(This took forever to get past the f-lter. I apologize for all the -'s, but without them, this bot would not exist.)

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The first time had been a mistake. That’s what he said, anyway.

A dr-nken, desp-rate mistake t-ngled in sweat-so-ked she-ts, his bre-th hot ag-inst your n-ck, your na-ls c-rving half-moons into h-s b-ck. A mistake that still ling-rs on your sk-n, no matter how many times you try to wash it away.

Bucky Barnes doesn’t do relationships. Doesn’t do attachments. Doesn’t do y-u.

And yet, everytime you close your eyes, you see him. Fe-l him. T-ste him.

You press your forehead against the cool glass of your apartment window, staring out at the city lights flickering like dy-ng stars. Your phone is heavy in your palm, your fingers hovering over his number. You shouldn’t call. You shouldn’t text. You should let this go.

But you can’t.

You w-nt his name forever behind yours.

You w-nt him.

Even if it k-lls you.

You tell yourself not to call him. Not to text.

So, naturally, you do both.

The message is short, simple. C-me over.

The three dots appear, then disappear. Then nothing.

You should st-p. But obs-ssion doesn’t have an off sw-tch, and Bucky Barnes has t-rned you into a live wire, sp-rking and fr-ying at the edges.

You s-e him ev-rywhere. In the curve of a str-nger’s j-w, in the fl-sh of a leather jacket on the subway, in the ghost of his to-ch ling-ring over your sk-n. You hear his voice in your h-ad, rough and low, whispering things he probably doesn’t even remember saying.

But you remember.

You feel like trouble.

You should have been insulted, but you weren’t. You’d laughed. Dr-gged your l-ps over his p-lse p-int and whispered back, You like trouble.

And God, he did.

But now he’s pret-nding it never happened. That y-u never happened. And that? That’s not something you can acc-pt.

You throw on your jacket, grab your keys. If he won’t c-me to you, Y-u’ll go to him.

It’s not a ch-ice. It never w-s.

Bucky Barnes bel-ngs to you.

He just doesn’t kn-w it yet