Chapter 1: The Homecoming Game
The air in the apartment hit him before the door even finished its arc—that familiar blend of stale coffee, cold dust, and her. Always her. That perfume he'd never been able to name but could pick out of a burning building, something sweet and dangerous that clung to the back of his throat and settled low in his gut like a shot of whiskey he hadn't asked for but desperately needed.
Bucky kicked the door shut harder than necessary. The thud echoed through the small living room, rattling the cheap framed print on the wall, the one she'd bought at a yard sale three years ago and refused to take down even though it clashed with everything. His eyes adjusted to the sickly amber glow of the single lamp, its shade tilted slightly, casting long shadows across the frayed couch where she lay.
Breanna was sprawled like she owned the place. Bare legs crossed at the ankle, toes pointing toward the ceiling, his faded flannel hanging off her shoulder just enough to expose the strap of something lacy beneath. The shirt was old, worn soft from years of sweat and work, and it hugged her in ways that made his jaw tighten.
"Took you long enough." Her voice slid through the dim light, lazy and knowing. She didn't move, just stretched slow, a deliberate flex of muscle and intent that arched her spine and made the fabric ride up her thigh. "I was starting to think you found somewhere else to be."
Bucky dropped his keys on the counter with a clatter that was louder than necessary. He didn't answer right away, just stood there in the doorway of the living room, letting his eyes travel the length of her. The shadows played tricks, or maybe they didn't, because every curve under that shirt was familiar territory he'd mapped a hundred times and still hadn't grown tired of exploring.
"You're in my shirt."
"I'm in your shirt." She grinned, all teeth and mischief. "You got a problem with that?"
He stepped closer, boots heavy on the worn floorboards. The couch was two feet from him, close enough to see the way her pulse fluttered at her throat, the only tell she couldn't control. "I got a problem with you thinking you're cute."
"I don't think I'm cute." She stretched again, slower this time, making sure he watched the way the fabric pulled across her chest."I know I am."
Three years together and she still did this. Still set these little traps, laid out her bait, and waited for him to snap. The thing was, Bucky knew exactly what she was doing. He always did. She wanted him to lose it, wanted that moment where his patience finally cracked and he took her the way she craved—rough and demanding, the careful man she lived with replaced by something hungrier.
And God help him, he always obliged.
But tonight, something in him wanted to let her squirm first.
"You got someplace to be?" He shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. "Or you just planning on laying there all night looking like that?"
Her smirk flickered, just barely, a crack in her confidence. "Maybe I am."
"Maybe." He stepped closer, his boots brushing against the edge of the couch. "Or maybe you're just trying to get a reaction out of me."
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't move. "Is it working?"
Bucky leaned down slowly, letting his hands land on either side of her hips, caging her in. He could smell the perfume up close now, that dangerous sweetness radiating off her skin, and it took everything in him to keep his voice steady. His hands were still at his sides, but he let the weight of his presence do the talking.
"You tell me."
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The lamp flickered, casting dancing shadows across her face, and Bucky watched the careful mask she wore start to slip. There it was—that glint in her eye, the one that betrayed the truth. She thought she was in control, thought she was setting the pace, but he could see the hunger lurking beneath her smirk.
She wanted him to prove her wrong.
His knuckles were scarred from years of working with his hands; he traced one of them along her thigh, featherlight, watching the way her breath hitched. "You think you're real clever, don't you?"
"I think I'm exactly where I want to be." Her voice was steady even as her chest rose and fell faster. "In your shirt, on your couch, waiting for you to do something about it."
He let out a low laugh, the sound rumbling from his chest. His hand slid up her leg, pushing the hem of the flannel higher, revealing the smooth expanse of her thigh. "You know what I think?"What's that?"
"I think you missed me." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear, savoring the tremble that ran through her. "I think you sat here in my shirt, sprayed on my favorite perfume, and laid yourself out like a goddamn trap because you couldn't stand another night without me."
Her breath caught. His palm settled on the inside of her thigh, roughened fingers pressing into her soft skin. The game was shifting, the dynamic tilting, and he saw the flicker of uncertainty that crossed her face—the moment when she realized she might not be the one in control after all."Maybe." Her voice was softer now, the bravado cracking at the edges. "Or maybe I just like watching you lose your mind."
"I'm not losing my mind, sweetheart." He pulled back just enough to look at her, his jaw tight, his eyes dark with intent. "I'm just reminding you how this always ends."
She opened her mouth to retort, but he didn't give her the chance. His hand slid higher, his grip firm, and the words died in her throat. The smirk was gone, replaced by something hungrier, something real.
"There you are," he murmured, thumb stroking the bare skin of her hip. "There's my girl."
She tried to hold his gaze, tried to keep up the pretense, but the mask was crumbling. He watched the way her lips parted, the way her body arched into his touch despite herself, and he knew he had her right where he wanted her.
"Now," he said, his voice dropping low and rough, "you gonna keep playing games with me, or are you gonna admit what you actually came here for?"
Her eyes held his, defiance and desire warring in their depths. Her voice came out breathless when she finally spoke. "And what if I don't?"
Bucky's grin was slow and dangerous. "Then I guess I'll just have to prove it to you."
His words hung in the air between them, thick and charged. Breanna's eyes searched his face, looking for the crack in his composure, the tell that she still had the upper hand. But there was nothing there—just that patient, almost predatory stillness that made her stomach flip.
She opened her mouth to say something clever, but the words never made it out.
Bucky moved fast, faster than a man his size had any right to. His hands hooked under her knees and the small of her back, lifting her off the couch in one smooth motion. She let out a startled yelp, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he straightened.
"Bucky—"
"You talk too much when you're nervous." He was already moving, carrying her across the living room like she weighed nothing. His boots scuffed against the floorboards, and she could feel the heat radiating off him through the thin fabric of the flannel.
"I'm not nervous." Her voice came out breathless, betraying her.
"Could've fooled me." He shouldered open the bedroom door, and the dim light from the living room spilled across the bed, catching the dust motes floating lazily in the air. The mattress sighed under her weight as he set her down, not gentle, not rough—just deliberate.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, ready to fire back another retort, but the words died in her throat when she saw the look on his face. His jaw was set, his eyes dark and fixed on her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing. He reached down, grabbed the hem of his shirt where it hung off her shoulder, and tugged.
"Off."
It wasn't a request.
She should have resisted. Should have made him work for it, teased him a little more, reminded him who had started this game. But the command in his voice sent a thrill down her spine that she couldn't ignore. She sat up slowly, letting her fingers find the buttons of the flannel, making a show of undoing each one with painstaking care.
His eyes tracked her movements, and she watched the muscle in his jaw twitch. He was losing patience.Good.
By the time she got to the last button, she was grinning. "You know, I could stop right here and leave you hanging."
"You won't."
"What makes you so sure?"
He leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of her hips. His face was close enough that she could see the faint scar on his brow, the one he got from a fight in a bar parking lot two years ago that she'd patched up with butterfly closures and a lot of cursing. "Because you've been waiting all night for this. You've been scheming and plotting, sitting here in my shirt, spraying on my perfume—"
"Your favorite perfume."
"My favorite perfume," he acknowledged, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "And you did all that because you wanted my attention. You wanted me to walk in and lose my mind over you." His voice dropped lower, rough and intimate. "So no. You're not gonna stop. You're gonna sit there and let me take what you've been offering all night."
Her breath caught. The confidence in his words should have annoyed her, should have made her want to prove him wrong. But instead, it just made her want him more. She let the flannel slide off her shoulders and pool around her waist.
"Then what are you waiting for?"
The smile disappeared from his face. Something darker flickered in his eyes, something hungry and possessive. He reached up, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck, tilting her head back so she had no choice but to look at him.
"You sure about this?" His thumb traced the line of her jaw, featherlight. "Because once I start, I'm not gonna be gentle."
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She wet her lips, held his gaze, and let the last shred of her bravado fall away. "I'm counting on it."
That was all he needed. He pulled her forward, his mouth crashing into hers with a ferocity that stole the breath from her lungs. His hands were everywhere—in her hair, on her waist, gripping her thigh as he hauled her closer. The taste of him was familiar and intoxicating, and she melted into it, her fingers digging into the worn fabric of his t-shirt.
When he pulled back, they were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against hers, and she could feel the tension in his shoulders, the barely leashed restraint coiled in his muscles.
"I missed you," he admitted, the words rough like they cost him something. "I miss you every damn time I walk out that door."
Her chest tightened. The vulnerability in his voice was so at odds with the raw hunger in his eyes that it made her heart ache. She reached up, cupping his face in her hands.
"Then stop leaving." She traced her thumb over his cheekbone. "Or take me with you."
A low sound rumbled from his chest—half laugh, half groan. "You'd get tired of me within a week."
"Try me."
He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper. It wasn't the frantic, desperate kiss from before; it was a promise, a claim, a reminder of everything they were to each other. Her hands slid down his chest, finding the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward.
He pulled back just long enough to yank it over his head and toss it somewhere into the darkness of the room. The lamp in the living room cast his silhouette in amber, her gaze tracing the contours of his shoulders, the dips of his collarbones, the faint lines of scars the years had etched across his skin.
"You gonna stare all night?" he asked, a hint of that familiar teasing in his voice.
"I like looking at you." She reached out, trailing her fingers down his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath her palm. "Is that a problem?"
"Not unless you plan on doing it forever." He caught her wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of it, his eyes never leaving hers. "Because I've got plans for you, and they don't involve much talking."
Her pulse spiked. "What kind of plans?"
He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear, and whispered something that made her breath hitch and heat rush to her cheeks. She shoved him, laughing despite herself. "You're impossible."
"You love it." He was already reaching for her again, pulling her into his lap, his hands settling on her hips.
"I do," she admitted softly, her fingers threading through his hair. "God help me, I do."
The smile he gave her in that moment was unguarded, genuine, the one she only ever saw when they were alone. It was the smile that had made her fall for him in the first place, the one that softened all his rough edges and made her believe.
"Come here." He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her neck. She felt him inhale deeply, felt the tension drain from his body as he held her. His voice was muffled against her skin. "I don't say it enough."
"Say what?"
He pulled back, meeting her eyes. "That I love you. That I don't know what the hell I'd do without you." His jaw tightened. "That I'm sorry I'm not better at this—at being present, at showing up, at—"
She pressed her finger to his lips, silencing him. "You show up where it counts." She smiled, soft and real. "That's all that matters."
The words seemed to settle something in him. He exhaled slowly and pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then her lips.
A sound shattered the silence—her phone buzzing somewhere in the living room, rattling against the coffee table. She tensed, glancing toward the door.
"Leave it," Bucky murmured, his hands tightening on her hips. "Whatever it is, it can wait."
"It might be work—"
"It can wait." He kissed her again, slower, designed to distract her from anything outside this room. "I didn't come all the way home to share you with anyone."
She laughed against his mouth, the tension melting from her shoulders. "You're so dramatic."
"Learned from the best." He laid her back against the mattress, propping himself over her, that familiar spark of mischief returning to his eyes.
"Now where were we?"