captaingrnde

The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.

Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.

He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.

Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.

He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.

“You could stay here for a while,” Sam had said.

“No.”

“You don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.”

“No.”

Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.

“You know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.”

Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Not taking charity.”

“It ain't charity.”

“Feels like it.”

Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.

“I know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.”

Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.

“You won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,” he said. “You'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.”

That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.

Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.

He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.

Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.

The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.

Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.

Then another message.

He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.

What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.

There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.

Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.

He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.

The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.

There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.

The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.

The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.

But it isn't the room that makes him stop.

It's the hallway.

Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.

His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.

It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.

He pulls his phone out.

Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.

The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.

It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.

He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.

That last one almost makes him smile.

He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.

Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.

He never sees you once.

The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.

Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.

There is a sticky note on the fridge.

Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.

He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.

The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.

Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.

Then another on the kitchen counter.

If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.

It's strange, living with someone he has never met.

You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.

The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.

Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.

You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.

Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.

He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.

He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.

The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.

Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, “You look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.”

By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.

“Mustard, onions, no kraut,” the guy says, already reaching for the buns. “And a Coke.”

“You're getting too comfortable,” Bucky tells him.

“You keep showing up, that's on you.”

He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.

The guy asks questions constantly.

You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?

Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.

Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.

Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.

The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.

He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.

He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.

“You can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.”

He stops just inside the doorway.

You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.

For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.

He had built you into something abstract in his head.

Not a real person.

Certainly not a woman.

Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.

Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.

The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.

You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.

“Yeah, well, that's not my problem,” you say into the phone, quieter now. “I sent everything over already.”

Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.

You freeze.

It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.

“Hold on,” you murmur into the phone.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.

There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look… real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.

The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.

You recover first.

“Sorry,” you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “I didn't know you were coming home.”

“Yeah.”Brilliant move.

You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. “Hope that's not dinner.”

He looks down too. “It was the plan.”

You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. “You eat like a divorced dad.”

He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, “I have to call you back,” before hanging up without waiting for an answer.

The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.

“Sorry about that,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “Work call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.”

There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.

“Don't worry about it.”

You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.

“I don't think we've actually been properly introduced.” You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.

“No. I don't think we have.” His hand slips from yours after only a moment. “I'm Bucky.”

“I know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.” You give him a small apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. My job is very… time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”

Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.

“So what do you do?”

“How are you liking the place?”

You stop. He stops.

“Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to go first.

“I was just asking how you're liking the place.” Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. “Have you settled in well?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nods once. “Place is great. Thank you.”

And it is.

He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.

You smile a little at his answer. “Good.”

More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.

“And you? Were gonna say...?”

“Oh.” He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. “I was just wondering what you do... that's so...” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “Time demanding.”

“Oh. Right.” You shift your weight against the windowsill. “I work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.”

He blinks once. “Wow.”

You laugh softly at the look on his face.

“That sounds awesome.”

“It used to be,” you say with a wry little smile. “Now it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.”

He leans back slightly against the doorframe.

“If you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?” he asks. “Nasty commute.”

You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.

“I got this place before I got that job,” you say. “And I liked it.” Then, quieter, “Still like it.”

Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.

“That's actually why I wanted a roommate,” you admit. “I love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...” You shrug one shoulder. “I just don't have the time to do that.”

Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.

“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “I'll... I'll do my best.”

You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.

“I'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,” you say. “Work's been insane.”

“You leave good notes.”

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.

Your eyebrows lift. “That's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”

You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.

“Sorry,” you say, already answering it. “I have to take this.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.

A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.

The apartment feels different after he meets you.

Not immediately and nothing dramatic.

You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.

But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.

The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.

He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.

You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.

Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.

Soup is still alive. I think.

He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.

Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.

You stop when you see him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.

“Soup still alive?” you ask.

“Barely.”

You drop your bag onto a chair.

“Well.” You glance toward the fridge. “Soup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.”

Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.

After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.

Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.

He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.

Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.

Another day:

Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.

He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.

You had one job.

Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.

Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.

You leave back:

So do I.

He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.

One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.

New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.

He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.

Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.

The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.

I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.

And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.

As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.

Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.

So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.

Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.

The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.

He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.

Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.

You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.

The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.

The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.

This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?

He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.

After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.

You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.

Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.

Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.

The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.

You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.

One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.

You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.

“Rude,” you say.

“You weren't home yet.”

“You could've texted.”

He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.

“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters.

You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.

You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing it.”

You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. “You know, normal people usually just call maintenance.”

“Normal people don't have metal arms.”

That makes you laugh. “Fair point.”

Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.

You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.

He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.

You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.

The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.

Thanks for the blanket.

Below it, in smaller handwriting:

That was very disgustingly nice of you.

A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.

He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.

You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.

You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.

He leans against the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”

You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.

“Sometimes.”

“You sure?”

“Not particularly.”

He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You know it's two in the morning, right?”

You glance down at your laptop clock. “Oh.”

“You didn't know?”

“I thought it was maybe midnight.”

He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. “What are you even doing?”

You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.

“I'm… up for a promotion.”

Bucky looks over at you. “What kind?”

“A curator position.”

He leans back against the counter. “At the museum?”

You nod.

“In the anthropology division.” Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. “If I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.”

As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.

“That sounds...” He shakes his head once. “That sounds awesome.”

“It would be.” You smile a little, staring down at your notes. “I mean, it would be everything.”

You glance around at the papers spread across the table. “I've wanted it for years.”

Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.

“But it's probably unrealistic anyway.”

Bucky frowns. “Why?”

You laugh softly to yourself.

“Because you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,” you say. “It's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.”

That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

“It's just wishful thinking,” you say quietly. “Then you die trying.”

He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.

He sets his glass down on the counter. “That sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.”

You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.

“You know that, right?” he says. “The way you talk about it.”

Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.

“I don't know,” you say after a second.

“Yeah, you do.”

The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.

Then you smile. “Thanks, Buck.”

And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.

A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.

It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.

The shelves are uneven in places.

Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.

It feels lived in, it feels like you.

He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.

You actually read all of these?

He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.

He pulls it free.

Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.

He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.

There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.

Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.

The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.

You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.

The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.

I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.

He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.

You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.

He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.

But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.

A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.

Well?

He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.

Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.

The next day:

That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.

He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.

They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.

One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.

A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.

Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:

Thought this looked lonely.

Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.

After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.

You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.

Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.

One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.

“You got me one?”

“You looked tired.”

You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.

The hot dog guy notices eventually.

“Where's the pretty museum girl?” he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.

Bucky frowns. “Who?”

“The roommate you said you have.” The guy grins. “I wanna meet her.”

“No. Not happening.”

The guy laughs. “Oh, so that's what we're doing now.”

Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Mm.”

You take the hot dog from his hand. “You have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.”

He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.

Bucky glances over at the shelf. “You said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.”

You look up from your book. “Yeah.”

“So what was the first?”

You smile immediately.

“There was this used bookstore in Queens,” you say. “I was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.”

He watches your face change as you talk.

“The cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.”

You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.

“I used all the money I had to buy it.”

“And then?”

“And then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.” You laugh softly. “That was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.”

“You found all of them?”

“Almost.” You shake your head. “Never found the last one.”

There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.

In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.

After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.

The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.

Dad's birthday. Dentist appointment. Collections meeting. Mine.

Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.

He knows immediately you're going to forget it.

And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.

“I already sent the file,” you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. “No, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterday—”

Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.

“Happy birthday.”

You stop and blink at him.

“Oh,” you say after a second. “Right.”

You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. “I completely forgot.”

Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.

So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.

It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.

He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.

That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.

He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.

The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.

Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.

“You forgot your birthday,” he says.

You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.

“Bucky...” is all you manage.

He gets flustered immediately.

“It's not a big deal,” he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. “I just...” He looks down for a second. “Figured somebody should celebrate you.”

The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.

“You got me a cake?”

“Yeah.”

“With candles?”

He glances at the little crooked row of them.

“That's usually how birthdays work.”

You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.

The candles flicker softly between you.

“You didn't have to do this,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But you did anyway. Why?”

He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.

You look down at the cake then back up at him.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I guess I should make a wish.”

You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.

The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.

“And this is... also a thing.”

You blink. “You got me a present?”

“You don't have to sound so surprised.”

You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.

Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.

“The last one,” you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. “The last volume of The Canterbury Tales.”

Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.

You shake your head in disbelief. “Where did you even—”

“Just found it.” He shrugs.

“Bucky.”

“Took a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 so…” he admits.

You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.

"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.

A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.

Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.

“What'd you wish for?” Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.

You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.

“Can't tell you,” you say. “State secrets now.”

He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.

You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.

The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.

Bucky laughs.

“So you've always been weird about books.”

“That's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.”

“Those are different.”

“They're really not.”

You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.

He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.

He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.

By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.

He notices you fighting sleep before you do.

“You're falling asleep.”

“No, I'm not.” You yawn immediately after saying it.

He smiles. “You absolutely are.”

You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.

For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.

You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.

“Buck?” you mumble sleepily.

“I got you.”

You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.

He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.

Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers.

As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.

The call comes on a Tuesday.

Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.

You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. “I got an interview.”

He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. “What?”

“For the curator position.” You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. “Next week.”

For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Oh no.”

The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.

You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.

Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.

“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“No,” you say immediately.

He sits down across from you. “What's wrong?”

You stare down at the papers in your lap. “What if I embarrass myself?”

“You won't.”

“What if they ask me something I don't know?”

“You'll know it.”

“What if I freeze?”

“You won't.”

You glare at him a little. “You don't know that.”

He leans back against the couch.

“I know you.”

That quiets you for a second.

Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.

Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.

“I didn't go to the right schools,” you say finally. “I don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified and—”

“They're gonna be lucky if they get you.”

You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.

“You mean that?” you ask softly.

“Yeah.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”

You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.

Then you freeze.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, pulling back immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”

Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.

You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.

When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.

“Okay,” you say softly.

“Okay,” he echoes.

After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.

Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.

Now it just feels like home.

Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.

He fails.

By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.

You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You blink. “No.”

He smiles a little. “You're gonna do great.”

You snort quietly and reach for your mug. “You legally have to say that because you live with me.”

“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it's true.”

That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.

“Still feels like I'm gonna throw up.”

“You'll throw up after,” he says. “Like a professional.”

That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.

“Keys,” you mutter to yourself. “Wallet. Phone. Museum badge—”

“Hey.”

You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.

“It's crooked.”

“Oh.”

His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.

“You got this,” he says.

You nod once then you're gone.

The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.

By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.

He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.

“Hey,” he says carefully from the couch. “How'd it go?”

You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.

“I didn't get it.”

The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.

“Oh.”

You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. “Yeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.”

He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.

But then you shrug one shoulder.

“But...” You look down for a second. “They gave me a raise.”

He blinks, surpised. “Okay.”

“And they're opening a new assistant position to ‘lessen my workload.’”

That takes him a second to process.

“So...” He leans forward a little. “You still got something?”

“I guess.” You look exhausted more than anything. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.”

Bucky nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.

“Come on.”

You look up. “What?”

“Let's go get hot dogs.”

You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.

“Okay.”

The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.

“Uh oh,” he says. “This feels emotional.”

You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.

“Don't encourage him,” he mutters.

“Too late,” the guy says. “I like her.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.

“You had a bad day.”

“So?”

“So let me buy you a hot dog.”

You don't fight him after that.

On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.

It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever hear that whole ‘rejection is just redirection' thing?”

He glances over at you. “...No?”

You laugh softly under your breath. “It's just this thing people say.”

“Okay.” He nods once.

“But that's not what I was getting at.”

He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.

“You know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?”

“Yeah?”

Your smile is smaller now.

"I think it just came true.”

He frowns a little. “You… wished to get passed up on the promotion?”

“No,” you say with a breath of laughter. “No.”

You look at him then, really look at him.

“I wished...” Your voice goes quiet. “That I could spend more time with you.”

Everything in him goes still.

The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.

He ducks his head, shaking it a little.

“State secrets, huh?” he teases softly.

You blush immediately. “Shut up.”

But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.

A week later, you come home before sunset.

Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.

“You're home early,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.

“I know. Weird, right?”

He smiles a little. “You get fired?”

“Not yet.” You step farther into the kitchen. “I actually have tomorrow afternoon off.”

“Wow.”

“I know,” you say again. “I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.”

He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.

“Do you wanna come by the museum?”

He looks up. “The museum?”

“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. “I could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.”

He tries to act casual. “Sure.”

But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.

The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.

You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.

Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.

You smile the second you spot him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.

You talk with your hands when you're excited.

You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.

“And this one,” you say, pointing toward an old display case, “people never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.”

Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.

Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.

At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.

“Every museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,” you say.

Bucky looks over at you. “Yours probably happened after a meeting.”

You scoff. “No. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.”

He laughs harder than he should an you grin.

“I'm serious. It was humiliating.”

“You cried over a label?”

“I care deeply about accuracy.”

“You're insane.”

“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at the whale. “But I'm right.”

He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.

The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.

You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.

They're beautiful.

But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.

“I used to come here when I first got the job,” you say softly.

He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.

“I'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.” You smile faintly to yourself. “So I'd come sit in here.”

You lean back a little farther against the bench.

“It helped me remember how small I am.” A pause. “How insignificant everything is.”

Bucky frowns slightly. “I don't think you're insignificant.”

You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.

“You're probably the most important thing...” He swallows a little. “To me.”

The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.

You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.

“It's pretty, huh?”

He smiles.

“Yeah...”

But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.

When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.

“What are you gonna do now?”

You blink. “With what?”

“No promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?”

You let out a quiet breath, thinking.

“You know,” you say, “I have no idea.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “For as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.”

He tilts his head lightly against yours. “What do you want now?”

You look up at him and smile softly.

“You.” Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.”

There were days when he didn’t feel so out of time. Sometimes, he could walk down the street without flinching at car horns. And then there were days when everything reminded him that he didn’t belong here. 

He tried the things that friends suggested.

Baseball games, for one. Sam had suggested it like it was a cure-all: You like baseball. Go to a game. So Bucky went.  

Baseball had always made sense to him, but the stadiums were different now. It was too big, too loud, too… commercial. Even worse, the Yankees felt wrong to support, and the Dodgers being in Los Angeles still tripped him up every single time he thought about it. He sat through a few innings, hands folded tight in his lap, before leaving with the same hollow feeling he’d arrived with.

Coffee was worse.

He liked it black, bitter, no nonsense. Now it came with foam and syrups and names he couldn’t pronounce without feeling ridiculous. He ordered the wrong thing more than once and drank it anyway, grimacing through sweetness that stuck to his tongue long after the cup was empty.

Everything felt overcomplicated.

There were too many choices to make, too much noise. Too much pressure to be something to someone. 

So he built small routines, the kind his old therapist said were good for him.

One of them was the weather.

Back in the 30s and 40s, his ma used to turn on the radio every morning. The weather report would crackle through the kitchen while she moved around, apron on, humming a song. It didn’t matter if it was rain or sun. “Listen close,” she’d say, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Weather tells you how to dress for the day.”

It was… comforting.

One morning, after a whole night of being unable to sleep, he turned on the TV. 

That’s when he saw you.

You were the weather newscaster, standing in front of a green-screened map with blues, greens, and yellows curling across the screen. You smiled as you spoke, not forced nor overly bright. Your voice was comforting, like the weather mattered because people mattered.

Bucky sat down on the edge of the couch without realizing.

You talked about cloud cover and chances of rain, gesturing, explaining things like storms and sunshine were just part of a bigger, understandable pattern. 

When the segment ended, Bucky didn’t turn the TV off right away.

The next morning, he turned it on again.

That was all it was at first…. a routine. It was a familiar pattern to anchor himself to. 

He’d wake up, make coffee, and watch the weather. He told himself it wasn’t about you, specifically. You just happened to be there.

Except… he started noticing things.

He noticed the way your brow furrowed when you talked about incoming storms, like you took it personally. He noticed how you leaned into the screen slightly when you were excited about clear skies and sunshine. He noticed your smile when you signed off, wishing everyone a good day like you genuinely hoped they’d have one.

He learned your schedule without meaning to, but not in a bad way. He just knew which mornings you’d be on, which afternoons you covered, though rare. If he missed you because he woke up too late, there was a flicker of disappointment as he pretended not to care about it.

And yeah, okay— he thought you were really pretty. 

And it certainly didn’t help that Bucky caught himself wondering if you liked rainy days or just tolerated them. If you drank your coffee black or sweet. If your smile looked the same off-camera.

Still, he never lingered on those thoughts, never let them spiral. He wasn’t building some fantasy version of you in his head. He knew better than that.

It was just a crush.

A small one, harmless one.

But some mornings, he realized he’d woken up a little earlier than usual, just to be sure he wouldn’t miss you.

—

Letting Sam and Joaquin stay in his apartment after a boy's night out had felt like the decent thing to do.

Bucky had even told himself that as they stumbled through the door sometime after midnight. Sam had been riding the high of a good night out. Joaquin had been buzzing in that restless way, fueled by sugar-heavy cocktails and the thrill of getting Bucky out of his apartment for once.

The mistake became clear the moment the door shut behind them.

They stood in the living room, taking stock of the space like they hadn’t been there a dozen times before. 

See, Bucky only had one spare bedroom. The other would have to stay on the couch. 

“I’m taking the spare room,” Sam said immediately, toeing off his shoes.

Joaquin laughed. “What– that’s not fair!”

Bucky didn’t bother looking up as he shrugged out of his jacket. “Figure it out yourselves. I’m going to bed.”

“You hear that?” Joaquin said. “Man’s clocked out.”

“Rock, paper, scissors,” Sam announced. “Like adults.”

They tied. Once. Then twice. On the third round, Joaquin won and celebrated far more loudly than the victory warranted. Sam accused him of cheating. Joaquin accused Sam of being a sore loser. Bucky disappeared into his bedroom before it could escalate.

—

The next morning, Bucky woke before sunrise. 

He laid still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, orienting himself. He moved through the apartment without thinking as the kitchen light stayed off. He measured coffee grounds, the bitter scent blooming in the air as he brewed. Sam was still sprawled across the couch, throw blanket tangled around his legs, one arm flung over his face like he’d lost a fight with gravity.

Bucky hesitated before turning on the TV.

He told himself it was a habit. Surely, Sam wouldn’t mind. 

So the screen flickered to life as he turned the volume low enough not to wake anyone… at least, that had been the intention.

You appeared on-screen, framed perfectly against a colorful map. You smiled as you greeted the viewers, getting on with your job. Bucky leaned back against the counter, mug warming his hands, shoulders loosening without him noticing.

Sam stirred from his sleep, shifting beneath the blanket. He let out a quiet groan, waking too early against his will.

“Why,” he mumbled, “does it sound like a civic duty in here?”

Bucky didn’t look over. “Go back to sleep.”

Sam cracked one eye open, squinting blearily at the TV. “Why is the news on?”

“It’s just the weather,” Bucky said, casual to the point of rehearsed. “You don’t need to be awake for it.”

Sam hummed, unconvinced. Before he could say anything else, the spare bedroom door creaked open.

Joaquin shuffled out, rubbing his face, hair sticking up in defiance of any law of nature. He paused, eyes landing on the TV.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s her.”

Sam lifted his head now, more alert. “Her?”

Joaquin nodded toward the screen. “The weather girl, she used to cast in Miami. My mom loved her,  even cried when she moved to New York. She used to be on all the time.”

“Well, sometimes,” Bucky corrected, maybe a little too quickly.

You were explaining a shift in pressure systems, gesturing at the metrics. Joaquin watched for a beat longer than necessary, then nodded to himself.

“…Okay,” he said, squinting at Bucky’s response. “Whatever. My cousin thinks she’s cute.”

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded fondly. The moment his reply landed in the room, he knew he’d screwed up.

Sam’s head snapped around. “Hold on.”

Bucky took a long sip of coffee, buying himself half a second that did absolutely nothing.

Joaquin’s eyes lit with sudden clarity. “Do you think she’s cute?” 

Bucky felt heat creep up the back of his neck. “I meant—yeah, she’s objectively—”

“Ohhh,” Sam interrupted, sitting up now, blanket sliding off his shoulders. “Oh, no, no. That was not an objective ‘yeah.’”

Joaquin grinned, instantly energized. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me—”

“No,” Bucky said firmly.

Joaquin leaned forward. “—that the Bucky Barnes—”

“Nope.”

He pointed at the TV. “—has a crush on the weather girl?”

“Fuck,” Bucky let breath out through his nose. “…Maybe?”

Big mistake. The room exploded.

“Oh my God,” Sam laughed, dragging a hand down his face. “This is incredible.”

Joaquin clutched his chest. “The Winter Soldier, reduced to heart eyes over the Weather Channel.”

“It’s not the Weather Channel,” Bucky snapped. “It’s local news.”

“Oh, even worse,” Sam teased. “He likes her accessible.”

Bucky shot him a glare. “You’re both idiots.”

Joaquin wasn’t letting it go. “How long has this been a thing?”

“It’s not a thing,” Bucky said, defensive now. “She’s just… she happens to be on in the morning. It’s routine.”

“Mmhmm,” Sam said, nodding exaggeratedly. “And you just happen to know her schedule?”

Bucky’s metal fist tightened. “…Look.”

They both leaned in.

“She’s just my type, okay?” he said finally, words tumbling out in a rush. 

Joaquin’s eyebrows softened, just a bit, as Sam grinned anyway. “That’s adorable.”

“It’s just a harmless crush,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “I don’t think I know her. I don’t pretend she knows me.”

On-screen, you smiled as you wrapped up the forecast. “Looks like clear skies for most of the week. Whatever the weather, have a great morning, folks!”

Bucky’s eyes were glued to your sign off before realizing Sam and Joaquin were staring at him.

Sam nudged Joaquin. “Look at his face.”

Joaquin softened just a bit. “Aw, man.”

Bucky muttered, “I hate you both.”

Sam slapped him on the shoulder. 

“I think it’s good,” Joaquin said. “Means you’re still capable of liking someone who isn’t actively shooting at you.”

Bucky huffed, though a smile creeped on his face. “Real comforting.”

—

A couple of months later, Sam was yet again stuck in Bucky’s apartment after an overnight blizzard.

After it passed, snowbanks still lined the streets like barricades, gray and uneven from plows that had done their best and moved on. The city felt wrong, quiet in places it was usually loud, crowded in the buildings that still had power and heat. People were digging themselves out, checking on neighbors, trying to piece everything back together.

Bucky watched it all from the window, mug warming his hands.

“The shelter’s doing post-storm relief,” Sam said, scrolling on his phone. “They’re short on volunteers.”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.”

Sam glanced up, eyebrows lifting. “Sure”

To both of them, helping made sense, it always had. They saw a need, they filled it. 

They bundled up and headed out, boots crunching through packed snow, wind biting but manageable now that the worst had passed. The shelter sat on a corner still half-buried in slush, lights blazing inside.

The moment they stepped through the doors, the noise hit them all at once.

People crowded the space, some shaking snow from their coats, others already clutching steaming cups of soup. Volunteers moved quickly, voices raised just enough to be heard. Tables were set up along the walls, one stacked high with donated coats in every size and color.

Sam was immediately flagged down by a coordinator. To be fair, she probably recognised them both.

“Here to help out?” she asked, eyeing both of them.

Sam grinned. “Born ready.”

As Bucky turned to sign in… he stopped in his tracks. His brain just stopped working.

Because you stood near the front door, hair pulled back messily, bundled in a thick sweater and scarf that looked nothing like your formal on-screen wardrobe. Your cheeks were flustered from the cold, sleeves pushed up as you were getting ready to help with the soup stall. You were laughing at something one of the coordinators said..

Sam noticed immediately.

“Oh,” he said, far too casually. “Would’cha look at that.”

Bucky’s heart slammed into his ribs.

“No,” he said quietly.

Sam leaned closer, grin already forming. “Is that—”

“No.”

“That’s the weather girl.”

“Sam.”

“That’s your weather girl.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “She’s not my anything—.”

Sam nudged him with his elbow. “Man, she’s even cuter in person!”

Bucky shot him a glare. “Do not make this weird.”

Sam’s grin only widened. “I’m not making it weird. You are making it weird by staring.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky muttered, pulling his beanie down lower. “We’re here to help.”

They were directed to different stations, mercifully, but not mercifully enough.

Sam was assigned to give away donated coats, and somehow, Bucky was assigned to the soup stall— the very same soup stall you were assigned to.

You approached with a box of cups, setting them down gently. “Hey,are you good to ladle, or do you want me to—”

You looked up. Your eyes flicked to his face, then squinted just a fraction. “You’re new around here,” you mentioned with a smile, before telling him your name in introduction.

Bucky’s mouth went dry. What was he supposed to say? I already know who you are? I watch you every morning? No fucking way.

“Uh…” he said intelligently.

Sam, passing behind them with a crate of gloves, slowed to a stop and watched.

Bucky didn’t look at him. 

“I… nice to meet you. And I-I can—uh, ladle,” Bucky said, clearing his throat. “I’m… yeah. I’m good.”

You smiled at him, making his knees feel vaguely unreliable. “Great. Team soup, then.”

He nodded way too fast.

You both worked in silence at first. The line was steady, from families to elderly couples to people stamping snow from their boots, hands shaking as they wrapped them around warm cups. Bucky focused on the repeated motion: scoop, pour, slide the cup forward.

He kept his gaze down, keeping his hands hidden under the gloves as he continued to pretend not to know exactly who you were.

You, on the other hand, watched him with curiosity.

After a few minutes, you spoke again.

“You do this often?” you said lightly, handing a cup to a woman with a grateful smile. 

Bucky shrugged. “Just… doing what needs doing.”

You glanced at his gloves and the way his shoulders stayed slightly hunched, like he was trying to fold inward.

Then you looked back at his face.

“You did a good job,” you said.

Bucky blinked. “With… soup?”

Your lips twitched into a sweet smile, head tilting.

“With the GRC,” you said quietly. “Things were… a mess. Still are, feels like”

The ladle froze mid-air.

Fuck. You… recognised him? 

His heart skipped a beat as his mouth took off at a sprint.

“Oh,” he managed. “I—uh—”

You smiled again, gentler this time. You weren’t starstruck, nor invasive. You were just…  sincere.

“You handled it with a lot of compassion,” you continued. “I remember watching the live coverage in the office.”

Bucky’s ears burned.

Sam, across the room, caught his eye and mouthed SHE KNOWS YOU.

Bucky did not look back.

“I was just… following Cap’s lead,” he said, because that was safer.

You studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Still. It mattered.”

Snow whipped past the windows outside. The line kept moving. The world kept going.

Inside, Bucky Barnes was quietly, internally losing his mind.

You handed him another stack of cups as he tried to focus very hard on the soup.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low.

“Anytime,” you replied with a chuckle.

Over the next few hours, he realised you were chatty in the most charming way.

It started small.

You commented on the soup temperature. Joked that the ladle was deceptively heavy. Mentioned that snowstorms always made communities unite, like shared misery unlocked manners. Bucky responded with short answers at first, and you didn’t seem to mind. You just adjusted, met him where he was, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Conversation was… easy. He didn’t feel like he was calculating every word, didn’t feel like he was performing Normal Guy Behavior™. You filled gaps naturally, let silences exist without making them awkward. When he spoke, you listened like what he said mattered.

Internally, Bucky was losing a war.

Because in a deeply fucked-up, self-preserving corner of his brain, he’d been hoping, praying really, thats you’d secretly be awful. That you’d be rude, or fake, or condescending. 

Because if you sucked, he could move on. He could chalk this whole thing up to a stupid crush and go back to watching you from a safe, distant screen. Maybe even deflate this stupid crush instantly.

But no.

Nooooo.

Instead, you just had to be a sweetheart who laughed with volunteers, remembered regulars’ names, and casually mentioning—

“I’ve been helping out here for years,” you said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “Since college, on and off. Storms just make it busier.”

Years.

Of course.

Of course you had. Of course you’d been doing good long before he ever noticed you through a screen. Of course you weren’t just someone who cared on-camera. Of course you were and inconveniently wonderful.

Bucky stared at the soup again, and thought, Fantastic. She’s kind AND committed. Kill me.

You glanced at him sideways, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Just… uh—concentrating.”

You chuckled, perhaps sensing his nerves, and something in his chest gave way.

Then the coordinator’s voice cut through the room. “Alright, new volunteers just arrived! Time to rotate stations!”

You peeled your gloves off slowly, like you weren’t in any hurry to leave the moment. “Guess we’re done.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, immediately hating how disappointed he sounded.

You hesitated, then tilted your head at him, studying his face. “You know,” you said lightly, “you’re a lot easier to talk to than I thought a super-soldier would be.”

His heart did a stupid little backflip. “I… uh, thanks?”

You smiled, warmer now. Flirty in that way that didn’t demand anything but absolutely invited him in. “I mean it,” you said. “I’m glad we worked together.”

He nodded, hands curling slightly at his sides. Say something. Say anything.

“Hey, do you maybe want to…”

Oh God.

You looked back up at him as he swallowed hard. Do it. Don’t be a coward.

“...get coffee sometime?” He finished quickly. “If you want. Just, coffee, no foam. I mean—foam’s fine if you like it… sorry.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

For half a second, you just stared at him, then you smiled.

You didn’t look surprised. If anything, you looked pleased.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” you said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Bucky froze. “You were?”

“Mmhmm.” You reached into your coat pocket and pulled out your phone. “But I’m gonna make this easy on you.”

You scribbled your number on a scrap of paper from the counter and pressed it into his human palm.

“Text me,” you said, eyes meeting his. “And we’ll figure out when that date is.”

Date.

His brain short-circuited completely.

“I… okay,” he managed, nodding a little too fast. “Yeah. I can do that.”

You smiled, clearly endeared at how overwhelmed he looked. “I look forward to it, Bucky.”

—

Bucky stared at the scrap of paper like it might detonate.

Your number. It was real. Handwritten, and slightly smudged because his hands had been sweating like he was about to defuse a bomb instead of… text a woman.

He’d folded it once, unfolded it before folding again, tucking it carefully into his jacket pocket like it was fragile glass.

Sam, who just finished his part, noticed immediately.

He didn’t say anything at first. He asked if he wanted to go to a diner— which Bucky agreed to. 

And during dinner, Sam just watched his best friend tap the table restlessly with his metal fingers as he held his phone in his human hand, unlocking and relocking the screen like that might summon courage through muscle memory alone.

Finally, Sam leaned back on the booth cushions, arms crossed. “You gonna tell me why you look like you’re about to jump out of a plane without a parachute?”

Bucky stopped tapping. “I’m fine.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’ve opened your phone twelve times and haven’t done anything.”

Bucky scowled and lied. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, my bad. Thirteen.”

Bucky let a deep breath out through his nose, before admitting quietly, “I got her number.”

Sam froze. “You what?”

“I got her number,” Bucky repeated, like saying it again might make it less terrifying. “She… she gave it to me.”

Sam’s face looked like it was stuck between joy, disbelief, and chaos. “Whoa, Buck—”

“Don’t,” Bucky snapped, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t yell.”

Sam chuckled, eyes wide. “Sorry.”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “She told me to text her.”

Sam’s grin was immediate and unstoppable. 

“You will not tell anyone,” Bucky said firmly.

Sam blinked. “Anyone?”

“Anyone,” Bucky repeated. “Not Joaquin. Not even your sister. Not anyone.”

Sam tilted his head. “C’mon man.”

Bucky hesitated, eyes dropping back to his phone. “I don’t wanna jinx it.”

Sam held up two fingers like an oath. “Secret’s safe. On my life.”

“Thank you.”

“Now,” Sam added immediately, leaning forward, “are you gonna text her, or are you gonna die staring at your lock screen?”

Bucky scowled. “I’m working up to it.”

Sam watched as Bucky finally opened the messages app, typed a few words… deleted them. Tried again. Deleted again.

“What the hell are you writing?” Sam asked.

“Something normal,” Bucky said. “Not weird.”

“Define weird.”

“Anything that sounds like I’ve been thinking about her for months.”

Sam snorted. “Good call.”

Bucky tried again.

Bucky: Hey, it’s Bucky from the soup kitchen today.

He stared at it. Read it. Overthought it. Finally, he showed Sam. 

“Too boring?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “It’s fine, man. Hit send.”

Bucky’s thumb hovered.

His chest felt tight. This was worse than jumping out of planes. Worse than fighting aliens. At least their rejection wouldn't hurt.

He hit send.

The phone was silent for exactly seven seconds before it buzzed.

Bucky’s heart nearly stopped as he opened it immediately.

You: Hey, Souper Soldier :) I was hoping you’d text!

His breath left him in a rush he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Sam watched his face and grinned. “She replied, didn’t she?”

Bucky didn’t even try to hide it. “Yeah.”

—

The texting started… cautiously.

At least on his end.

You: Made it home without slipping on ice 👍

Bucky stared at the screen for a full minute before replying.

Bucky: Yeah. Same. Still thawing out though. I packed some extra soup and it helped.

Three dots appeared. 

You: Soup is powerful like that

You: So is coffee, apparently. You seemed very serious about yours.

He huffed, a smile tugging at his lips.

Bucky: I prefer just black coffee. 

Bucky: It gets the job done.

Bucky: You?

You: Oh I’m a menace

You: milk, sugar, sometimes cinnamon if I’m feeling interesting

He shook his head, fond despite himself.

From there, it got… easy.

You sent him pictures of the ridiculous snowbanks still clogging the sidewalks. He sent back a blurry photo of his coffee mugs. You teased him for being dry over text; he admitted (after some coaxing) that he was better in person.

Then, two days in…

You: So what do you actually do when you’re not saving soup kitchens?

He stared at it, metal plates rippling on his vibranium arm.

Bucky: Bit of this, bit of that.

Bucky: Helping where I can.

You: Mysterious. I like it 😌

You: I’m a little less exciting. I work in broadcasting

He blinked. What am I supposed to say?

Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Bucky: Oh.

Bucky: Really?

He could feel the universe judging him.

You: Yeah! Local news

You: Mostly mornings

His soul tried to leave his body.

Bucky: That’s cool.

Cool???

He knew. He knew. He should’ve just said something like Hey, funny story, I already know this.

But instead, like a coward, he kept digging.

You: Weather, specifically. Nothing glamorous

Bucky stared at the word weather like he was solving an impossible equation.

Bucky: That’s great. People need to know about weather.

Smooth. Incredible. Nailed it.

You didn’t seem to notice his nerves through the screen. Or if you did, you found it charming.

You: You’re sweet

You: want to get that coffee this weekend?

He said yes immediately. 

—

The date was simple.

It was at a small café of his choosing. It had warm lighting, and it was quiet enough that he didn’t feel like the walls were closing in. You waved when you saw him, bundled in a coat and scarf, smiling like this wasn’t the most terrifying thing he’d done in years.

Conversation flowed like it had at the shelter, maybe even better.

You talked about early mornings, about learning to smile on camera even when you were exhausted, about how weather felt personal because it affected everyone. He listened, genuinely fascinated, occasionally tripping over the fact and deflecting over the fact that he’d watched you tell him it was gonna be chilly over the weekend yesterday morning.  

Fuck, when he developed his silly little crush on you, he had never imagined you’d be sitting across from him, laughing into your coffee.

That was a lie. Maybe he’d imagined it once or twice, but he never actually thought he’d get to do it. 

At one point, you caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, amused.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “You’re just… easy to look at.”

You chuckled, cheeks warming. “You are too, you know.”

By the time you stood to leave, his nerves were back in full force. He walked you outside, cold air biting at his cheeks.

“Well,” you said, “I had a really good time.”

“Me too,” he said, earnest. “I’d… like to do this again. If you want.”

Instead of answering right away, you stepped closer. And before his brain could reboot, you leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

His entire system shut down.

“I’d love to go on a second date,” you said warmly.

Bucky nodded, stunned. “Okay. Yeah. Definitely.”

You smiled at him one last time before heading off down the sidewalk, leaving him frozen in place, hand hovering near his cheek like he needed proof it had actually happened.

Somewhere deep down, he knew he really, really needed to tell you the truth.

But right now, all he could think was… 

Holy shit. She kissed me.

—

​​The second date was easier.

You met him at a bookstore-themed cocktail bar tucked between a laundromat and a bodega that smelled permanently like oranges. Bucky arrived ten minutes early and spent seven of them pretending to browse a shelf labeled Modern Memoirs while actually rehearsing how not to say something unhinged. When you walked in, he forgot every plan he’d made and just… smiled.

You talked for hours.

Not the careful, surface-level kind of talking either, but real conversation. You told him about growing up watching storms roll in from your bedroom window, how weather made you feel small in a good way. He told you about Brooklyn in the forties, about baseball games, about the war. You didn’t flinch when he mentioned nightmares. You didn’t pry. You just listened, nodding like it all made sense.

At some point, you reached across the table and nudged his metal fingers with yours.

“Can I?” you asked gently.

He swallowed. “Yeah. Please.”

You traced the vibranium seams like you were learning a part of him. Bucky’s heart skipped a beat, then settled. When you left, you hugged him, and he stood there afterward thinking, oh no. This is becoming a thing.

—

The third date was dinner.

Nothing fancy. It was a small place you liked near your apartment, all brick walls and low lights. You laughed more this time. He loosened up enough to tease you about your corny ‘souper soldier’ pun, and you teased back about him being emotionally attached to black coffee. Somewhere between dessert and the check, he realized he felt… normal. Like this was just his life now.

Walking you home was not something he planned on.

The night was cold but clear, streetlights glowing against leftover snow. You talked about weekend plans, a storm system moving in next week, until you stopped outside your building.

“Well,” you said, putting your weight slightly back on your heels. “I had a really good time.”

“Me too,” he said, too quickly. Then, because he’d promised himself he would be better than his fears, he added, “I was wondering if I could—” He stopped to take a grounding breath, “—kiss you?”

You smiled, eyes warm. “Yeah,” you said. “Of course.”

He leaned in carefully, like he was approaching a goddess. The kiss was gentle at first, then sure, your hand curling into his jacket as if you’d always known where it belonged. When you pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours, like he needed the contact to stay upright.

You laughed quietly. “You okay?”

He nodded, dazed. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m… yeah.”

You unlocked your door and turned back to him. “Text me when you get home?”

“Absolutely,” he said, already planning to text you the second he was out of sight.

You waved and slipped inside.

Bucky stood there for a full five seconds. Then his brain caught up as he realized three things in rapid succession:

You tasted faintly like coffee and cinnamon.

His heart was trying to escape his chest.

I know where she lives now????

He blinked, looking at the door, then at the building. He felt his soul try to exit his body in a spiral of delight and terror.

He walked home in a fog, lips still burning, heart doing laps in his chest. Somewhere between your block and his, he laughed out loud, startling a passerby.

This was good. This was really good.

It didn’t, however, change the fact that he was absolutely, completely screwed.

—

The fourth date started with him standing across the street from the local broadcasting studio at four-thirty in the afternoon, hands shoved into his coat pockets, teeth clenched like he was bracing for impact.

This was nothing. This was normal. People picked each other up from work all the time. Except, he kinda knew where you worked, like, eight months before you actually told him in a text. After all, he didn’t live too far from the Channel 7 Office. To his defense, before you actually met him, he never ever, even once, thought about trying to run into you there. That would be weird.

Still, it probably explained why his heart was pounding like he was about to jump out of a quinjet.

Then the doors opened, and you stepped out.

You were dressed down compared to your on-camera look, coat slung over your arm, hair loose, face relaxed in a way he’d never seen through a screen. When your eyes found him, your smile bloomed instantly.

“Hey,” you said.

His brain went blank.

“Hey,” he managed, voice rougher than intended.

You fell into step beside him easily, like this was already a habit. On the subway ride to the Guggenheim (your idea for a date), you talked about your day. You talked about early meetings, producers arguing over graphics, and how exhausting it could be to smile before the sun was even fully up. Bucky listened like it mattered. Like you mattered. Every once in a while, you glanced at him as you spoke, checking that he was really there. He was. 

Inside the museum, the space opened up around you. Bucky stood beside you under the spiraling white curves, hands tucked into his coat pockets, head tilted back as he took it in. “Feels like I’m standing inside a thought,” he chuckled.

You laughed as you moved slowly through the exhibits. Sometimes your shoulder brushed his. Sometimes your fingers found his sleeve and stayed there. He didn’t flinch when crowds pressed in, but you noticed him leaning subtly toward you as art curved upward with the building, color and shape unfolding slowly. You walked close, shoulders brushing now and then, never pulling away.

“This one always makes me feel small,” you said, staring at a massive abstract piece. “But not in a bad way.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Like… perspective.”

You glanced at him. “You get it.”

Your fingers slipped around his metal finger without thinking, resting there like it belonged. He froze for half a second before relaxing into it, metal plates humming faintly beneath your touch. 

By the time you stepped back outside, dusk had crept in.

“Do you…” He hesitated, heart racing. “Do you want to come back to my place?”

You didn’t even have to think about it. “Sure.”

—

His apartment felt different the moment you crossed the threshold. You kicked off your shoes, shrugged out of your coat, looked around like you were mapping him through his space. He watched you like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

It didn't matter, anyway. You both barely made it past the hallway.

The second it felt private enough, you pulled Bucky’s lips to yours. This kiss was deeper, more urgent than ever before. His hands found your waist on instinct, pulling you closer as if distance had suddenly become unbearable. There was no hiding behind paper-thin pretenses anymore, not that Bucky ever tried to hide his intentions of why he was bringing you home.

“I just—” He pulled back a fraction, forehead resting against yours, breath uneven. “This is okay, right?”

Your smile was unmistakably sure. “Bucky… yes.”

That was it.

The kiss resumed, heavier now. Your back hit the wall as he pressed into you, then your hands reversed it without thinking, guiding him back until his shoulders met the cool surface instead. Your mouth traced along his chin, down your neck, making him inhale sharply.

You laughed breathlessly when he fumbled with your skirt zipper and the buttons of your blouse. “Hey,” you teased gently. “Still with me?”

“Barely,” he admitted hoarsely.

You helped him, and when his shirt came off, your hands explored him like you were curious, like you wanted to learn. You swallowed, cheeks already tinged with how much you were staring. “I… I have to admit something,” you started, biting your lip like it was the only thing keeping your words from spilling over.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, “Oh yeah?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be too nervous. “At the museum earlier… I kind of wanted to push you up against the wall.”

He froze for a second. Eyes flicked to yours, just the faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Really?”

You nodded, heat creeping up your neck. “Yeah. Nothing says art quite like… Bucky Barnes, displayed right next to a Kandinsky. But I didn’t, because… well, public space.”

Bucky’s smile became a shy grin. He pulled you closer, if it was even possible, peppering kisses on your lips. “I think I could’ve handled it,” he said confidently, surprising himself. “Even appreciated it.”

Your stomach flipped. “Bucky—” you whispered, half warning, half pleading.

“Or,” he added, tilting his head, thumb brushing along your side, “we could make tonight a private showing.”

You laughed, breathless and flustered, trying to play it cool but failing spectacularly. “I—uh… I might need a moment to… appreciate the view first,” you said, voice wobbling, teasing, but utterly incapable of hiding the heat in your chest.

Bucky’s grin widened, the kind that promised he knew exactly what he was doing. He was nervous, of course. But now he was motivated, and a motivated Bucky wasn’t something anyone should evertake for granted. He leaned in, forehead resting against yours, lips just brushing your ear. “I think I could make you forget all about appreciating the art.”

And that was it. You were undone.

After that, the bed was a blur. One moment you were pressing him up against the wall, thinking you were in control, the next he was guiding you down with reverent hands. When he landed on the mattress and helped line your waists together as you back to straddle him, the sound he made was wrecked enough to make you gain a bit of your poise back.

“Oh,” you said, almost teasing. “You okay?”

He laughed weakly. “I’m… yeah.”

You leaned down and kissed him again, and it was thorough and devastating. His hands settled at your hips, thumbs digging in like anchors. The world narrowed to the heat pooling down your core and his breath and the way your bodies fit together like they’d been working toward this for weeks.

Later, after riding each other’s high, you lay tangled together beneath the covers, skin warm and limbs heavy.

Bucky stared at the ceiling for a moment, then turned his head toward you.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey,” you answered, tracing idle patterns along his human arm.

His throat tightened, looking down. You were not just a person on a screen anymore. You were real. And perhaps, you never needed to know otherwise. “I’m really glad I met you.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Me too.”

—

The next morning crept in too early.

Gray-blue light filtered through the curtains, city sounds still half-asleep, the clock on Bucky’s nightstand glowing 6:02 a.m. You stirred awake first, carefully, like you were navigating a minefield instead of a bed.

You slipped one leg out from under the covers, then the other, wincing when the floor felt colder than expected. You reached for your clothes as quietly as possible, gathering them up against your chest, already rehearsing how to disappear without waking him.

It didn’t work. He had super-soldier senses, after all.

“Hey,” Bucky muttered, voice still rough with sleep.

You turned slowly. He was on his side, hair a mess, eyes barely open but already focused on you like you were the most important thing in the room.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He pushed himself up on one elbow. “It’s okay. What time is it?”

“Early,” you said apologetically. You pulled on your blouse, smoothing it down. “I gotta run to work. I texted my coworker to see if I can borrow a blazer and shirt so I don’t have to go back to my place, but I… yeah. I need to go.” You hesitated, then smiled sheepishly. “I was gonna leave you a note.”

You leaned down and kissed him.

When you pulled back, he looked… happy, and awake now. 

“I—” he cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter. “I can drive you? If you want.”

You laughed, warm and fond. “Buck, it’s like three subway stops.”

“Oh,” he said. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”

You slipped your bag over your shoulder, then paused at the bedroom door. “Besides,” you added, teasing just a little, “I want you to tune in and watch.”

His heart tried to punch its way out of his chest. He absolutely could not say I do, every morning.

So instead he said, way too casual, “Uh. Okay. It’s… MetroView NY, right? Channel 7?”

You smiled, assuming he knew from picking you up yesterday. “Yeah. That one.”

Nailed it.Totally normal. Definitely not suspicious.

You reached for the door, then stopped when he spoke again.

“Hey… um,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “A couple of my friends are visiting the city tonight. They wanna check out this new dive bar. You… wanna join us?”

You turned back to him, nodding. “Yeah. Of course. Just text me the address and when.”

Relief washed over his face so visibly it made you smile. After what he did to you last night, you found it adorable that he was still kinda flustered.

As he sat straight up, you kissed him once more, quick but affectionate, and whispered, “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

—

Bucky was standing in the kitchen an hour later, coffee gone cold in his hand, shirt tugged on hastily after you left, brain replaying the exact sound of your laugh from the night before like it was on a loop he couldn’t shut off. The apartment smelled faintly like you, and it was doing absolutely nothing to help.

Right on cue, he turned the TV on.

And there you were.

You had bright studio lights on you, a polished smile, hair styled in a way that made it painfully clear you hadn’t been up all night… appreciating art. You greeted the audience like your legs weren’t still wobbly.

“Good morning,” you said cheerfully, standing in front of the weather map. “If you’re heading out early, you’ll want to bundle up, looks like the city’s still riding the weather out today.”

He choked on his coffee.

Riding the weather out. Jesus Christ, in all of his months of watching you on TV, he had never ever heard you say something like that. Especially not after you were on top him like a cowgirl last night. 

But still, it could be a coincidence, right?

You clicked to the next graphic. “Yesterday’s storm cleared beautifully, though. Sometimes all it takes is a little pressure shift to make things fall into place.”

Bucky closed his eyes for half a second.

Pressure shift. It could be totally normal phrase. He was absolutely not thinking about you trailed your hands on his shoulders or the way you’d smiled at him afterward like you knew exactly what you’d done.

“And if you were out enjoying the arts last night, maybe wandering a museum,” you continued smoothly, “you might’ve noticed how the city feels a little less windy. That trend will continue over the weekend.”

He shifted his weight, heat creeping up his neck. 

You gestured toward the screen again. “Today’s actually perfect for something low-key. A walk through the park, maybe. Or checking out a new dive bar while the roads stay clear.”

Bucky stared.

“And for those staying in,” you added, lips twitching just slightly, “it’s a good night for… private showings.”

He let out a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh.

There was no way. No way that was accidental. The camera didn’t catch it, but he did, confirmed now by the quick little glint in your eye before you smiled wide again.

“Whatever you choose,” you finished, “it’s a good day to go out, or stay warm inside. Please plan accordingly, folks!”

Bucky actually laughed this time. 

You signed off like nothing had happened, like you hadn’t just flirted with one specific super-soldier through an FCC-compliant forecast.

He stood there for a long moment, heartbeat loud in his ears, replaying flashes of last night, thinking about the way you’d climbed into his lap like you already knew exactly where you belonged.

His phone buzzed.

You: I kept it professional, but I figured you’d understand the subtext 😇

He huffed out a chuckle.

Bucky: I understood, sweetheart. Loud and clear.

The reply came almost instantly.

You: Good :) 

You: Tonight’s forecast is still open 😉

He stared at the message, warmth spreading through his chest.

—

Later that night, you were at the dive bar a full half hour early, for no reason except for the fact that you had nothing else to do. 

Your apartment had felt too still after you got home, so you’d just changed clothes, stared at yourself in the mirror longer than necessary, and eventually decided that sitting alone with your thoughts was a bad idea.

So here you were.

The bar was comfortably dim, the kind of place that smelled faintly like citrus cleaner and old wood, neon signs humming over shelves of bottles. It wasn’t crowded yet, just a couple of people nursing drinks like they had nowhere else to be.

You slid onto a stool at the bar and ordered a soda. It felt normal. No cameras, just producers in your ear. Just a denim jacket and jeans, a Tool t-shirt, and your hair down the way it never was on air.

You didn’t mind being early. It gave you time to settle.

You’d just unlocked your phone when someone sat on the stool beside you with an audible little gasp. “Oh my god.”

You glanced over, already smiling because… yeah. You knew that tone.

“You’re the weather girl.”

You laughed, and it sounded light. “I am, yeah.”

His face lit up immediately, like he’d just stumbled into a celebrity sighting he hadn’t expected to happen in a dive bar of all places. You never considered yourself a celebrity by any means, well… maybe a local one. “That’s wild. I mean, sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“It’s okay,” you said, lifting your soda in a small toast. “Happens more than you’d think.”

He laughed, then tilted his head, squinting slightly. “You look… different.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Different how?”

“More real?” He waved a hand vaguely. “Less… map.”

You snorted. “Yeah, the green screen really does a lot of heavy lifting.”

That got a proper laugh out of him. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Joaquin. Nice to meet you.”

You shook it. “Nice to meet you too, Joaquin.”

He seemed genuinely sweet. He was friendly, a little excitable in a way that felt harmless. You chatted idly for a few minutes. About how weird it was being recognized in random places. About how this bar apparently had surprisingly good fries.

Then Joaquin shifted on his stool, suddenly looking like he was working up the nerve to say something.

“So,” he said, lowering his voice just a bit. “This is gonna sound kind of weird.”

You shrugged. “That’s usually how the best conversations start.”

He chuckled, then took a breath. “I have a friend coming in tonight who has… like. A huge crush on you.”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “Oh?”

“Massive,” he said, nodding seriously. “He watches you every morning. Has for… I don’t know. Almost a year, I think.”

You were used to people who knew you, sure, used to people finding comfort in routine, in familiar faces on their screens. There was something sweet about that kind of consistency, but your “fans” usually consist of little kids who wanted to work in broadcasting when they grew up.

“Is he… weird about it?” you asked with an eyebrow raised.

“No,” Joaquin said quickly. “Not at all, I promise. He just has a harmless crush on you. Any chance you’d maybe talk to him? He’d probably die before asking for a photo, but he’d definitely appreciate it.”

You considered it for about half a second.

“Sure,” you said easily. “I can say hi.”

Joaquin’s relief was immediate. “You’re a saint, man.”

He glanced toward the door just as it opened, letting in a rush of cold air and the crowd murmur of the street outside.

“Oh,” he said, pointing. “There he is.”

You followed his gesture.

Oh. 

Bucky Barnes stepped into the bar; shoulders squared, leather  acket pulled close, eyes scanning the room. 

His gaze found Joaquin first.

Then it slid to you, sitting next to him.

The moment recognition hit, it was like watching a system crash in real time.

He froze, just for a beat, but it was enough for his shoulders to go rigid. His steps slowed, face going utterly blank in that way that screamed oh no even if he didn’t say a word.

Joaquin, completely oblivious to the internal apocalypse happening, grinned like he’d just pulled off the greatest surprise of his life.

“That’s him,” he said cheerfully.

You set your side down slowly, eyes never leaving Bucky as he stood there looking like the universe had personally betrayed him.

You smiled fondly, just a little bit confused. “Well,” you whispered, mostly to yourself, “this just got interesting.”

Joaquin didn’t seem to hear. He lifted his arm high, waving enthusiastically over the low din of the bar. “BUCKY!”

Bucky flinched.

Not subtly, either. It was a full-body, caught-off-guard flinch. His eyes darted once more to you before snapping back to Joaquin, as if maybe, maybe, if he didn’t look directly at you again, this would all turn out to be a misunderstanding.

It didn’t.

Joaquin waved again, bigger this time, and patted the empty stool on his other side. “C’mon, man!”

Bucky swallowed and forced his legs to move.

You watched him approach, taking in the way his shoulders were stiff. God, he looked handsome, and for a while you were distracted from the matter at hand. 

You schooled your expression into polite curiosity as he reached the bar.

Joaquin beamed between the two of you. “Okay, Bucky, this is—” He gestured to you dramatically as he nudged his ribs “—well. You know who she is.”

You laughed lightly and turned toward Bucky, offering your hand like you hadn’t already memorized the exact shape of his body.

“Hi,” you said warmly. “Nice to meet you.”

Bucky short-circuited.

His brain screamed. His heart tried to exit his body. His internal monologue dissolved into white noise and regret.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh absolutely not.

His stomach dropped so hard he was pretty sure it hit the floor.

You were acting perfectly casual, perfectly unbothered, like you’d never pressed him against the wall. Like he didn’t know exactly what you sounded like when he reached that sweet spot on your neck. 

Then, you met his gaze and gave the smallest smile, mouthing: Just play along.

Bucky caught it.

And immediately started spiraling worse.

Play along.

Play along with what?

Pretending he didn’t already know how you took your coffee?

Pretending he hadnt gone on four fucking dates with you already?

He stared at your outstretched hand for half a second too long before taking it, his grip careful, respectful, like he was terrified of doing anything wrong.

“Hi,” he said, voice a little too rough. “I’m… uh. Bucky. Nice to meet you too.”

You smiled at him like this was the first time you’d ever seen him, like you hadn’t woken up in his bed that morning.

Perfect.

Joaquin glanced between you, clearly delighted. “See? I told you he was cool.”

You nodded. “He told me you’re a regular viewer.”

Bucky felt his soul leave his body. Fuck.

“I—I mean,” he rushed out, already spiraling, “yeah, but not like—” He stopped himself, swallowed hard. “I just… uh. Mornings. Routine. You’re very… informative.”

Informative.

Jesus Christ.

You tilted your head, amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Joaquin snorted. “Dude watches every morning,” he stage-whispered. “Once, he stayed at Sam’s for work, in Louisiana? He downloaded a VPN to get to a New York server to watch your daily weekday forecast on his phone.”

Bucky shot him a look of pure betrayal. “Joaquin—”

“What?” Joaquin said innocently. “It’s true.”

You laughed again, kind and easy, while Bucky was very very close to jst bolting out of the room.

Then Joaquin checked his phone. “Oh, by the way. Sam texted me. He’s gonna be a bit late.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“Yeah,” Joaquin said. “Some kinda thing came up.” He leaned back on his stool, completely at ease. “So! Guess it’s just us for a bit.”

You smiled at him again, and the weight in his chest eased just a fraction.

He shifted his weight, hands curling into his jacket sleeves.

But as he sat there, pretending this was the first time you’d ever met, Bucky couldn’t shake the thought looping endlessly through his head:

Please don’t think I’m a creep. Please don’t think I’m a creep. Please don’t—

Oh no.

She is definitely gonna think I’m a creep.

She’s gonna think I lied.

She’s gonna think I stalked her.

She’s gonna think I’m one of those guys who shows up to volunteer hoping to “run into” someone from TV.

He nodded anyway. “Y… yeah,” he said, forcing himself to breathe. “Cool. That’s… cool.”

You turned fully toward him now, resting your elbow lightly on the bar. “So,” you said conversationally, “Joaquin tells me you’re a big weather guy.”

Bucky’s ears burned.

“I—uh,” He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just like… knowing what’s coming.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”

Did it?

Did it really?

Or did you secretly think he was a freak who built his mornings around a woman on a screen and then go looking for her in real life to pretend to to—

Joaquin, entirely unaware of the existential crisis unfolding inches away from him, grinned. “See? He’s harmless.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, heart still racing.

You took a sip of your drink, then glanced at Bucky again, eyes dancing just a little. “So. You a regular here?”

Bucky blinked. She’s flirting. Or pretending to.Or both.

“Uh. No,” he said. “This… opened last week.”

“Mmm,” you hummed thoughtfully, as your knee brushed his under the bar.

Bucky stiffened, heartbeat skyrocketing, every memory of the past few weeks crashing into him all at once: coffee dates, stolen kisses, the way you’d laughed when he got flustered, the fact that you’d already seen him naked and were now acting like this was a meet-cute.

You leaned in slightly, just enough that only he could hear. “You’re doing great,” you whispered. “Relax.”

He nodded immediately. 

You smiled, warm this time, and turned back to Joaquin like nothing had happened.

Bucky let out a shaky breath.

God help him.

If this was him playing along, he didn’t know how much longer his nervous system could survive it.

—

For the next thirty minutes, Joaquin, unfortunately, was having the time of his life.

He leaned back on his barstool like a man who believed that he was orchestrating and wingman-ing his good friend.

“So yeah,” Joaquin said casually, taking a sip of his drink, “Bucky doesn’t watch any other news channel.”

Bucky made a noise somewhere between a cough and a plea for mercy.

You tilted your head, resting your chin on your hand, eyes bright with interest. “Oh?”

Bucky tried to shoot him a warning look, but Joaquin missed it entirely.

“He knows which days you’re on,” Joaquin added. “If you’re off, he gets all grumpy. Pretends he doesn’t care, but—”

“That is not true,” Bucky cut in, face heating fast.

You smiled sweetly. “Really?”

Joaquin nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yeah. He’ll be like, ‘Huh. Must be a guest forecaster today.’ Meanwhile he’s chugging two cups of coffee.”

Bucky pressed his lips together and stared very hard at his glass.

You leaned in just a fraction, curiosity sharpening. “Two, huh?”

“Sometimes more,” Joaquin said, delighted. “Depends.”

Bucky groaned quietly. “Joaquin.”

“What?” Joaquin shrugged. “It’s endearing.”

You hummed, eyes flicking back to Bucky. “Is it?”

Bucky refused to meet your gaze. “I like… knowing what’s coming,” he said again. Weakly. Uselessly.

Joaquin snapped his fingers. “Oh! And the show. He calls it by the full name.”

Your brows lifted. “The full name?”

“Yeah,” Joaquin said. “Morning MetroView Weather Update.”

Bucky winced. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“But that’s what it’s called,” Joaquin insisted. “You correct people when they get it wrong.”

You laughed softly. “Does he, now?”

Joaquin nodded. “One time Sam called it ‘the Channel Seven weather thing’ and Bucky was like—” He straightened, dropping his voice into a hilarious impression, “‘It’s Morning MetroView. It’s different.’”

Bucky buried his face in his hand.

You watched him with open fascination now. “Wow.”

“It’s not—” Bucky tried, then gave up, shoulders slumping. “I just… appreciate accuracy.”

Joaquin pointed at him. “See? Weather guy.”

You smiled, slow and curious. “Anything else he appreciates?”

“Oh!” Joaquin perked up. “The theme song.”

Bucky froze.

“…The theme song?” you echoed.

Joaquin nodded. “He hums it all the time.”

Bucky looked like he might actually pass away.

You stared at Joaquin, then back at Bucky. “You hum the theme song.”

“I do not,” Bucky said weakly.

Joaquin grinned. “You do. It drives me insane on missions sometimes. No offense.”

Your eyes lit up mischievously. “None taken.”

Bucky muttered, “Please stop talking,” as he pressed his forehead to the bar.

You stared at him for a beat, then chuckled. You didn’t laugh loudly or mockingly. Instead, it was a gentle, surprised laugh, like you’d stumbled onto a plot twist you hadn’t expected but appreciated.

“I just…,” you said. “Feel… professionally observed.”

Bucky peeked up at you, horrified. “I swear I wasn’t…  I didn’t— I never. I mean, I wasn’t looking for you. I didn’t even think I’d ever meet you. I just—”

Joaquin checked his phone mid-rant. “Oh, hey. Sam just texted.”

Bucky looked up sharply. “What did he say?”

Joaquin stood, sliding off the stool. “He’s around the block. I’m gonna go meet him outside.”

Relief flooded Bucky’s face, right up until Joaquin pat him on the shoulder.

“You two keep talking,” Joaquin said brightly, then leaned in and winked at Bucky. “I’ll give you space.”

Bucky stared at his retreating back in horror.

You turned back toward him, smile still in place. You said nothing, but your eyes were very, very curious.

Bucky’s silence lasted approximately forty seconds after Joaquin disappeared before absolutely losing the plot.

“I just wanna say,” he started, too fast, hands already coming up like he was surrendering, “I’m not a creep. I swear to God. I didn’t… this wasn’t like a thing I planned or anything. I wasn’t tracking you or showing up places on purpose or—”

You blinked, startled, “Bucky…”

“I know how it sounds,” he rushed on, words tumbling over each other until it blended together now. “Guy watches someone on TV, knows the schedule, hums the theme song…. okay, that part sounds bad when you say it out loud! But it was just routine. It helped me feel normal. And I didn’t know you. I didn’t think I knew you. I never thought you owed me anything, or that you even knew I existed…”

He dragged a hand through his hair, looking up at the bar heavens as though any kind of divine force could save him. 

“I swear I didn’t go to that soup kitchen because of you,” he added, panic in his voice. “That was real. You were just… there. And then you were nice, and kind, and… fuck, I just—please don’t think I’m some creep who built a fantasy in his head.”

You watched him unravel for a few seconds longer before closing the distance before he could spiral any further.

You… kissed him.

It was intentional. You were enough that he could feel the warmth of you, smell your perfume, register the way your hand slid lightly on the front of his chest like you were anchoring yourself there.

He froze for half a second. Then he melted.

When you pulled back, his breathing was uneven, eyes blown wide like he’d just been rebooted.

“I don’t think you’re a creep,” you said, lips still close enough that your words brushed his mouth.

He swallowed hard. “…You don’t?” he asked quietly, almost afraid to hear the answer.

You laughed, thumb tracing the seam of his jacket. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He nodded immediately. Anything to take the pressure off him. “Yeah. Please.”

Your smile turned a little sheepish. “I might’ve had a teeny tiny crush on you, too, way before I first met you.”

His eyebrows shot up. “No way.”

“Way,” you said. “I watched your press conferences all the time.” You rolled your eyes at yourself. “I used to get jealous of my on-field coworkers who got to interview you. I’d be in the studio like, ‘Cool, I’m pointing at a screen while you’re standing five feet away from Bucky Barnes.’”

He let out a stunned laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” you said, amused. “Guess that’s what I get for pursuing meteorology.” You hesitated, before adding, “My parents still have Howling Commandos trading cards in the attic. I found them one summer when I was home from college and absolutely lost my mind.”

He stared at you. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious,” you said. “I thought I had a harmless crush, too. You are… a super soldier, y’know? Avengers-adjacent. No way you’d ever look my way.”

You met his eyes, smile turning shy.

“Well,” you continued, “until… you did.”

Bucky let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s… that’s— wow.”

You smiled. “So.” You nudged his knee lightly with yours. “We’re even.”

Bucky laughed, nose crinkling adorably, “I guess so.”

You leaned in, voice low and teasing now. “We’re really just different sides of the same coin.”

He chuckled, tension finally breaking, shoulders relaxing as his hand slid to your waist like it had always meant to be there.

“You really don’t mind?” he asked, just to be sure.

You smiled, fingers curling into his jacket. “Bucky, you weren’t a creep about it. It’s not like you stalked or harassed me,” you reassured, “and I think… I would very much mind if you stop.”

You kissed him again.

This one was slower, your fingers sliding up into his hair, his human hand firm at your waist like an anchor. Bucky sighed into it helplessly as the bar noise faded into a dull hum. If anyone was watching, neither of you noticed. You were too distracted with each other, loving feeling the smile on his face when you tugged him closer, loving the way he followed your lead.

—

“Dude,” Joaquin said excitedly as he and Sam rounded the corner back toward the bar. “I’m telling you, you are not prepared for this.”

Sam raised a brow. “You say that a lot.”

“No, this is different,” Joaquin insisted. “We saw the weather girl. Y’know, the one Bucky watches.”

Sam stopped short, a grin spread across his face. “Oh. That weather girl.”

“Yes!” Joaquin said. “And Bucky’s talking to her right now.”

Sam chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, that tracks.”

They pushed the door open.

And there you were.

Bucky had your side leaning gently against the bar now, one hand braced beside you, the other warm and familiar at your hip. You were smiling into the kiss like you already knew something the rest of the room didn’t. Bucky looked… relaxed. He looked in a way Joaquin had literally never seen before.

“Oh damn,” Joaquin froze mid-step. “That was quick.”

Sam burst out laughing, slapping Joaquin on the shoulder. “Quick? Man, no.”

He nodded toward the two of you, still very much wrapped up in each other, completely unbothered by your audience.

“They met a couple months ago,” Sam added casually.

Joaquin turned around. “What.”

“There was a blizzard,” Sam said. “Power outages everywhere. Bucky and I volunteered at one of the shelters. She showed up to help, too.”

Joaquin stared at him, almost betrayed. “You knew this?”

Sam shrugged, still smiling. “Didn’t know it’d turn into that, but yeah.”

Joaquin looked back at the bar. He studied the way Bucky’s forehead rested against yours now, kissing your nose adorably.

“Oh,” Joaquin’s eyes widened. “That’s why he was shitting himself.”

Sam snorted. “Yep.”

“He didn’t tell her,” Joaquin whispered, horrified and delighted all at once.

Sam shook his head. “Not a chance.”

Joaquin looked back at the bar, where Bucky had leaned in to murmur something in your ear that made you laugh before pulling him right back in.

“…Wow,” Joaquin said. “They’re just—”

“Yep,” Sam cut in. “Bet they’re gonna be sucking each other’s face off by the end of the night.”

Joaquin laughed, a little awed now. “Good for him.”

“So…” Sam shrugged casually. “Drinks?”