where I was standing," he growled.

Jack glanced nervously over his shoulder. “We might get round 2 soon guys.” 

“Good, I was just getting started,” Nate boasted and you rolled your eyes. 

“No,” you said, irritated. “Your hand is already bloodied and I’m not going to be the reason you have to sit out a game. You two go back in and have fun, I’m taking him to get cleaned up.” 

Parker and Jack both raised their eyebrows at you but didn’t argue. Nate looked like he was going to protest but one glare from you shut him up. You led him down the street and towards your apartment; the walk was silent but luckily short and you were soon climbing up the familiar steps to your place. 

“Come on,” you murmured as you stepped in, motioning for him to follow you to the kitchen. 

He followed you silently, eyes taking in every detail of your apartment. It was tidy but lived-in, with touches of your personality everywhere—books stacked on the coffee table, a sweater draped over the couch, a few framed photos on the wall.

"Sit," you instructed, pointing to a barstool at your kitchen counter. Nate obeyed without argument, watching as you moved to the freezer and pulled out an ice pack.

You grabbed a clean dish towel, wrapped the ice pack inside it, and gently took his hand. His knuckles were already swelling, skin split across two of them.

"This was stupid," you muttered, carefully pressing the ice to his hand. "You know that, right?"

"Doesn't feel stupid," he replied, his voice quieter now, all the rage from earlier simmering down to something more controlled.

“You laid a claim on me to that guy and Parker and Jack,” you said, looking him the eye now. “Why?”

“You are mine,” he said with a shrug, as if it was the most casual thing in th world. 

“I am not yours,” you argued. “We don’t even like each other.” 

“You became mine the second you didn’t push me away,” he said seriously and you groaned in frustration. 

"That doesn't make any sense," you said, pulling away from him and setting the ice pack on the counter. "One hook-up in a car doesn't make me yours."

Nate's eyes followed you as you paced the small kitchen. "It wasn't just the hook-up."

"Then what was it? Our constant arguments? The way you glare at me across rooms? Please, enlighten me."

He stood up, closing the distance between you in two strides. "It's the way you don't back down. How you call me on my shit when everyone else just nods and agrees. It's how you walk into a room like you own it." His voice dropped lower. "It's how you felt against me that night."

Your breath caught in your throat. "Nate—"

"I can't stop thinking about you," he admitted, the confession seeming to surprise even him. “You’re in my head constantly - it’s infuriating.” 

You smirked at that, only he would find a way to be into you and pissed about it at the same time. Well maybe you felt that way too. 

“I’ve had to fake two orgasms since then,” you blurted out and his head snapped up, faint amusement on his face. 

“Oh yeah?” He pressed. 

Your face was scarlet and you turned away mumbling, “Keep thinking about the car.” 

Nate stepped closer, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. His injured hand hovered near your hip like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

“You think I haven’t thought about it too?” he asked, voice low. “That I haven’t replayed that night a hundred times?”

You swallowed hard, unsure if you were dizzy from how close he was or from the confession itself. “Then why are you such an asshole to me?”

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t look away. “Because I didn’t know how else to act around you. You get under my skin. You make everything feel... unsteady.”

Your breath hitched. “Unsteady isn’t always a bad thing.”

He reached out slowly, giving you time to pull away—but you didn’t. His hand settled lightly on your waist.

“Let me take you out,” he said, softer now. “Not to the backseat of my car. A real date. Just us. No yelling. No insults.”

You stared up at him, heart thudding.

“You’re intense,” you said quietly.

He gave a small grin. “So are you.”

The silence between you now felt different—warmer, heavier with something that wasn’t just lust or rivalry anymore.

“Okay,” you said, your voice almost a whisper. “One date.”

Nate exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months. “One date,” he agreed. “But I’m warning you now—I’m not planning on it being the last.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you.

He leaned down, brushing his lips gently against your cheek, this time not rushed or heated—just a promise.

And for the first time in weeks, your chest didn’t feel so heavy.

A little longer

HI MY BEAUTIFUL 🐚ANON!! I adore this so much, I adore YOU so much, as always, your requests are everything!! 

Warnings: So so much fluffy fluff, angst if you really squint till your eyes go cross-eyed and blurry

-

“It’s been decades. Not even a couple years. Almost a century. You probably shoot dust. Or whatever your bionic ass reproduces with”

Bucky contemplated throwing his half finished milkshake at Sam’s head while they both scarfed down burgers from a late night diner after a taxing mission. Sam was pestering Bucky yet again about his nonexistent social and lack of a love life, a topic he seemed to get high off of. 

Keep reading

ahhhhh!!! this was so good! i have a question, did you research fire tips for this? cause i was thinking that for the whole p a s s part and just thought it was funny

All up in Flames

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You just want your toxic ex-boyfriend’s things to stop haunting your apartment. So you let your friends lit the match. But then the sirens come, and with them Bucky Barnes, who puts out more than just the flames.

Word Count: 9.4k

Warning: destruction of personal property; toxic relationship themes (not Bucky); mentions of an ex-partner; anxiety symptoms; fire; consequences of own actions; reader’s ex is an oc; mentions of ghosting and manipulation; Wanda, Natasha and the Reader are roommates

Author’s Note: I'm not sure how this started, but I felt a strong urge to indulge my unexpected obsession with Bucky as a firefighter. This is ever so slightly inspired by a scene from the series friends. There is an, although fluffy, but also really angsty second part coming up to this in the next few days. The writing part is complete, but I still need to finish some editing. In the meantime, I would love to hear what you think. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part two

Masterlist

You are not okay.

You are so far from okay that if you sent a postcard to okay it would get lost in transit, eaten by a dog, and then set on fire.

Which sounds stupid. But that’s about the luck you are blessed with.

The sun is setting and it might be doing you a favor with that. Spilling soft gold across the city skyline, painting your apartment’s tiny rooftop garden in a glow so warm and gentle it almost feels like forgiveness.

But you’re not in the mood for forgiveness.

You are in the mood for revenge. The emotional, irrational, wonderfully dramatic kind. The kind that smells of smoke and fury and the remnants of a man who once claimed to love you but couldn’t even spell commitment if it came with a free fantasy football draft.

Nolan Aspey. Even his name is a rotting corpse in your mind.

You’re sitting on an old beanbag chair shaped like a strawberry. It squelches when you move. You suspect it might be leaking. You don’t care. Your body is wrapped in a bathrobe that isn’t yours. It’s Natasha’s. It’s also silk, red, and wildly inappropriate for rooftop lounging in May. Still, she insisted. Said heartbreak demands drama.

To your right is Wanda, perched on a rusted garden chair stolen from the community center’s Zumba class. She’s nursing a glass of something suspiciously green and swirling it as though it’s a portion, legs crossed, eyes twinkling with mischief. Her nails are black and so is her soul. You love her for it.

To your left is Natasha, preparing your small setup. She’s wearing aviator sunglasses even though the sun is barely hanging onto the sky, and you’re sure she’s doing it for the aesthetic.

You stare at the setup. There is a bottle of wine - half full, or half empty, depending on whether you’re crying or screaming at any given moment - and a Bluetooth speaker playing a playlist titled Sad Bitch Anthems Vol. 1

You don’t feel like a bitch, though. You feel more like 73% pathetic and 27% rage.

Because in front of you, next to the trash can Natasha is placing - on a cracked terracotta platter that used to house a very unfortunate basil plant - is the pile.

Your ex-boyfriend’s stuff. A pile of heartbreak. The skeletal remains of your relationship.

One hoodie that still holds traces of his cologne - a scent that haunts your dreams and also your laundry hamper. Four concert tickets from that indie band he dragged you to. Two dozen Polaroids of smiles that now feel counterfeit. A necklace he gave you from a kiosk in the mall and claimed was real moonstone but it was plastic, who would have guessed. A series of agonizingly handwritten love letters he sent you after ghosting you for a week. A book you lent him that he never returned, except now it’s water-damaged and somehow sticky. You don’t want to ask why. And a mug that says Boss Man.

You’ve always hated that mug.

You stare at the pile and the pile stares back.

“Okay,” Natasha starts, stretching the word out and flicking open a Zippo lighter with a casually pleasing look. “Let’s set this bitch ablaze.”

“I don’t know,” you hesitate, like a woman who knows this is a terrible idea and is about to do this anyway. “Is this even legal?”

“Is heartbreak legal?” Wanda asks dramatically, putting on oven mitts and holding a fire extinguisher as though it’s a designer clutch. “Is betrayal legal? Is gaslighting-”

“We get it,” you cut in quickly. “He sucked.”

“Oh he did more than suck,” Natasha exclaims, crouching beside the metal trash bin. “He emotionally vaporized you.”

“And that’s why we’re liberating his soul,” Wanda nods solemnly, her Sokovian accent making everything sound like a funeral dirge or a hex. “With fire.”

“Alright, you freaks,” you chuckle a little weakly, something tugging at your chest. “I just- I feel like we should say something,” you continue, voice low. As though you’re standing over a grave.

Wanda lifts an eyebrow. “An eulogy?”

Natasha, already about to strike the match, snorts. “A spell, more like.”

You ignore them. Or try to.

You reach down, pick up the hoodie. Hold it in your hands as though it still is something important to you. You hate that. And it’s ridiculous because he once wore this while spilling bean dip all over your white couch and didn’t even apologize.

Still, you hesitate.

“I mean,” you go on, voice small, “is this crazy? Like, should I be processing this more healthily?”

Natasha tosses the match into the bowl with all the ceremony of a seasoned arsonist. “This is healthy,” she says lowly. “You’re purging. This is emotional detox.”

Wanda nods. “Also, we brought marshmallows.”

You stare.

She lifts a grocery bag. “In case the fire gets big enough.”

You want to protest. To say something sensible. Something like, this surely is illegal, or this is definitely going to attract attention, or rooftop gardens are not structurally designed for bonfires. But instead, you sigh. Pick up one of the letters. Hold it above the flames that are just beginning to flicker.

“I hope he can feel this from wherever he’s ghosting people now.”

The paper catches as though it was waiting for this moment. As though it has always wanted to be free of the nonsense inked into it.

Wanda claps softly. “To ashes.”

“To cleansing,” Natasha adds, sipping her wine while watching you in satisfaction.

You pick up the mug next. Look at it one last time, the painted letters mocking you with their ceramic certainty. Then you chuck it into the trash can. The sound it makes - crack, splinter, dead - is gratifying in a way therapy can’t afford to be.

Your therapist would say this is unhealthy.

Your landlord would say this is grounds for eviction.

Your heart says burn all of it to ashes.

You sit back. Watch as the fire grows bolder, licking up the fabric of his old hoodie. The smoke rises in ribbons, curling around the string lights above and the half-dead succulents in your rooftop sanctuary.

The flames kill fabric, memories, and lies. For a few seconds, it’s cathartic.

You feel free, weirdly, relaxing in your seat. Powerful. Slightly unhinged.

Wanda lets out a feral scream and throws in a pair of his socks.

Natasha sips wine straight from the bottle, smirking.

You’re laughing. Or crying. Or both.

Then there is a crackle.

A pop.

“Is it supposed to make that sound?” Wanda asks, a little too casually.

Natasha shades her eyes with her hand. “Oh.”

“Oh?” you repeat. There’s dread in your voice. A sweet, rising note of oh no I didn’t sign up for actual consequences.

“The candle wax spilled,” Natasha states, calm.

“Why was there wax?” you ask, less calm.

“I thought it would smell nice. Vanilla coconut. Seasonal.”

Wanda leans forward. “Um.”

The fire gets bigger.

It gets way bigger.

The flames lap - ever so enthusiastically - at the rim of the metal bin and start talking to the wind and now the wind is flirting back and suddenly this has escalated into something biblical.

“Uh,” you let out.

“Don’t panic,” Wanda says, panicking.

“I am panicking,” you shout, slapping at a spark that just landed on your blanket as though it’s a bug from hell.

Natasha grabs the fire extinguisher from Wanda after she only fumbles around with the handle.

Wanda holds out her wine as though it might help.

You just stare at the roaring column of flame that used to be your dignity and think you should have just blocked Nolan like a normal person.

“Should I call someone?”

“I mean,” Natasha says, still somewhat calm, brushing ash from her robe, “probably-”

Wanda does it for you.

You hear her muttering into her phone, giving your apartment number like it’s a confession while fanning the smoke with a pizza box.

And you sit there with that sinking, desperate feeling that comes only from realizing you made a terrible life choice, and you’re about to pay for it in paperwork and possibly a visit from the landlord.

The air is full of smoke and regret and singed hoodie.

At least his cologne no longer stings in your nose.

You fan the flames uselessly with a throw pillow and silently pray the neighbors of you three are too busy binge-watching reality TV to notice that the building might be on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

All you wanted was to burn some memories. Some manipulative words. A tiny, hoodie-shaped piece that saw you cry on two separate birthdays. The hoodie that watched you fall asleep restlessly on couches that weren’t yours. The hoodie he left behind as though it meant nothing, as though you meant nothing.

So now you are holding a pillow with shaking hands and a mouthful of second guesses, standing over a metal bin on your rooftop, trying not to make eye contact with the fire as it gets uglier.

And Natasha doesn’t seem to know how to use a fire extinguisher either, bits of foam leaving it, like tiny sprinkles.

You try to help with your blanket. The one with the flowers on it.

They start faintly.

The sirens.

Growing louder.

Like judgment. Or fate. Or the consequences of impulsively burning your romantic history without a permit.

That sound, loud and authoritative and promising rescue, bounces off the buildings and down alleyways like a soundtrack written just for your mental breakdown.

Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm starts wailing as though even it can’t handle the drama.

You hear the brakes of the fire truck before you see it. Hear the way they hiss and groan against the street as though the truck is just as tired of cleaning up after emotionally unstable civilians as you are of being one.

You lean over the ledge of the roof, peering down like Rapunzel mid-crisis, and there it is.

Big. Red. Serious.

Three firemen step out. Their silhouettes are backlit by flashing lights. You feel, absurdly, as though you’re in a heist film. Or a rom-com. Or a public service announcement.

One of them is talking into a radio.

One of them is already unloading equipment.

And one of them is looking up.

At you.

He squints. Cocks his head slightly. Takes you in.

A moment later, they’re clomping up the stairs, boots loud against the old steel.

The door to the rooftop bursts open.

You are trying very hard to look like someone who has not created a situation requiring professional intervention. But you know it’s not working.

You expect seriousness. Gruffness and unamused men, middle-aged with a mustache and a strong opinion on smoke detectors.

But the men walking onto your rooftop are none of that.

There is a blond one. Tall. Built like the world’s most polite oak tree.

Another one is smiling. Smirking. Radiating fun uncle energy despite the full turnout gear.

And the last one. He’s tall and broad and also wears the full gear - helmet tucked under one arm, soot-smudged gloves on the other - and still, he manages to look as though he walked off the set of a calendar shoot titled America’s Hottest Emergency. He’s the one who looked up at you from below.

“Evening, ladies,” he says, voice low and a little raspy, as though he chews gravel for breakfast but politely wipes his mouth after.

His eyes are blue. Clear. Kind.

His gear fits him as though it was pressed in heaven.

He’s calm. Collected. He glances once at the smoking bin, then at Natasha holding a fire extinguisher as though it might double as a weapon, then back at you.

“This the source?”

His voice is deep and even and somehow gentle. He gestures toward the bin, that’s now doing its best impersonation of a forge. The fire’s down to a few stubborn flames now, black smoke rising into the sky.

“Yes,” you answer, after what is definitely too long a pause.

His name tag says Barnes.

His uniform is clean and neat and slightly smudged at the knees. His hands are gloved. His expression is unreadable.

“We take it from here,” says the blond with the tag Rogers, already moving toward the bin.

“We’ve got a call about open flame, potential spread. You ladies okay?” Barnes speaks up again.

You open your mouth.

Wanda opens her mouth.

Natasha gets there first.

“It was controlled.”

He raises an eyebrow. Glances at the still-smoldering hoodie, the wine, the melted candle that now looks as though it’s auditioning for a horror movie.

“It was semi-controlled,” she clarifies.

Barnes exchanges a glance with his colleague, the one dousing the final embers. The patch on his jacket says Wilson.

“Uh-huh,” he simply lets out, though there is a hint of amusement in his tone. He doesn’t laugh. But his eyes sparkle as though he wants to.

You want the ground to open up and swallow you. You want to disappear, evaporate into smoke like the hoodie, the letters, the relationship, your pride.

You clear your throat.

Barnes already turns back to you. And oh. Oh.

His intense gaze is doing things to you.

And it doesn’t help that your face probably is covered in soot and existential shame.

“Just out of curiosity,” Bucky says slowly, a small tug at the corner of his mouth. “What exactly were you trying to do?”

Natasha folds her arms.

“Therapy,” she responds, as though it’s obvious. “We were doing therapy.”

“With fire?” Wilson chimes in, skeptical and mildly delighted.

“Had a rough night,” Wanda offers suddenly. “Her ex. Real piece of work.”

You inhale sharply. “Wanda,” you warn, wobbling with the effort to appear dignified while wearing fuzzy socks and an aggressively red bathrobe that’s slowly coming untied.

“No, he was,” she insists. “He lied. Manipulated her. Ghosted her after a year of dating. Said he wasn’t ready for a relationship, for commitment, and whatnot, and then got engaged. Two weeks later. To someone who doesn’t even like dogs.”

You see Barnes wince.

“Damn,” Wilson lets out.

You close your eyes for a moment.

The rooftop is very still, save for the hiss of water on ashes.

Barnes doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at you. Measures you.

“That’s rough.” His voice comes low. Even. However, there is more to it.

You nod once. You’re not sure what else to say.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck. He looks as though he wants to say something else. Something a little softer. But the blond speaks up.

“Next time you feel like getting rid of things,” he says, voice sympathetic, but firm, “might want to try a donation bin.”

Natasha smirks. “Not as satisfying.”

Roger’s lips twitch. Just barley. “Well, if you’re going to keep burning stuff, maybe give us a heads-up next time.”

You just want to be swallowed by something. The earth maybe while we’re at it.

Bucky’s eyes are soft. Subtle. Like watching an iron door swing open just a crack.

“Did it help, though?” he asks, seeming sincere.

You blink.

You certainly didn’t expect a question like that. You might have expected teasing. Or mockery. Not gentleness. Understanding. As though he stood where you are. As though maybe he tried to burn his past too.

You nod, a little shyly. “A little.”

The fire has now been extinguished. Wilson and Rogers share a few words, poking the ashes with a metal rod.

And Bucky still looks at you as though you are not ridiculous. As though you are not ash-streaked and emotionally unstable.

Then he clears his throat. Smiles a slow, crooked, criminally charming smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes you want to confess things. Dreams. Secrets. Your social security number.

“Well,” he starts smoothly. “Fire’s out. No citation this time, but maybe go easy on the candle sacrifices.”

You feel something in your chest flutter. Or combust. Honestly, hard to tell at this point.

You want to thank him. You want to say something easy. But you are still a hot, melted candle of a person yourself.

So instead, you nod. “Okay,” you promise, voice rather small.

He tips an imaginary hat. Then turns back to his team. Taps his helmet once against his leg and gives the others a low command you can’t hear.

The moment is over. Clean-up begins. The fire is out. The chaos is settling.

But for some reason, your heart is still making noise.

****

Time doesn’t tiptoe.

It lumbers, loud and unbalanced, dragging itself across your days with all the grace of a wounded elephant.

But still, it moves. And you start to feel like yourself again. Piece by piece.

You sweep the ash out of your ribcage. You remember what it feels like to listen to music without flinching. To laugh and mean it. To make pasta at two in the morning just because you want to. To exist without waiting for the next disappointment.

It’s enough for you to walk barefoot again without stepping on invisible landmines disguised as memory - his coffee mug, his toothbrush, his phone charger, his smell stuck to your pillowcase like grief with a cologne subscription.

But all of that is gone now. Burned.

Literally.

Charcoal in a rooftop bin. Ashes scattered to the wind like bad omens. The hoodie’s gone. Melted into memory. Along with the notes, the tickets, the Polaroid of the two of you at that Halloween party where he said he loved you for the first time with sugar on his lips and a lie in his mouth.

You’re better now.

And on a Thursday, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells of Wanda’s lemon detergent and safety, your head in Wanda’s lap, legs draped over Natasha’s thighs, all of you filled with late breakfast and post-shower hair and the warm, sleepy glow of late morning.

Wanda is ranting about her dream journal. She always tries to analyze her dreams for some reason.

“But I was a tree, Y/n,” she’s saying, balancing a mug on your shoulder. “An emotional tree. I cried leaves.”

Natasha doesn’t blink. “That’s tracks.”

You hum amused. “You’ve always been sympathizing with nature, Wan.”

Wanda points her spoon at you as though it’s a wand. “You get it. Nature is screaming and I hear her.”

A worn novel lay on your shins on Natasha’s lap, cracked open. But she’s been on the same page for twenty minutes. You think she’s listening more than she lets on.

The apartment smells of roasted bread. The sun is slanting in through the windows just right - those lazy golden stripes that make even your chipped coffee table look cinematic.

“Do you think he knows?” you voice after a silent moment.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Knows what?”

“That I burned his stuff?”

Wanda hums, carding her fingers through your hair. “Don’t think about that. It doesn’t matter if he knows. The universe knows. That’s enough.”

You glance at the windows. You wonder if the hoodie screamed when it caught fire. You hope it did.

“Honestly,” you say around a handful of cereal, voice lighter, “burning that stuff was the healthiest decision I’ve ever made.”

Natasha smirks. “Aside from therapy.”

“Obviously.”

“And cutting your bangs.”

“That was a journey.”

Wanda lifts her mug. “To combustion and personal growth.”

You clink your cereal box against her cup. “Amen.”

There were, of course, consequences. A polite but stern letter from the landlord. An eye-roll of a fine from the city. For future ceremonial burnings, please contact the fire department in advance, it read.

But it was worth it.

Every last spark.

There’s a comfort here, in the clutter, in the way time is moving again. Not fast, not smooth, but forward. You’ve started reading books again. You’ve stopped stalking his Instagram. Well, mostly.

“You seem about a few steps away from writing a memoir called How to Set Men on Fire (and Still Make It to Brunch)” Natasha muses.

“I’d buy that,” Wanda immediately chimes in.

You snort.

Outside, someone yells at their dog. A siren shrieks in the far-off distance like an unfinished thought. Your apartment smells of burnt toast and coffee grounds, and it’s home.

You’re okay.

Almost.

And then the fire alarm goes off.

It screams. A wailing, shrieking, banshee of a sound, as though the building is having a panic attack and wants you to join in. Lights flash. The walls vibrate. Your soul tries to exit your body.

Wanda’s spoon hovers in the air.

Natasha glances at the ceiling with an unimpressed look.

You feel your pulse do a little skip. Not in a full panic. But a creeping suspicion unfurls behind your ribs.

Natasha is already standing, moving, with the efficiency of a woman who’s never been surprised in her life.

“Is this us?” Wanda asks, voice high and uncertain. She looks around your shared apartment. “Did we- was it the oven?”

You bolt upright. “Nothing’s in the oven.”

“Well then who-”

“I swear I didn’t light anything.” You raise your hands.

“Well, I didn’t either,” Wanda insists.

“Doesn’t smell like us,” Natasha says, sniffing the air like a human smoke detector.

But none of that matters because the building has made a decision and that decision is everyone out now.

You’re still sitting. You’re in pajamas. You all are. And not the cute kind either. The kind that suggests you’ve been crying into a tub of ice cream while watching documentaries about whales. The kind with ducks on the pants and a sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big and maybe has a mustard stain from Tuesday.

You hear doors opening. Feet on stairs. Someone is yelling about their cat.

Natasha grabs her phone and keys. “Let’s go before it turns into the Hunger Games.”

You move. Slowly.

You’ve made your peace with fire, sure - but only the kind you start on purpose. Symbolic. Controlled. Supervised by emotionally repressed firefighters with sharp jaws and suspicious amounts of upper body strength.

But this is unexpected.

This is the kind of thing that sends a hot flood of unease down your spine, because what if the universe is laughing at you again? What if you are, yet again, being punished for trying to let go?

You follow Wanda and Natasha out the door.

The hallway is bright with flashing lights - red, urgent. The sound is louder out here. So loud it makes your teeth vibrate. You can’t tell if it’s coming from your floor or somewhere above, but there’s a smell this time. Faint, sharp, ugly. Plastic and heat and something bitter curling in the air.

There’s a river of bathrobes and sweatpants and panicked neighbors. The stairwell smells like old takeout and anxiety. A toddler is crying. Someone’s dog is barking. A woman herds two cats into a carrier with shaking hands.

Mr. Feldman from 3B is arguing with someone on speakerphone about whether he unplugged the coffee maker, and you think the fire alarm might actually be the least chaotic sound happening right now.

“Was this us?” you repeat Wanda’s question, a little unsure, as you file down the stairs like middle-class refugees.

“No,” Natasha mutters coolly. “But I’m still blaming you.”

You clutch the railing and follow, ducking your head, trying not to make eye contact with any of your neighbors as your duck-printed pajama pants flap dramatically behind you.

You shouldn’t care. No one looks good during evacuation. And Wanda and Natasha look the same.

And yet. Your heart is doing something strange again.

It isn’t panic. It is expectation.

Your chest knows something your brain refuses to name.

At the bottom of the stairwell, someone holds the door open and you all spill into the daylight. The whole building is out now, buzzing like bees, people muttering and shielding their eyes.

You breathe in. Sharp. Cool. You try to ignore the knot forming in your stomach.

Smoke - real and thick - drifts from one of the kitchen windows on the fourth floor.

The crowd shifts around you - barefoot neighbors, a couple wrapped in matching bathrobes, one guy in boxers and cowboy boots holding a microwave. Someone brought their goldfish out in a bowl.

You stand near the hedges with Natasha on one side, arms crossed, and Wanda on the other, biting a fingernail and muttering something about how she definitely turned off the stove.

And then - like something out of a fever dream or a scene you didn’t realize you were still starring in - you hear it.

The sirens.

Louder this time. Close.

You freeze.

Wanda gives you a side-eye.

Natasha is already smirking. Already watching the street like a woman with a secret.

There’s a rumble. A hiss. The low growl of something inevitable.

And there it is.

The truck.

Big. Glossy red. Familiar. Like a mouth ready to swallow your dignity whole. Lights flash, the crew leaps down, gear gleams in the late morning light.

Fife firefighters fan out with mechanical movements. Their boots hit the pavement.

And one of them is Barnes.

He swings out of the cab with the ease of someone who does this for a living, the kind of grace that comes from muscle memory and a thousand repetitions.

Helmet under one arm. Radio clipped to his shoulder. That same uniform hugging his frame beautifully, as though even his clothes know how lucky they are.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s too busy scanning the building, hollering orders. Wilson and Rogers follow behind, already moving. You watch them as though this is a movie.

Barnes is all lines and velocity. His body moves as though he doesn’t need to think, as though instinct lives in his spine. The heavy jacket makes his shoulders look even broader, the suspenders visible where the coat parts, and everything about him suggests competence with a capital C. He’s not just handsome, he’s horrifyingly capable.

Your mouth is dry.

His eyes sweep the crowd.

And then he sees you.

He stops. Only for a second. His face changes.

You wish you had the words to explain it, to bottle it, to pin it down like a butterfly under glass. It’s not surprise exactly.

It’s something softer. Smaller. Recognition.

His eyes travel down your frame like a soft inventory. Not lewd, not invasive. Just checking to make sure you’re still whole.

Your whole body wants to shrink into itself like an accordion. You are in duck pajama pants. You have mascara from yesterday smeared beneath one eye and your socks don’t match and you have nothing to use as a shield against judgment.

Barnes doesn’t say anything as he walks past your cluster, but his gaze brushes yours again. A flicker. Like a note passed under the table. You feel it in your spine.

And then he’s gone, slipping into the building.

The door swings closed behind him.

And your whole body forgets what it was doing.

The tall blond and another man whose name tag you’re not able to make out follow him, shouting something into the radio as they rush through the front doors. Wilson stays near the truck, communicating with a woman in a blazer. Another circles the building’s exterior, already unraveling the hose in a way that feels choreographed.

Wanda exhales beside you. “Okay but why do I feel like I need to sit down.”

Natasha keeps smirking. “Girl’s not even on fire and he still looked like he wanted to carry her out bridal style.”

You don’t answer. You pretend not to hear them. You’re too busy trying to teach your lungs how to work.

A woman nearby is having a loud conversation with her parrot in a travel cage. An older man keeps pointing at the sky and saying something about chemtrails.

Across the street, a woman with curlers in her hair cradles a barking Pomeranian. A man in flannel pajama bottoms is life-streaming on Instagram, offering uninformed commentary like, “Yeah, looks like they’re going in hot. You seen that one dude? That’s the captain. I think. Or maybe the lieutenant? I don’t know, he’s got the vibe.”

But you are watching the front door.

Five minutes pass. Maybe ten. It feels like too long. You chew the inside of your cheek until it tastes of metal.

Then the door opens again.

Barnes steps out first.

He’s holding a cat.

A full-grown orange tabby against his chest. It meows furiously but stays nestled against his jacket, one paw resting just under his collarbone.

The crowd parts for him as though he is Moses with a fireproof jacket.

“Oh would you look at that,” Wanda whispers delighted. “A true hero.”

You inhale through your nose. It doesn’t help.

You continue watching how he walks across the street and hands the cat to a sobbing teenage girl who is engulfed in a comforter and clutching the fabric with trembling hands. He squats in front of her. Saying something. Something soft, gentle, reassuring. And she laughs through her tears. You watch her nod. You watch her wipe her face with her sleeve.

You want to ask what he said.

You want to ask a thousand things.

But mostly, you want to stand still in this feeling a little longer.

It’s something shaped like interest, tilted toward longing, balanced on the lip of something you never expected to feel just yet.

“Just smoke from a toaster,” one of the other firefighters calls out. His name tag says Torres. “No damage. False alarm.”

The neighbors sigh. Groan. Someone claps.

You still can’t look away from him.

He stands again. And then there’s another glance.

His posture is relaxed now. The light hits the silver of his belt buckle and makes your eyes squint. A breeze picks up and he runs a hand through his hair.

God, he looks human in a way that makes you forget you’re made of skin and not glass.

People are filing back into the building, muttering about smoke detectors and building codes, their faces pulled into various expressions of relief, annoyance, and boredom.

You’re still on the curb.

The sirens have stopped. The smoke has thinned.

And then suddenly, Barnes turns. Starts walking. Straight toward you.

Your pulse is pounding as though the building is about to fall.

You pull your sleeves over your hands because it’s all you can do with them.

You’re staring at a crack in the pavement. One that branches like lightning across the sidewalk. One you’ve never noticed before, though you must have stepped over it a hundred times. It looks like something trying to split open, as though even the concrete is tired of pretending.

You look up and he’s already halfway to you.

He is walking as though he means to. Not rushing, but not wandering, either.

He’s got his jacket slung over one shoulder this time, sloppily, as though he forgot it mattered. The suspenders are still visible, stretched over a plain navy shirt that shouldn’t be as flattering as it is. His gloves are tucked in the crook of his elbow. The radio clipped to his belt is crackling with static and shorthand codes, but he doesn’t reach for it. A smudge of soot streaks his jaw like a shadow of what he just walked through.

His boots are heavy, but his steps aren’t. His eyes are on you.

He walks like someone who isn’t thinking too hard about where he’s going but definitely knows where he wants to stop.

You blink twice. Your heartbeat forgets what tempo it’s supposed to be playing.

Natasha says nothing, but you feel her lean imperceptibly to the side, just out of the line. Wanda pretends to scroll on her phone, though the screen is black and upside down.

There is still the faint scent of smoke in the air. But his scent cuts through it - soap, metal, something warm and masculine that probably shouldn’t make your knees wobble, but does.

You consider digging a hole in the sidewalk and folding yourself into it like a collapsible chair.

But you don’t. You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

And then he’s there. Right there.

Boots planted on pavement. A hair’s breadth too close for casual, a hair’s breadth too far for intentional.

You look up at him.

He looks down at you.

“Well,” he starts, rough voice, but you see a twitch of amusement in his mouth that seeps warmly into his tone, “this isn’t gonna turn into a habit, is it?”

Your pulse makes poor decisions. You forget every single word you’ve ever learned in any language, including your native one.

A corner of his mouth quirks up further. “Because if it is, I’m gonna start thinking you just like havin’ us over.”

You find scratches of your voice somewhere in your throat. “Wasn’t us this time, gladly,” you say, a bashful and breathless laugh fleeing your lips. You turn to Natasha and Wanda for a moment but it seems they expect you to lead this conversation.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, tilting his head. “Had me worried for a second. Fire call, same building. Whole lotta commotion. Coulda been you tryin’ to burn something again.” His tone holds a teasing edge. His eyes are glinting.

You cringe. “Right. Sorry about that, again.”

A smile breaks fully across his face - slowly, as if it’s deciding whether it’s allowed to exist. It changes his whole face. Brightens him, somehow. As though there is a light inside his chest and someone just flipped the switch.

“Ah, no worries. S’ what we’re here for,” he rumbles, amused but soft.

He’s still smiling. Still watching you with that calm, unreadable focus that makes you feel as if you’re standing under a magnifying glass, but not in a cruel way.

“Name’s Bucky, by the way,” he says, like a gift.

You stare. “Sorry, what?”

He smiles wider. “My name. Bucky. Captain Barnes, technically, but Bucky’s fine. You know, in case you decide to burn anything again and want a direct line.”

Your mouth parts.

“Oh,” is all that comes out. Brilliantly. Eloquently. Like a poet in the throes of emotional ruin.

Bucky chuckles softly, a little small. Then scratches the back of his neck.

“I, uh-” he starts, then stops. Then shifts his weight a little. “I didn’t get your name last time.”

You study the smudge on his ridiculously handsome face. The square of his jaw. The lashes too long for fairness. The scar, faint and silvery, placed just under his left eye like a comma he forgot to erase.

You tell him your name.

His smile deepens when he hears it. Grows softer. He repeats it once, quietly, as though he is trying it out. You wish he wouldn’t do that. You wish he’d do it again.

“Well,” he notes, glancing down at the pavement, then back at you. “Nice to meet you officially. Under slightly less dramatic circumstances.”

You smile. “Slightly.”

There is a beat. A quiet one. His eyes flicker down your frame and back up - quick, respectful, but curious. You swear he clocks the fact that your hands are shaking a little.

He rebalances, a ripple passing down his spine to his heels. “You okay, though? Really?”

You nod, heart hammering too loudly in your ears. “Yeah, we’re okay. It’s a relief that it was only a false alarm. And it wasn’t us.”

You gesture lamely at the girls. Wanda waves with exactly one finger. Natasha stands there with the corner of her mouth tugged up smugly. She barely nods.

Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off you.

It’s not overt. Not predatory or invasive. But it’s not nothing, either. Just direct.

He nods slowly. As though your answer passed inspection.

“You girls all live together?”

You nod again, teeth catching the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. All three of us. Since last spring.”

He hums. Doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t look at Natasha. Doesn’t look at Wanda.

Just you.

“Good,” he says finally. “That’s good. You’ve got backup.”

You smile, tentatively. “They’re alright.”

“Sure are,” Natasha deadpans.

Wanda throws a heart at you with her hands.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle a little at the edges. You want to bottle that look. Hide it in your drawer. Peek at it when the day is quiet and you forget what warmth feels like.

A pause.

You think maybe that’s it. Maybe he’ll tip his head, excuse himself, go back to his team. That would make sense. That would be the responsible, professional thing to do.

Instead, he points to your pants. “Nice ducks, by the way.”

You stare at him. You absolutely, completely stare.

Natasha makes a pretty unattractive snorting sound behind you.

Wanda is suddenly very interested in retying her shoelaces.

“Thanks,” you manage. “They’re vintage.” You hope you sound less embarrassed than you feel.

He lets out a rumbling laugh.

Then the tall blond calls his name. Rogers. Sharp. Quick. Business.

Bucky turns, lifts a hand in acknowledgment. “Duty calls.”

He takes a step backward, but his eyes stay on yours a second too long.

And then he winks. It’s absurd. It’s illegal. It’s completely unnecessary.

“It was nice seeing you again.”

Then he walks back to the truck. Climbs in.

The engine roars. The lights flash once more for good measure. The truck eases into the street, and he is gone.

But you don’t move.

You just stand there, blinking into the smoke-tinged sunlight, your names still hanging between you.

You roll his name around in your head like a stone you’re not ready to skip.

Wanda steps up beside you, peering after the truck. She sighs like a Victorian ghost. “I love that you didn’t blink that entire time.”

“I blinked,” you grumble.

“You didn’t,” Natasha confirms flatly.

You inhale deeply.

Wanda grins. “So, what are we going to burn next.”

You exhale. Laugh, light and shocked and a little bit lost.

And you don’t answer.

But you’ve never wanted to set something on fire so badly, just to see if he’d come back.

****

You don’t want to go.

Not even a little. Not even at all.

You say it with your whole chest, with your arms crossed and your face stuffed into the corner of the couch cushion.

Wanda is painting her toenails on the coffee table. “Come one. It’ll be fun.”

Natasha doesn’t look up from her phone. “It’s good for team bonding.”

“Team bonding?” you squeak. “What are we, a softball league?”

Natasha shrugs. “I’m just saying. If there’s ever another toaster incident, I’d rather not die because you were emotionally incapacitated by a bread product.”

You groan into the pillow.

Wanda and Natasha signed you up for a fire safety class.

And you’re terrified.

Because it’s been weeks since you saw him last. Weeks since the smoke, and the heat, and the stupid lingering eye contact. Since he said your name as though he meant to keep it in his mouth for a while.

And you know - because your spine told you before your brain caught up - you know Bucky Barnes is going to be there.

You know this because Wanda knows things, and Natasha forces things into being.

And yes, okay, you miss him. You do. You hate that you do. You met the guy two times and still, your heart folds a little at the sound of diesel engines, you started keeping your hair brushed and your lips soft just in case the universe decides to toss him back into your orbit.

But seeing him again would surely feel like touching a sunburn.

You don’t want to burn.

You don’t want to heal, either.

You want to stay in this in-between where you get to miss him quietly without having to do anything about it.

So naturally, you end up in a folding chair in the local fire station’s multi-purpose room at 6:59 pm on a Wednesday.

There is a faint scent of metal and ash in the air. The kind that stays on walls no matter how many layers of institutional paint try to hide it. The overhead fluorescents are buzzing as though they are irritated by your presence. A series of old community flyers hang crookedly by the entrance. One says Stop, Drop, and Roll Your Way Into Preparedness! with a cartoon Dalmatian smiling as if it has secrets.

And although you would rather perish than admit it to your best friends, you came prepared.

You’ve been preparing for this moment the way some people prepare for court trials or emotionally complex family dinners.

You know the difference between a Class A and Class B fire.

You know the ideal temperature range from smoke detectors to function.

You know that a grease fire should never be doused with water and that lots of people don’t find this fact to be obvious.

You even practiced saying pull, aim, squeeze, sweep in a tone of detached casual interest while brushing your teeth last night.

Because you thought maybe if he sees you as competent, as calm, as someone who doesn’t panic around fire or men with broad shoulders, then maybe he’d-

You don’t finish the thought.

Because it’s dangerous.

Because although you didn’t agree to go here, you technically didn’t say no, which Natasha argued was basically a signed contract in this household and Wanda only hummed from the kitchen while printing out the registration forms.

Because your stomach flipped when Wanda said his name earlier. Because it flips every time. It still flips now.

Because you think about him too much. And you know you shouldn’t.

You’ve been doing well. Truly, objectively, almost scientifically well. You burned the things of your ex. You deleted his number. You ignored the last two texts, even when they got mean. You ignored phone calls from anonymous numbers because you knew he had his ways of reaching you. You told yourself it was done.

But it was Wanda who said it last night, curled into your couch with her knees tucked under your blanket and sympathy as well as concern in her eyes.

“He’s going to keep trying, you know. That kind of man always does. The trick is to stop listening before he gets loud enough to convince you you’re still his.”

You didn’t say anything then.

But now, sitting here, hands tucked under your thighs, ankles crossed awkwardly, the words feel like something still echoing inside your chest.

You’re trying not to sweat through your light sweater, trying not to pull at your sleeves as though you are twelve again and back in gym class, trying very hard not to imagine what it’s going to feel like when he walks in.

Bucky.

God, even his name feels like a bruise you keep poking on purpose.

“Just relax,” Wanda eases from beside you, all calm and legs crossed and sipping her chamomile tea in a travel mug she smuggled in as though it’s not against the rules. “It’s just a class.”

“And not just any,” Natasha adds sultry, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder with the kind of confidence you’re not able to possess at the moment. “It’s fire safety. You’ll learn to stop, drop, and roll, and make eye contact with your future husband.”

You turn to look at her. “I hate you.”

She nods. “But in a sexy, grateful way.”

You sigh. Cross your arms. Chew on the edge of your thumbnail and silently negotiate with god.

And then he walks in.

You feel him before you see him. Like gravity shifting. Like a magnetic field drawing your molecules to the surface of your skin.

Bucky Barnes steps through the doorway in a dark navy station polo, sleeves hugging his biceps with zero regard for your emotional stability. His uniform is not the big, intimidating, soot-stained kind with suspenders and the heavy boots and the sense that something is burning. This is the community outreach uniform. His dark hair is swept back but a little tousled, as though maybe he was in a rush. There is a clipboard under one arm, a radio attached to his belt, and he looks like competence in human form.

You exhale as though you’ve been underwater.

The entire class - about twelve people in total - turn to look at him as though they’ve never seen a firefighter before in their lives. There are a few women in yoga pants, a very enthusiastic grandpa, one teenager who looks as though he was dragged here as punishment, and a few genuinely interested looking men.

He doesn’t see you right away. He’s scanning the front row, muttering something to one of the other firefighters - Danvers, her name tag reads, a straight-standing, no-nonsense woman with a kind smile. She looks as though she could carry a refrigerator up a mountain, and you sink further into your chair.

Wanda leans into your space. “I can basically hear your ovaries-”

“Shut up,” you grit out, feeling as though you might melt into the fabric of the chair beneath you.

Bucky scans the room, nods a polite greeting.

And then he sees you.

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

It’s not dramatic. Not some cinematic double-take.

It’s worse. It’s soft.

His eyes catch yours and he smiles. Just a small curve of the lips. But it’s tender. Not performative. Not polite.

Your heart cartwheels straight out of the window.

You try to smile back but you’re pretty sure what happens on your face is chaotic.

Wanda makes a sound into your ear that can only be described as a squeal disguised as a cough. Natasha looks far too smug.

Bucky turns back to the room as though nothing happened. As though he hasn’t just detonated something in your bloodstream.

But he does stand a little straighter. Taller. Composed.

Then he claps his hands once, enough to bring the room to attention. As though he didn’t already have all eyes on him.

“Alright, folks,” he begins, voice even and low and warm enough to steep tea in. “Thanks for showing up. I’m Bucky, this is Carol. We’re going to run through some fire safety basics tonight. Shouldn’t take too long. Might even be fun.”

He grins now, looking around, landing just short of you this time.

You are a molecule. You are made of panic and possibility.

“But,” he speaks up, adjusting the clipboard. His voice is still doing that low rumble thing, like warm honey poured over rock. “Before I start throwing a bunch of information at you, I wanna know where everyone’s at. What you know, what you don’t, if anyone’s set anything on fire recently - accident or otherwise.”

His gaze snaps to you for just a second.

Your face bursts into flames.

Natasha and Wanda both lean in sideways and you shut them both up with a glare.

Bucky paces slowly across the room as he talks, like someone stretching his legs, taking his time. He gestures toward the group with a nod.

“Let’s start simple,” he continues. “Say your smoke alarm goes off in the middle of the night. What’s the first thing you do?”

Silence.

A few people shift in their seats. One woman raises her hand. “Grab my purse?”

“Put on pants?” remarks one of the guys.

Bucky smiles. “Valid. But not ideal.”

You raise your hand, heart thudding. Bucky raises an eyebrow, facing you fully and nodding at you.

“Check the door for heat before opening it,” you say, voice clearer than expected. “Use the back of your hand. If it’s hot, find an alternate escape route. It not, open it slowly and stay low.”

Bucky grins. It’s real and blinding. Pulling up slowly, tugging at the corners of his mouth as though he forgot how good it feels to smile that way. A glint sparks in his eyes.

“Exactly,” he confirms, nodding. “Textbook.”

You smile back shyly before you can stop yourself.

Natasha exhales beside you as though she is watching a soap opera. “She’s showing off.”

“I’m so proud,” Wanda whispers, misty-eyed.

You ignore them both.

Bucky keeps going, asking questions you mostly end up answering.

And he keeps watching you. Keeps studying you. And every time he does, something tightens behind your ribs.

A woman behind you mutters something about you being a teacher’s pet, but you don’t care. You’re not trying to be perfect. You’re trying to show him you learned from your mistakes.

And his eyes - blue and gentle and a little too amused - sparkle when you catch him glancing again. He ducks his chin once, as if to say you got me, and moves on to demonstrate how to deploy a fire extinguisher.

When he picks one up with two fingers as though it’s a soda can, several women gasp delighted.

Your skin prickles.

Natasha takes a slow sip of her coffee and watches you as though she is analyzing battlefield tactics.

When Bucky explains PASS - Pull, Aim, Squeeze, Sweep - you mouth the words along with him without meaning to.

He notices. You know he does.

There’s this almost smirk on his face.

And you can see the softness in his expression.

He talks through the basics - smoke alarms, evacuation plans, kitchen hazards. There are visuals. Charts. A slideshow. Wanda takes notes. Natasha twirls her pen like a knife.

You try to pay attention.

But your eyes keep drifting.

To him.

To the way he gestures with his hands. The way his fingers touch the edge of the table when he leans forward. The way he makes everyone laugh when he admits he once set off a fire alarm in the station trying to microwave a burrito on one of his first days.

He glances up when you laugh.

Your hands are fiddling with the fabric of your trousers. Your nerves are a concert hall. Every thought sounds loud inside your skull.

And when you think your heart might climb fully out of your throat, he turns back to the class. “Alright,” he announces, “now that we’ve scared you enough with PowerPoint, we’re gonna break into small groups and run a few practice drills. Let’s get into the fun part.”

A few people chuckle. One woman near the front giggles, flipping her hair over her shoulder as though she’s about to audition for a shampoo commercial.

You look down at your shoes.

Wanda leans in. “Can you believe how hard she’s trying? That’s actually pathetic.”

“Shh.”

“She’s wearing heels. To a fire safety class. Who does she think she is?”

“Wanda-”

“I bet she-”

“Ladies,” Natasha interrupts, lazily observant. “We’re moving.”

You watch the people file out of the room to move to the next one.

And you want to die. Or melt. Or somehow escape through the vents like a cartoon ghost.

But you have no other choice than to get up.

Prepared. Composed. A little bit on fire.

And the first thing you notice is how warm the training hall is. Not uncomfortable, but undeniably warm, as though the air has been steeped in sunshine and engine oil and the memory of things burning. The industrial lights make a low sound above, a metallic echo rolling across the tall ceiling. The whole place smells faintly of rubber, extinguishing foam, and steel that’s been handled too many times.

The practice area is marked by orange cones and taped grids on the floor.

Bucky steps into the middle of it with a kind of slow-motion certainty that makes the floor feel as though it’s tilting gently toward him.

You watch the veins on his exposed forearms, mapping them like routes to forgotten cities.

He and Carol Danvers start with group demos. Together, they run through the basics again. People are listening, nodding, pretending they aren’t mostly watching him.

You are watching him too.

But you’re also pretending not to. A lifelong skill, fine-tuned by heartbreak.

“Now let’s try hands-on,” Bucky decides, setting down the extinguisher and glancing around. “We’ll split into smaller groups. Carol and I will come around and help out. Just don’t point the thing at your friends.”

Laughter, light and scattered.

People start pairing off. A trio of women - dressed as though they expected a photoshop - flutter toward Bucky with hopeful eyes and strategically slouched shoulders.

“Oh my god, I don’t get this at all,” one of them breathes.

The others are leaning slightly forward. “Me neither.”

Bucky doesn’t even pause. Doesn’t glance over at them. “Danvers, you good taking that group?”

Carol nods. “My pleasure.”

And Bucky walks away without another word.

Straight toward you.

Your hands are clammy.

He stops in front of your group.

“So,” he starts, eyes moving around you three before landing back on you and then on the prop extinguisher in Natasha’s hand. “Who wants to go first?”

Wanda elbows you so hard your soul might have been knocked out.

You step forward.

He hands you a fresh extinguisher, this one heavier than expected, and you try not to look as though it surprises you. He steps closer, one arm already reaching out to steady it when your grip fumbles. His hand brushes over yours. Warm. Firm. He doesn’t move away immediately.

He’s watching you. Smiling, slow, a little crooked.

“Just like that,” he mutters gently.

You are a marshmallow in a microwave.

“Okay,” he says gently, letting go slowly - painfully slowly. “Now I’m gonna walk you through it, all right?”

You nod. Words are impossible. Language is a memory. You’re not sure your legs exist anymore.

“P.A.S.S,” he says. “Pull. Aim. Squeeze. Sweep. Easy.”

You repeat the words in your head another time.

Behind you, someone clears their throat - loudly. It’s the shampoo commercial woman. You glance back and see her smiling up at Bucky as though she’s already sewn his name into a couple of throw pillows.

“Could you maybe show me next?” she asks, eyelashes fluttering like a wind turbine.

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change.

“Carol?” he calls over his shoulder.

Carol looks up from her own demo station across the room. “Yeah?”

“Got one more for you.”

The woman visibly wilts.

Carol grins and waves her over.

Bucky turns back to you without missing a beat.

And maybe it’s your imagination but he’s standing just a little closer now.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod. Your grip tightens around the handle.

“Okay. First, pull the pin - here.” His hand finds yours again, fingers brushing over yours as he guides them toward the small metal piece near the top. It’s gentle. Confident. His breath is warm near your cheek, and you wonder if he always smells this good or if you’re hallucinating.

“Good. Now aim,” he instructs, voice lower now, not for any reason you can define. “Low, at the base of the fire. Like this.”

His arm brushes against yours as he shifts the nozzle, touching the outside of your elbow, guiding your arm as though you are made of delicate machinery.

“Then squeeze. Controlled, firm pressure.” His voice is deep. Soothing. Lulling.

He glances at you.

You do your best not to break out into a sweat.

Foam spurts out in a satisfying arc toward the mock flame target. He grins.

“Perfect,” he praises, and your breath stalls. “Last one, is sweep. Just like that.”

And he guides your hands - both of them - side to side, mimicking the motion.

You finish the drill. Exhale. Your hands tremble slightly, not from nerves. From the startling thrill of his proximity.

He steps back. You miss the warmth immediately.

“Nicely done,” he comments, and his voice is soft. Almost proud. “You did great. Handled it like a pro.”

You look away, flustered. Your fingers are tingling.

Wanda is making a face behind him as though she’s at a wedding. Natasha just raises one eyebrow.

“Thanks,” you say, and it comes out rather quiet.

Something churns in his face. A kind of satisfaction takes place.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but Carol calls from the front. “Barnes, we’re starting the fire blanket demo.”

He sighs.

And steps back.

“Alright, well,” he says, winking. Winking. “Don’t run off.”

As if you could.

As if your legs weren’t still made of goo and your brain wasn’t currently rebooting.

He walks away, and you feel every step like a loss.

You hadn’t thought you could feel like this again.

Not after him. Not after everything.

But here you are.

And Bucky Barnes just taught you how to put out a fire.

Still, your heart goes all up in flames.

“I am made for fire, for breaking and bending and healing in all the places that used to ache.”

- Nikita Gill

Part Two

was gonna stop watching BUT WE CAN DO THIS WE CAN WIN

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Nico Rosberg calling Horner a great lobbyist, praising Laura Müller‘s excellent reputation and women in engineering, revealing contract talks with Briatore in his bedroom while being terrified of him, giving insider information over McLaren’s management changes leading to performance gains, mentioning Lewis Hamilton 2467 times, fielding a thousand questions about teammate rivalry and the “super interesting” Landoscar dynamic, calling Max the driver of the year performing “a work of art” while reminiscing about his past trauma in 2016 and glazing his Imola overtake, flat out telling Fred his car looked the most difficult and worst to drive before asking him how long Charles will wait for Ferrari to get their shit together (and don’t forget that“poor Lewis”), calling Kimi a generational talent like Verstappen or Hamilton, admitting to swallowing a microchip????, watching Yuki’s media pen interview and calling Max a “teammate killer”, saying there’s “a lot of blah blah blah” from every driver for downplaying the technical directive, glazing and comforting George in equal measure, calling Isack a star of the year and asking if Racing Bulls expected it (they didn’t) while low key telling him to run if Red Bull comes calling, hyping up Lando’s confidence levels post Monaco, saying that Nando would be a five time wdc if not for his career moves, and don’t forget “no I won’t help you Lewis Hamilton”- all the while knowing and explaining incredible amounts of wheel and being respectful to all drivers. And it’s only practice day.

let’s play 🏒

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A hero without a cape

tower fics are so back baby