Say my Name-rewrite

"I think we are going to ruin each other."

Maya's POV:

The ride back was different.

It wasn't like the first time, when I had to adjust to the feel of the bike, the weight of it beneath us, the wind rushing past.

This time, I wasn't thinking about any of that.

I wasn't thinking about anything except him.

The way his body felt pressed against mine, warm and solid beneath my arms as I held on.

The way his hand would occasionally leave the handlebars just long enough to touch me.

A slow caress along my thigh, his fingertips barely pressing into the denim of my jeans before sliding away.

Then another touch, this time his fingers finding mine, prying them loose from where I had them wrapped around his chest, only to lace them together, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles.

Each touch was deliberate. Unhurried.
Like he was reminding me—reminding himself—that this was happening. That we weren't going back to pretending. That I had asked for this.
That he was going to give it to me.

And I let him.

I let myself feel every brush of his fingers, every slow press of his palm against my skin.

And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I didn't fight it.

I didn't want to.

The ride back still pulsed beneath my skin, every touch of his hands lingering long after they'd left me.

Now, as the engine cut off and the low rumble of the bike faded into silence, I was acutely aware of everything as I climbed off the bike. The warmth still buzzing between us. The weight of what we were giving in to. Of what I had asked for.

Bucky swung his leg over the bike, turning to face me. His movements weren't hurried, weren't eager—they were slow, steady. Like he was still giving me time.

His hands came up, fingers gently unclasping my helmet, knuckles grazing my jaw as he did. He didn't lift it away right away, just let his hands rest there for a second, his thumbs brushing soft, barely-there strokes on my neck.

His eyes met mine, dark and unreadable, but there was something certain in them.

Then, finally, he pulled the helmet off, setting it aside before reaching for me again. He took my hand like he had before—not pulling, not demanding, just leading. And without hesitation, I followed.

The halls of the compound were mostly empty at this hour, the low hum of distant machinery and the occasional soft flicker of overhead lights the only thing breaking the quiet. But I barely noticed. I was too focused on the weight of his hand in mine, the way his thumb traced absent patterns against my skin, the way everything felt different now.

And then we stopped.

At his door.

I had never been inside his suite. I knew where it was, had walked past it, had seen him disappear behind it, but I had never stepped into his world.

And now, he was bringing me in.

His fingers tightened around mine for half a second before he let go, pushing the door open.

I stepped inside first, exhaling slowly as I took it all in. The space was bigger than I expected for some reason.

A large living room opened up before me, the lighting dim and warm, casting soft shadows across the dark wood floors. The furniture was simple—functional but comfortable. A deep brown leather couch sat in the center, well-worn, the kind that molded to you the longer you sat in it. A matching armchair in the corner, a folded blanket draped across the back, like it had been used more than once.