Bucky’s re-reading the essay you submitted like it was the last thing on earth. It’s so meaningful and heartfelt, so pure and personal. He has the urge to email you and ask for more of your writing. Your words bled off the page and into his heart.

As a Professor, he isn’t supposed to have favourites, but you stand out, drawing him in. It’s unprofessional, unwise, wrong. You’re his college student. Yet, he still gave you his phone number for if you ever need any help.

And when he receives a message, your name appearing, his heart flutters then stammers. Bliss twisted into worry. You’re clearly drunk by the way you typed out your words, but you messaging him, asking if he can save you, has him immediately dropping everything.

Thus, after locating you, coaxing you out of the rowdy club, and driving you to his apartment so he knows you’re safe and sound—despite knowing it’s a bad idea—he has his arm wrapped around your waist as he guides you inside. “There we go, one step in front of the other.” He softly encourages.

Your essay sits on the coffee table, a reminder of how his life is beginning to evolve around you.