Hoe Dameron

“I don’t know, I’m thinking maybe we shouldn’t carve jack-o-lanterns,” you said, eying the long to-do list you’d compiled. “I just don’t think we’re gonna have time and-”

Bucky’s fervent “No!” made you jump.

He flashed you an apologetic smile and shrugged. “I mean, it’s Halloween! We can’t have a Halloween party without jack-o-lanterns.”

A look of concentration slowly stretched across your features as you contemplated his words. Bucky couldn’t help but smile; he loved how seriously you took Halloween. How passionate you were about getting it just right. 

He waited on pins and needles for you to come to a conclusion, desperately hoping that he’d been persuasive enough to change your mind. And when you agreed that no Halloween party was complete without jack-o-lanterns, a massive, relieved sigh left his chest.

You shot a glance his way, “Wow, you were really stressed about the jack-o-lanterns, huh?” you teased. “I think that was the biggest sigh of relief I’ve ever heard.”

“I just want everything to be perfect,” he told you. “Plus, I’ve only ever carved one pumpkin. In my entire life.”

“That’s just- it’s blasphemous,” you lamented. “Only one jack-o-lantern in over a hundred years? That just doesn’t sit right with me.”

“That’s why we have to carve them this year,” he said, “So I can have two under my belt.”

It was, unbeknownst to you, a flagrant lie. 

Because, while you were under the impression that Bucky had been working late for the last few weeks, he was actually carving pumpkins. A lot of pumpkins. At least two or three a week. He had to practice, had to get it absolutely perfect. He would show up at Sam’s apartment after work and settle into one of his friend’s kitchen chairs, sawing away at the flesh of yet another bright orange pumpkin. Sam said it was overkill, that he didn’t need that much practice. But Bucky disagreed. 

If he was going to carve ‘WILL YOU MARRY ME?’ into the side of a pumpkin, it had to be flawless.

“Let’s carve them on…” He pretended to think it over, as if he hadn’t been meticulously planning this for weeks. “How does Friday sound? It’s the day before Halloween, the day before the party- it’s perfect. And that way they’ll be fresh.”

“Sounds good to me.” You dotted a kiss to his cheek and went about your party prep, completely oblivious to Bucky’s covert mission.

When Friday rolled around, you returned home from work to find the kitchen table prepped and ready for pumpkin carving. Bucky had spread newspapers all over the table’s surface and lined up a small army of knives and spoons. A string of twinkling fairly lights had been carefully draped around the perimeter of the ceiling. A large bowl of Halloween candy sat off to the side. Your ‘Halloween Vibes’ playlist played softly from a speaker in the middle of the table, and the entire apartment smelled of hot apple cider. A steaming mug of the stuff rested in your usual spot at the table, waiting for you. 

Two large, perfect pumpkins sat atop the layer of newspapers, ready to give their lives for the good of your party. You were simply awestruck by the scene before you. Completely mesmerized by the picture-perfect set up. 

Bucky swept into the kitchen just then and wrapped you in a bear hug. 

“Hey, sweetheart, how was your-”

“This is incredible, Buck.” With a contented sigh, you leaned into his embrace, “You get me. It’s so-” Just then, one strange detail caught your eye. “What, you didn’t wanna sit next to me?” you teased, gesturing toward the table. 

The two pumpkins sat on either side of the table, indicating that you and Bucky would be sitting across from each other. It was a small, yet significant detail that fell far outside the ordinary. The two of you were a “same side of the booth” couple. At restaurants, at home, at friend’s houses- you sat next to each other. Always. 

“Is this like an Invasion of the Body Snatchers situation?” you joked. “Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”

Bucky rolled his eyes and captured your lips with his in a kiss that tasted like spiced cider. 

“I promise I have not been body snatched,” he confirmed. “I just thought we would sit across from each other so our carvings would be a surprise.”

“Hmmm…” you thought it over for a moment, eying Bucky and then the table.

His heart threatened to beat out of his chest. He’d been nervous all day- all week, really. His hands shook; his stomach was full to the brim with a lively swarm of butterflies. You’d checked in on him a few times over the last few days, asking if he was alright. And he assured you he was fine, just stressed about work. 

But with actual proposal only an hour or so away, he felt himself coming apart at the seams. Tiny beads of sweat gathered near the nape of his neck. His throat was bone dry. And he was deathly afraid that you’d notice the small ring box in his pocket. He watched you assess the table and feared that you’d somehow figured out his master plan.

But he breathed a sigh of relief when you gave him a “sounds fun!” and dropped the issue.

He couldn’t wait to ask you to marry him. To give you the dreamy, Halloween-y proposal of your dreams. And he couldn’t wait for your Halloween / engagement party. Of course, you had no idea it was a hybrid event. But Bucky had been putting the details together for weeks. He had a cake to pick up, custom decorations to hang, fancy champagne to unearth from its hiding place. It was going to be the perfect celebration.

Once you’d changed out of your work clothes and the two of you had eaten dinner, it was go-time. 

Bucky’s hand shook as he sliced into the pumpkin; no amount of practice could’ve prepared him for just how nervous he was. But he forced himself to take deep, even breaths. Forced himself to appear as normal as possible. He laughed at your jokes and listened to your stories from the workday. He watched with adoration in his eyes as you absentmindedly stuck your tongue while you carved. 

“I’m just gonna warn you,” you said, halting your carving for just a moment. “This thing is looking pretty good. Might be better than yours,” you gave him a cocky shrug.

Bucky let out a laugh and glanced down at his pumpkin. The words “WILL YOU MARRY” stared back at him, and he had to admit that he was pretty pleased with his efforts. The letters were crisp and clean, easy to read. The spacing was perfect. All he had to do was add the “ME?” and he’d be ready to pop the question.

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” he said, bringing his attention back to you. “I think mine is gonna be one for the books.”

He couldn’t wait to surprise you. Couldn’t wait to see the look of joyous shock on your face as you realized what he’d been carving. And yet, part of him wished you already knew. He hated keeping things from you, hated telling you white lies and half-truths. You were the first person he called when he had a story to tell. The only person he trusted with his deepest darkest secrets. He told you everything. Every crazy, over the top story from work. Every insignificant, minute detail of his day. Everything. Keeping such a huge secret from you went against his very nature.

But he only had to wait a few more minutes, and then you’d be in the know. With a satisfied smile, he prepared to drag his knife through the pumpkin’s flesh once again- until a strange sound stopped him. 

Your knife clattered against the surface of the table. Your hand balled into a tight fist. Your eyes squeezed shut. 

“Baby?” 

Bucky was out of his seat in a heartbeat. He flew to your side of the table and found blood staining your shirt, the newspaper. It dripped down the surface of your pumpkin and coated the tip of your knife. 

At the sight of your blood, all of his grand, romantic proposal plans evaporated into thin air. He was all business now.

He gently reached for your clenched fist, “Can I see?”

You grimaced and slowly opened your eyes- only to close them again when you saw the blood running down your wrist. 

“Sweetheart, let me see, okay?” Bucky’s voice was soothing, reassuring. “I just need to look at it.”

Finally, you uncurled your fist and allowed him a long look at your injured hand, though he couldn’t see much. A pool of blood had gathered in your palm, completely obscuring the wound.

“Alright, I don’t- I can’t tell how deep it is. Let’s get you over to the sink so I can get a good look. Okay?”

You nodded but didn’t move. You were frozen. Stuck. Bucky wasn’t sure if it was the pain or your aversion to blood. He gently encouraged you to come with him to the sink as he watched the blood ooze down your forearm and drip off of your elbow. The droplets exploded into macabre little sunbursts at Bucky’s feet as they splashed against the tile. But still, you remained fixed in your chair. 

Bucky’s anxiety thrummed. He begged you to move. Pleaded with you. But nothing worked. Nothing freed you from your trance. Eventually, he ran out of options. He couldn’t just watch the blood drain from your body. Couldn’t allow you to go without the medical attention you so obviously needed.

“Alright, I’m picking you up, sweets.”

His strong arms gently lifted you from your chair and carefully carried you to the kitchen sink. He sat you down on the counter and cautiously rinsed your bloodied hand under the faucet. Soothing, encouraging words fell from his lips as he assessed the damage. But it was just as he’d feared: you were going to need stitches.

The only silver lining was that the cold water seemed to snap you back to reality. 

“Is it okay?” you said, your voice tremulous. You hadn’t worked up the nerve to look at the carnage yourself

A small sigh of relief left Bucky’s chest at the sound of your voice. For just a moment, he allowed his eyes to drift from your injured hand to your face. He found your brows knit together in pain. Your eyes wide with anxiety. The usual warm glow that radiated off of your skin had been replaced by a sickly gray cast. 

He gave you a sympathetic smile that quickly fell into a frown, “You need stitches.” 

You frowned right along with him.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He reached over and cupped your face with his clean hand, “How’s the pain?”

You gave a half-hearted shake of your head. His heart broke.

A visit to the emergency room wasn’t exactly part of Bucky’s original plan for the evening, but he couldn’t have been a better partner. He supported you. Constantly checked in on you. He held pressure to your wound in the waiting room and advocated for you when the pain rendered you incapable of speaking. He asked the nurses a million questions and thanked them for their compassion. And when your doctor refused to give you something for the anxiety prior to stitching you up, he had your back. 

He was so worried about you, so concerned about your condition and your pain and your aversion to needles. He did everything in his power to comfort you. To be there for you. To be strong for you when you needed a rock. 

A rock. ‘Shit,’ he thought.

Your engagement ring was still tucked inside his pocket- or at least, he hoped it was. His hand drifted down to his lap and rested atop the small square, assuring himself that it was safe. The tiniest sigh of relief he could manage slipped from between his lips, only to be overridden by new worries. He feared that you’d notice the box. Or worse, that it would slip out of his pocket and be lost forever. 

For the rest of your time in the hospital, he kept the box in his peripheral vision. His hand grazed over it every minute or so, making sure that it was still there. He couldn’t lose it. Couldn’t propose to you without a ring- thisring.

The botched proposal came rushing back to him all at once. His unfinished pumpkin was still on the table with the words “WILL YOU MARRY” carved into its flesh. His jaw tensed. What if you saw it upon arriving home? What if you didn’t get the perfect proposal that you deserved? What if the whole thing was ruined? The thought made Bucky’s stomach turn. But he had more pressing matters to attend to; your injured hand took precedence. 

He’d just have to find a way to shield the pumpkin from your view. And how hard could it be? He was an ex-assassin and a current covert agent, for crying out loud. He was certain he could keep this secret under wraps a while longer.

But it proved easier said than done.

Upon arriving home, Bucky carefully led you into the bedroom and helped you change out of your blood-stained clothes. He assumed you’d want to lie down and get some rest after your long, painful evening in the ER. And he planned to use that opportunity to hide his unfinished proposal message. But as soon as you donned clean clothes, you headed for the bedroom door.

“Where are you going?” Bucky asked. He caught up with you and obstructed your path. 

He hoped you hadn’t clocked the alarm in his voice, the sheer panic. Only a few feet stood between you and the partial proposal sitting on the kitchen table.

“You’re not actually gonna try and finish carving your pumpkin, are you?” he asked.

“No, definitely not,” you glanced toward your bandaged hand. “I was just gonna go clean up. There’s blood and pumpkin guts and-”

“You’re not cleaning anything up. You need to rest, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, “I can clean with my good hand! I made a huge mess, and I don’t want you to clean it up by yourself.”

Bucky rolled his eyes right back and brushed a kiss against your forehead. 

“You need to rest, baby. I can handle the clean up on my own, okay?” He took your good hand in his and led you to the bed. “I appreciate you wanting to help, but I got this one. Just lay down and try to relax. I’ll be right in.”

Begrudgingly, you crawled into bed and let Bucky help you get situated. He dotted another kiss to your forehead and headed for the kitchen, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

With the door closed, he dropped his calm demeanor rushed into the kitchen. He yanked his pumpkin with its incomplete proposal from the kitchen table and searched wildly for a sufficient hiding spot. His eyes landed on the cabinet above the oven- the cabinet that was so high up you’d never been able to reach it- and carefully tucked his pumpkin inside. 

With his secret still intact, Bucky made you some tea and put together a snack for you; he wanted to make sure you’d have something in your stomach when you took your pain medication. He poured you a large glass of water and delivered everything to your bedside. Brushing a gentle kiss against your lips, he promised to be back soon.

And then he cleaned up the carnage. It didn’t take him long, but it was more difficult than he thought. He hated seeing your blood pooling on the table, on the floor. He never liked seeing your blood, but it was easier in the moment. Easier when he was concerned about your pain level and getting you to the ER. 

But now that the adrenaline had worn off, he found the sight of your blood absolutely gut-wrenching. It was so unsettling, so deeply disturbing. Blood had never made him uncomfortable before, not even when his own spilled from the place where his left arm should’ve been. But yours? He shuddered. Goosebumps crawled across his skin as he cleaned up the macabre scene, but he got it taken care of; he didn’t want you finding a mess in the morning.

And when he’d returned the kitchen to its former glory, he changed out of his bloodied clothes and joined you in bed. With Bucky next to you under the covers, you turned off the tv and got settled in for the night. He flicked off the lamp on his bedside table and kissed you on the forehead like he did every night. You intertwined the fingers of your good hand with Bucky’s as he curved his body around yours.

“Thanks for taking care of me tonight,” you whispered in the dark. “I couldn’t-” a yawn interrupted you, “I couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend.”

“Always, sweetheart,” he dropped a kiss to your shoulder, knowing he wouldn’t be your boyfriend much longer. The word ‘fiancé’ bounced around his skull, nearly escaping and ruining the surprise. But he held it in. All he had to do was keep it contained until tomorrow. 

“Get some rest. It was a long night, and tomorrow is gonna be busy.”

Within moments, you were out; the stress of the evening coupled with a prescription pain pill had you on your ass. Bucky listened to your steady breathing for five, ten, fifteen minutes. He waited for it to vary, for you to adjust your position, but you remained still, your breathing even.

“Baby?” he whispered, testing the depth of your sleep. “Hey, baby.”

No answer. Not even a muscle twitch.

Satisfied, Bucky slipped his hand out of yours and snuck carefully out of bed. He padded across the room on his silent Winter Soldier feet and crept through the bedroom door without a sound. 

Though he wasn’t going to be gone long— all he had to do was carve the word ‘ME’ and a question mark into his pumpkin— he hated sneaking away like this. Hated leaving you all alone in the bedroom, especially when you were hurt. What if you woke up and needed him? What if you tore your stitches in your sleep? 

The endless possibilities ticked by as he made his way to the cabinet above the oven. He stopped in his tracks and considered turning back. He hemmed and hawed for a long, quiet moment in the dark kitchen. 

No, you were asleep, dead asleep. He’d have plenty of time to finish his carving. Plenty of time to make your perfect Halloween proposal come true. Soundlessly, he retrieved his pumpkin from its clandestine spot and retrieved a knife from the block.

By the light of his phone, he sliced into his pumpkin once again. All of the nervous energy he’d had earlier returned ten-fold, forcing a slight tremor into his right hand. The words he’d carved prior to your accident were precise, perfectly crisp; he feared that finishing this project in secret and in the dark might ruin what progress he’d already made. 

A bead of sweat pricked at his brow. His jaw was clenched; his shoulders grew rock hard with tension. And only when he tasted blood did he realize he’d sunk his teeth into the tender flesh of his cheek. He dragged a deep breath into his lungs and shook the rigidity from his body. 

All that was left now was the question mark- the damn question mark.

For some reason, it was the character that gave him the most trouble. Each time he practiced, it came out wonky. Uneven. Crooked. It usually ended up ruining his otherwise perfect pumpkins. His confidence in this plan waned; carving the most difficult portion of this project in the dark had not been wise.

He knew— he hoped— you’d say yes, even if the question mark was a little awkward and warped. But he wanted it to be perfect. It had to be perfect. You were perfect, and you deserved nothing less. 

He wasn’t sure how long he held his breath; he was certain it was a new personal record. But it didn’t matter. Because the question mark he deftly carved into the pumpkin’s flesh was flawless. It was crisp. Beautiful. His best one to date. 

He stared at his completed pumpkin for a long time, a satisfied smile on his face. Tomorrow, he was going to ask you to marry him. Tomorrow, he was going to make good on a promise he’d made to himself a year in advance. 

After one last look, he carefully tucked his pumpkin back into the cabinet and snuck back into the bedroom. You hadn’t moved even a fraction of an inch since he left, and your breathing was still as steady as before. He slithered beneath the covers and dotted a kiss to your head before dozing off. This was the last night you’d spend as boyfriend and girlfriend, and he was more than okay with that.

The next morning, the nervous energy stemming from Bucky’s impending proposal nearly shook him awake. The knots in his stomach twisted and tangled like writhing snakes, and his lungs refused to expand to their full capacity. He would’ve loved to get another hour or two of sleep, but today was the day, and he had lots to do.

He cut a glance toward you, taking inventory of your condition. Your expression was serene; your injured hand rested carefully on your chest. There was no blood leaking through the bandages. No pained sounds escaping from your lips. You were okay. The anxiety in his stomach eased ever so slightly.

With the utmost care, he snuck out of bed and stole your to-do list from your bedside table before heading for the kitchen. He was hellbent on getting as much done as possible  before you woke. He wanted to prevent you from doing any work. Wanted to keep your injured hand safe. He’d happily do everything that remained on your list if it saved you any more pain. 

But the pile of tasks for the day was daunting. Intimidating, even. And he only had so much time. There was food- and a surprise cake- to pick up, more decorations to hang, drinks to prepare, last-minute cleaning to do. Both you and Bucky had to dress in your costumes. And this was all on top of the proposal. 

Once safely in the kitchen, he gave Sam a call. 

“You’re really calling me at six in the morning? On a Saturday?” Sam’s voice was rough with sleep.

“I know, I know. Sorry,” Bucky paused for a moment, listening for any evidence that you’d woken up. When he found nothing, he turned his attention back to Sam. “But I need your help, man.”

He told Sam the story of the previous night: your injury, the trip to the ER, his botched proposal. He explained your long to-do list, his increased workload. The impending popping of the question. 

Sam listened as Bucky quickly rattled off a hundred different things that needed to be taken care of.

“I’m gonna do everything around here,” Bucky said. “I’m getting a jump start on all of it right now, so hopefully I can get it done early. I just don’t think I can run out and get the food or the cake. I’m not sure I’ll have time, and I don’t really want to leave her here alone when she’s hurt cause-”

“I got it. Don’t worry about that stuff,” Sam said.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Just text me when and where and I’ll pick it up.”

Bucky felt some of the pressure in his chest dissipate, “You’re a lifesaver.”

 “I know,” Sam gave a soft laugh. “And you’re gonna get it right this time. Don’t stress, man. Y’all are made for each other.” 

A swell of confidence filled Bucky’s chest. He’d been on unsteady footing since last night’s incident. His fear of an imperfect proposal gnawed at him, haunted him in his sleep. But he’d been there for you when it mattered. He’d taken care of you and made you feel safe. And wasn’t that more important than a flawlessly executed proposal? He knew it was.

And with Sam shouldering some of the burden, he felt more certain than ever that things would work out in his favor. He dove into party prep, quietly ticking tasks off your to-do list one by one.

The look of shock on your face when you woke made Bucky beam. 

“You did everything?” you asked, snatching the to-do list off the counter. “All of it?”

Most of the items were marked through, signaling their completion. 

“Almost all of it,” Bucky amended. “There are a few smaller things I haven’t gotten to yet. And I haven’t picked up the food. But aside from that, yeah. It’s mostly finished.”

He’d put his nose to the grindstone and worked endlessly for the past few hours, getting all of the big things out of the way. All that was left now were the small, easier tasks- plus, the secret jobs he’d put on his own to-do list. 

“You didn’t have to do this all by yourself, Buck,” you said. “It’s a lot of work for one person.”

He shrugged, “I didn’t want you to hurt your hand.”

He laughed as you showered him with kisses and buried yourself in his arms. 

Together, the two of you ate the breakfast Bucky prepared; he refused to let you help. You watched as he did the dishes; he refused to let you help. And finally, you got started on the smaller, easier tasks he hadn’t quite completed yet; he barely let you help.

“No, no, no- I got it!” Bucky called from across the living room. He rushed to your side and blocked your path to the stepladder. “I got this one, sweetheart.”

You let out a huff, “I can climb on a stepladder- my legs are fine!”

Bucky didn’t agree. “I know, but I don’t want you getting up there. You could fall and tear your stitches. And that would mean another trip to the ER. More needles. More stitches-”

You wrinkled your nose in disgust. “Okay, okay. Fine,” a smile slipped through your annoyed façade. “I guess I’ll go…” you looked around the room, searching for something to do. “I’ll go fill the candy bowls.”

It sounded like a perfectly safe, risk-averse choice to Bucky. And thus, he approved. He allowed any and all harmless tasks that didn’t put your hand at risk-- though he still did most of the work himself, as his nervous energy wouldn’t allow his hands to idle.

By the time late afternoon rolled around, Bucky could hardly contain himself. He was certain you could hear his heart pounding. Certain you could sense his wild anxiety. But you didn’t look at him sideways or inquire about his odd behavior. You simply did what you could to prepare for the party, leaving the more involved tasks to him. 

A few minutes after he approved your request to go into the living room and arrange the couch with Halloween pillows, he found you sitting in the armchair near the window. Your head rested against the back of the chair, your eyelids drooped. Every few seconds, you jolted back to reality and blinked a few times, only to be devoured by exhaustion once again.

“Baby, you should lie down,” he sat on the arm of the chair and brushed his fingers gently across your cheek. “Go take a nap, okay?”

You fought the fatigue and forced your eyes open. “I’m okay. I’m good. I’m not ti-” you yawned. “I’m not tired.”

Bucky gave you a skeptical look. “Really? Cause I just found you in here sleeping on the job.”

You gave him a tired laugh. 

“Just go take a nap, sweetheart. Pretty much everything is done around here, I can take care of what’s left. And I know the pain meds make you sleepy.” 

“But-”

“Don’t you wanna have enough energy for the party tonight?” He asked. 

“Yeah… you got me there,” you laughed, followed by a yawn. “Okay, fine. I will take a short nap.”

“Short, long- whatever you need,” Bucky said, though he hoped you’d be asleep for a while. 

He walked you to the bedroom and got you situated in bed before pressing a kiss to your forehead. He promised to make sure you were awake with enough time to get ready for the party and left you to rest in peace. 

With you sleeping safely in the other room, Bucky prepared his proposal. He’d thought about picking up some orange roses and using their petals to line the hallway, creating some sort of aisle for you to walk down— but it didn’t seem Halloween-y enough to him. Instead, he lined the hall with candy corn that he vowed to clean up before the party guests arrived. He turned on the twinkling lights he’d put up the night before and fetched his pumpkin from the cabinet. It looked perfect sitting in the center of the kitchen table, surrounded by scattered candy corn and tea lights.

Sam arrived just twenty minutes before you were to wake up. He soundlessly entered the apartment with food and cake in hand and couldn’t help but marvel at the scene Bucky had set. He hugged his friend and preemptively congratulated him before slipping out the door. 

And then, your alarm sounded. Bucky’s stomach dropped.

He fetched your ring from the cabinet where he’d kept his pumpkin, lowered the kitchen lights, and took his spot just at the end of the hall- at the entrance to the kitchen. He cut a glance to the side and eyed the scene one last time. The soft, romantic light from the candles. The pumpkin. The twinkling string of lights. It was exactly as he imagined it.

After a deep, calming breath, he called out to you.

“Hey, sweetheart, could you come here for a minute?”

“Yeah!” you answered, sounding refreshed and alert. 

He heard your footsteps on the bedroom floor. Heard your “what?” as you opened the door and found the candy corn lining the hall.

“Buck, did you drop a bunch of candy corn outside the bedroom?” you called to him. 

“Um, yeah,” he called back. “I’m gonna clean it up before everyone gets here, I promise. Can you just come into the kitchen for a minute?”

“He dropped candy corn in two perfectly straight lines?” you muttered quietly to yourself, “What is-”

You turned the corner out of your room and found Bucky standing at the end of the hall in a warm, glowing light. 

“Hi,” he said, smiling ear to ear. 

“Um, hi,” you smiled back. “What’s going on?” 

Bucky shrugged, “Nothing. I just finished carving my jack-o-lantern. Do you want to see it?"

Your eyes lit up, “Yeah!”

As he watched you make your way down the candy corn aisle, all of the nerves vanished. There was nothing scary or anxiety-inducing about this. About asking you to marry him. About taking the first step toward your future together. This was the easiest thing in the world. 

Finally, you reached him.

“Hey,” he reached for your good hand and took it in his. “Come on, my pumpkins on the table.” 

With a gentle tug, he helped you round the corner into the kitchen. His gaze didn’t leave your face as he waited for you to figure out what he’d been planning. What he’d been hiding. But the puzzle pieces didn’t fall together as quickly as he thought. 

“Oh, wow, you carved words?” you chuckled, glancing over the pumpkin. “I thought it was gonna be a-”

And then a sharp gasp filled your lungs as you realized what exactly those words meant. All at once, you rushed to the table— dragging Buck with you— and closely examined the pumpkin. 

“Does this mean-” you dragged your eyes from the pumpkin to Bucky. “Are you serious?” 

With your hand still in his, Bucky slowly descended until he was resting on one knee. 

“Sweetheart…” 

Tears were already gathering in your eyes, “Oh my god.”

“The day I met you…” he began. 

But the speech he’d carefully prepared over the last month suddenly felt too formal, too rehearsed. He wanted to be his most genuine, authentic self for you. Not the version that was scripted and polished and refined. Not the role he played at briefings and press conferences. Not James Buchanan Barnes. Just Bucky- your Bucky.

With a deep breath, he freed himself from his script and allowed the words to flow from his heart. 

“This isn’t something I ever thought I would do- I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to, you know? When I was drafted, I had this feeling… I don’t know, I had this feeling that I wasn’t coming home. And I was right,” he gave the slightest shake of his head. “And then after I escaped and Shuri fixed me up, I just thought there was nochance it would happen— not for me. I didn’t think anyone would ever see me as me after what I did. And then I met you. And you’re just…” 

Tears gathered in his eyes now.

“You’re so warm. And this is… it’s been the honor of my life to be with you. To just be around you. Being your friend felt like winning the lottery, honestly. It was like being friends with the sun. You brought this light and this warmth with you everywhere you went. And I’d been so- I was in the dark for such a long time.” He shrugged, “I didn’t think there was another option- I thought I was gonna be in that darkness for the rest of my life.”

He gripped your hand a bit tighter now, this thumb sweeping circles over your knuckles.

“But you showed me that I could be different- that life could be different. And I knew immediately how lucky I was to just be in your orbit— I still feel that way. Every day. Cause you just… you make the world better. For everyone. And I couldn’t believe you wanted to be around someone who, you know, made the world worse.”

He laughed at your incredulous expression and murmured an apology for the negative self-talk before continuing.

“But I should’ve known that you wouldn’t have any hang ups, cause you’re the last person to judge. You’re the kindest person I’ve ever met. You make everyone feel like they matter. You’re so sweet and you’re thoughtful and you’re loving. You’re so passionate about the things you care about- and you care. You really care about people. You cared about me… you made me feel like a person for the first time in a long, long time.”

He quickly swiped he sleeve across his cheeks, mopping up the tears that breached his lash line.

 “I didn’t think things between us would go anywhere. I mean, I wanted them to. But I just never thought- I couldn’t let myself hope that you’d feel anything for me. I never even considered it; it was too unbelievable. And I- I still can’t believe that you want to be on my team. That you want us to be in the same corner. That you’ve been trusted me enough to give me your love. But I’m so… I’m beyond grateful that you took a chance on me, even after I spilled coffee all over your shoes.”

“Well,” you said, your voice shaky, “You bought me pumpkin bread, so I let it slide.”

The two of you laughed together in a soft, breathy sound.

“All this to say,” Bucky took a deep breath. “You’re the love of my life. I want to spend the rest of my days by your side. And I swear on my life that I will protect you and your heart at any cost. I will do anything in my power to make you as happy as you make me. Forever.”

He carefully fished the ring box out of his pocket, opened it, and presented you with the ring he’d worked so hard to hide.

“Baby-”

A quiet gasp filled your lungs, “Is that-”

“Your great grandmother’s,” he nodded. “It’s just that I- you know, I don’t have any family,  I don’t have any heirlooms. But I didn’t want to get you just any old ring; I wanted it to be special. So, I reached out to your mom, and she gave me permission to use this one.” 

Hot tears streaked down your face and rolled down your neck, dampening your shirt. Bucky could almost hear the your heart pounding in your chest.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been wanting to ask you this for a really, really long time, so…” He took a deep breath. Everything had been leading up to this moment. Every date. Every kiss. Every moment spent together brought the two of you here. 

“Will you marry me?”

Not even the enhanced hearing of a super soldier could pick up on your answer; no sound came when you opened your mouth. And so, you resorted to a vehement, borderline-violent nod.

Before Bucky could even remove the ring from its box, you launched yourself at him, sending both of you crashing to the floor. He instinctively wrapped himself around you and took the brunt of the fall, protecting you from the cold, hard tile.

You buried your face in his shirt, and he stroked your back as he felt your happy tears soaking through the fabric. Just for a moment, he allowed his eyes to close. He drank in the felling of your body against his, the sensation of your ecstatic sobs against his chest. 

Throughout the planning process, he knew you’d say yes. Knew you’d accept the ring. But the insecure part of him had wondered how happy you could really be. How much excitement could you possibly get from him popping the question? He knew he was still kind of a societal pariah. Still damaged and traumatized and hollow, at times. 

And he knew that he couldn’t possibly be your dream guy. Knew that if someone had asked you years ago to build your future husband, you never would’ve described him. You never would’ve outlined a PTSD-riddled ex-assassin with a cybernetic arm and enough blood on his hands to drown a city.

But as you lay there on tip of him, heaving with happy sobs, a satisfied smile stretched across his face. Maybe he wasn’t the blueprint of an ideal man, but you loved him. You wanted him. And that was enough for him. Your happiness was enough for him.

All he truly wanted in life was for you to be happy; nothing else mattered to him. 

For the entirety of your relationship, you’d filled him with the most potent, profound joy he’d ever experienced. After the life he’d had, he didn’t believe that such a feeling existed. But you showed him that it was possible. That he was capable of feeling things other than despair. And he did his best to give that same joy back to you every single day. To try and somehow repay you for granting him this new, beautiful life. And as your pulled your face from his chest and flashed a beaming smile his way, he thought maybe he’d done just that.

“So, that’s a yes, right?” He asked once you caught your breath. 

“Yes!” you nearly yelled. “Of course!”

Bucky brought the two of you to your feet and carefully slid the generations-old ring onto your finger. It looked at home there, like it belonged. Like it was made for you all those years ago and had been waiting for its chance to be yours. That was exactly how Bucky felt, too. Like he’d been born at the wrong time. Like he’d been designed perfectly for you, just several decades too early. Like he was destined to wait a century until he could truly be yours. He didn’t mind the delay, though, not if it brought him here. To this moment. To you.

The two of you shared your first kiss an engaged couple, and Bucky swore it felt different. Better, somehow. He didn’t think there was any way to improve a kiss from you. But now that you were his fiancée, there was something extra there. Something deeper. Warmer. Something that felt like forever.

“I know you probably want to start getting ready for the party,” He said when your lips parted, “But-”

“I completely forgot about the party,” you laughed. Your gaze drifted from Bucky’s face, down to your ring, and back, “Doesn’t seem important now.”

“Well, it is important, it’s special,” he said. “I think it might be the first ever hybrid Halloween-engagement party… a Halloweengagment!”

“Did you just come up with that?”

He nodded, a satisfied smile on his face. “Come on, I have a surprise for you.” 

He gently guided you over to the fridge, where your Halloweengagement cake hid. The black, heart shaped surprise was draped in intricate buttercream ruffles and adorned with a message written in delicate, cursive script. 

“Til Death?” you said, reading the flawless lettering.

“Yeah…”

No one said anything for a long, quiet moment. Bucky feared he’d take things too far. That it was too macabre for an engagement celebration. 

“Do you like it?” he asked, made uneasy by your silence. “I know it’s gonna stain everyone’s teeth, and that it’s kind of morbid. But I had to keep with the theme, you know?”

“Baby, it’s…” You crushed your mouth to his. “It’s perfect. I love it- I love you.” You leaned into him, pressing your cheek to his chest. “I can’t wait to be your wife.”

He wound his arms around you and pulled you closer.

Wife. 

The word pulled Bucky’s lips into a wide smile. He wanted nothing more than to marry you, to be your husband, to spend his life taking care of you. He’d be by your side for anything and everything that came your way, good or bad. He’d be your rock, your shoulder to cry on, your sounding board. Whatever you wanted, whatever you needed from him, he’d be there— nothing was off limits or out of reach. He’d lay down his life for you without giving it a second thought.

“Thank you for doing all of this,” you said. “It’s exactly what I wanted.”

“Thank you for saying yes,” he laughed. “It’s exactly what I wanted.”

The two of you melded together in another long, jubilant kiss. There would surely be many more over the course of the night as friends congratulated the two of you on your news. People would fawn over the ring and ask questions about dates and venues and dresses. But none of that stuff mattered to either of you. It didn’t matter when or where you got married. It wasn’t important what your dress looked like or who made up the wedding party. 

Her ex-husband’s smile came unbidden to her mind, sharp and cruel in its happiness. She could picture him so clearly, hand resting protectively over the swell of his fiancée’s stomach, the same woman who had once been the shadow in the corner of their marriage bed. The betrayal was an old wound, but the scar still throbbed when she allowed herself to remember. He had moved on, building a future, while she had spent months dissolving into gray days, her spirit weighed down by silence and the bitter taste of being unwanted.

Tonight was supposed to be different. A step forward, however small. A blind date with a man Sam swore was kind, a little broken, but strong in ways she needed. Bucky Barnes. She had heard the name before, of course—who hadn’t? It carried weight, history, a touch of darkness. But Sam’s grin had softened the edges when he spoke about him. You two… I don’t know, I think you’ll understand each other.

Y/N smoothed a hand nervously down the fabric of her dress, fingers catching on invisible creases as though straightening them could calm the tremor in her chest. She pulled her compact mirror from her bag, checked her lipstick, pressed her lips together with a sigh that fogged the glass. You look fine, she told herself, but the words tasted hollow. She looked like someone trying too hard not to fall apart.

Her phone buzzed, and she startled. Just a message from Sam: He’s already there. Don’t run away. A laugh almost bubbled up, small and broken, but she swallowed it down and typed back: I’m on my way.

The light turned green, and the taxi lurched forward again, carrying her closer to the restaurant, closer to the man she had never met. Her pulse thrummed like a warning in her ears, but beneath the fear, beneath the dread of sitting across from someone who might see right through her, there was a fragile thread of hope. Maybe, just maybe, she could start to believe there was more for her than heartbreak.

She rested her forehead briefly against the cool glass of the window, eyes stinging, and whispered to herself: Just breathe. Just..try.

The cab slowed to a stop, its brakes whining in protest as the driver muttered something into the radio. Y/N blinked herself back into the present, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. The restaurant glowed softly from across the street, golden light spilling onto the pavement like warmth made visible. Couples moved in and out of the entrance with ease, their laughter carried on the night air, and for a heartbeat she considered telling the driver to keep going.

Instead, she inhaled slowly, forcing air into her lungs. “Here is fine,” she murmured, her voice catching slightly as she handed over the fare. The driver gave her a polite nod, but his eyes lingered a moment too long on her anxious fidgeting, as if sensing the storm of nerves she tried to hide. She stepped out onto the pavement, smoothing the fabric of her dress with trembling hands.

Her heels clicked against the concrete as she crossed the street, every step measured, like walking into a fate she hadn’t quite chosen. The glass doors of the restaurant gleamed, reflecting her image back at her—shoulders pulled back, chin lifted, though inside she was nothing but a tangle of nerves and fragile hope. You can do this, she reminded herself, each word like a fragile lifeline. You deserve to do this.

The hostess at the front smiled warmly when Y/N gave Sam’s name, her expression softening with a knowing little nod. “He’s already here. Right this way.”

And just like that, there was no turning back.

The low hum of conversation wrapped around her as she followed the hostess through the room. Soft jazz curled lazily through the air, the scent of roasted garlic and wine filling her senses. Her pulse quickened with every step, and she found herself straightening the hem of her dress again, adjusting the strap on her shoulder, twisting the thin ring on her finger, anything to keep her hands busy, anything to keep herself from trembling outright.

And then she saw him.

Bucky Barnes sat at a small table near the window, the city’s glow outlining his frame like a painting. He was waiting, posture relaxed but alert in a way that felt ingrained, like his body never quite forgot to stand guard. His dark hair fell in soft waves around his face, shorter than in the photos she had glimpsed, but still enough to brush against his temple. And there, resting on the empty seat across from him, was a bouquet of red flowers. Vivid, rich, a contrast so bold it made her heart stutter.

For a moment, she just stood there, her breath caught. He wasn’t just handsome; he was striking, the kind of presence that demanded attention without asking for it. But there was something gentler, too. His gaze had drifted toward the window as if lost in thought, and the faint furrow of his brow made her wonder if he felt as nervous as she did.

Her throat tightened. God, Sam wasn’t kidding.

The hostess gestured subtly toward the table before slipping away, leaving Y/N rooted in place, her palms suddenly damp. She adjusted her dress one last time, fingers pressing against the smooth fabric as though it could anchor her. Another breath—steady in, shaky out—and she forced her feet to move.

Bucky must have sensed her presence, because he turned just as she approached, his blue eyes locking with hers. They were clearer, softer, than she expected, haunted, yes, but warm in a way that unraveled the knot in her chest. His lips curved into a tentative smile, uncertain yet genuine, and he rose to his feet in a gesture that felt both old-fashioned and entirely sincere.

“You must be Y/N,” he said, his voice low and rough-edged, but carrying something almost shy in its cadence.

Her lips parted, the words caught behind the thundering of her heartbeat. For a moment, all she could do was take in the way he looked at her—not like she was broken, not like she was someone’s leftover—but like she was someone worth standing up for.

She managed a small smile, though her nerves made it tremble. “That’s me,” she whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes flickered toward the flowers, and her chest constricted. “And those are for me?”

He glanced at the bouquet, almost sheepish now, and gave a small nod. “Yeah. Thought they might make a good first impression.”

The warmth that bloomed in her chest startled her. For the first time in months, maybe longer, she felt the corner of her mouth lift into something real. “Well...it’s working,” she admitted softly, and the words carried more truth than she meant to reveal.

As she slid into the seat across from him, she smoothed her dress again, more out of habit than nerves now. His gaze lingered on her just long enough to make her feel seen, truly seen, and for the first time in a year

The flowers had been taken by the hostess to be placed in water, leaving only the two of them at the table, a candle flickering between them. Y/N found herself tracing the rim of her glass with her fingertip, trying not to stare too hard at the man across from her.

“So…” she began, her voice thin, “this is the part where we pretend we’re not terrified, right?”

Bucky’s lips tugged into something close to a smirk, though it didn’t quite hide the nervousness in his eyes. “Pretend?” He tilted his head slightly. “I thought I was doing a pretty good job of hiding it.”

That startled a small laugh out of her, softer than she meant, and she bit her lip, embarrassed by how good it felt to laugh in his company. “You are. Mostly. The standing-up thing kind of gave you away.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging, “guess I’m old-fashioned. Sam teases me about it all the time.” His hand brushed the edge of the table, fingers flexing unconsciously. “Said I’d probably scare you off with all the gentleman stuff.”

Her brows lifted, genuine curiosity flickering in her expression. “Why would that scare me off?”

He paused, eyes flicking to hers then away again, as though weighing how much of himself to reveal. “Not a lot of people expect it anymore, I guess.” He gave a small shrug. “Or maybe I just overthink.”

Her heart softened at that. So Sam was right—he’s nervous too. “Well,” she said, her voice gentler now, “for what it’s worth, I like it. The flowers. The standing. The effort. I'm old fashioned too.”

Bucky’s gaze returned to hers, steady this time, and something warm flickered there. He nodded once, almost shyly, before reaching for his water.

Silence hovered for a beat too long, and Y/N found herself blurting, “So, um...do we do the small-talk thing now? Job, hobbies, favorite color?”

That earned a quiet chuckle from him, low and almost rusty, as if laughter wasn’t something he used often. “Small talk sounds safer than the alternative.”

“Alternative?”

“Sam said I should ‘just be myself,’” he said, making air quotes, “but I’m not sure that’s first-date material.”

She grinned, surprised by his honesty. “Well, I know Sam, so...I think I can handle it.”

His lips quirked, and he leaned back in his chair, studying her as though testing her resolve. “You’d be surprised what Sam thinks people can handle.”

Something about the way he said it wasn’t bitter, just dryly amused, and she found herself leaning forward, curious. “Try me.”

He hesitated, then shook his head with a faint laugh. “Maybe not on the first glass of water.”

The waiter appeared just in time with menus, breaking the intensity of the moment. Y/N exhaled slowly once they were gone, and for the first time that night, her nerves began to loosen their grip.

She glanced at him over the edge of the menu, the corners of her mouth curling slightly. “Favorite color, then. Safe enough?”

He tapped a finger against the table, thoughtful. “Red.”

Her brows arched. “Because of the flowers?”

He smiled faintly. “Maybe. Or maybe Sam just told me you’d look good in it.”

Heat bloomed in her cheeks, and she ducked her head with a laugh. “That sneaky bastard.”

The sound of her laughter seemed to catch Bucky off guard. He looked at her like it was something rare, something worth memorizing. And when he smiled, really smiled this time, it was softer, unguarded, and achingly human.

“You know,” she said, her voice steadier now, “I was..really nervous about this. About meeting you.”

“Me too,” he admitted quietly, his thumb tracing the condensation on his glass. “It’s been a long time since I’ve… done anything like this.”

“Blind dates?”

“Normal things.” His eyes flicked up to hers, searching. “Dinner with someone new. Trying to start over.”

The words hit her deeper than she expected, because weren’t they both doing exactly that? Starting over, in their own broken ways. Her chest tightened, but it wasn’t painful this time, it was something closer to recognition.

She let out a shaky breath and offered him a small, tentative smile. “Well...then I guess we’re both learning together.”

Bucky’s answering smile was slow, deliberate, like sunlight breaking through cloud cover. “Guess we are.”

Y/N set her menu down, the flicker of the candle catching her eye as she searched for something safe to say. “So,” she started, leaning her chin lightly on her hand, “Sam really set us up, huh? How do you even put up with him bossing you around like this?”

Bucky’s lips twitched, the faintest shadow of amusement softening his expression. “Wilson doesn’t boss me around. He...strongly suggests. With that smile that makes you feel like an idiot if you say no.”

Y/N laughed, nodding in agreement. “Oh, I know that smile. Trust me, it’s dangerous.” She toyed with the edge of her napkin before adding, “I actually met him years ago, though. Through Sarah.”

That caught Bucky’s attention. He leaned forward slightly, blue eyes sharpening with curiosity. “Sarah?”

“His sister,” she explained quickly. “We went to college together. She was the only one who didn’t make me feel like I was constantly drowning during finals. I practically lived at her dorm some semesters.” A nostalgic smile tugged at her lips. “When I met the rest of the Wilsons, it just...clicked. They’re the kind of family you can’t help but love.”

Something softened in Bucky’s face at that, as though the word family struck a tender chord. “Yeah,” he murmured. “They really are. They kind of took me in too. Didn’t matter that I didn’t really fit, or that I had...history. Sarah still made me feel like I was just some regular guy stopping by for dinner.”

Y/N’s chest tightened at the quiet honesty in his tone. “That sounds exactly like her,” she said softly. “She has this way of making you feel like you’ve always belonged, even when you’re just sitting at her kitchen table, drinking sweet tea and pretending you don’t hear Sam and the kids yelling outside.”

Bucky chuckled at that, the sound low but genuine. “Yeah. The yelling’s impossible to ignore. AJ and Cass drive him crazy sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” she teased. “Those two practically have a PhD in driving Sam insane.”

His smile widened, and Y/N felt a warmth unfurl in her chest at the sight. The heaviness she’d carried in with her felt a little lighter now, buoyed by the familiarity of shared stories.

“Guess that explains why Sam trusts you so much,” Bucky said after a pause. His gaze held hers, steady, searching. “If you’re close with Sarah, then you’re..basically family to him. That’s not something he gives away lightly.”

The words made her throat tighten unexpectedly. For so long, she’d felt unwanted, discarded—her ex-husband’s betrayal still an echo she couldn’t quite silence. But here was Bucky, saying it like it was a fact, something solid she could lean on.

“I think I needed to hear that tonight,” she admitted, her voice a whisper but steady.

Bucky’s hand twitched slightly against the table, as though he wanted to reach for hers but didn’t dare, not yet. Too desperate. Instead, his expression softened, quiet and sincere. “Then I’m glad you came.”

The night wore on more smoothly than Y/N had dared to hope. Once the first nervous edges wore down, the conversation blossomed into something surprisingly easy. They traded small stories over plates of roasted chicken and pasta, Bucky confessing with a grin how Sam once nearly tipped the boat over during repairs, Y/N laughing until she had tears in her eyes when she told him about Sarah sneaking her into the Wilson family reunions and pretending she was a cousin from out of town.

It was light, it was comfortable—like stepping into warmth after months of cold. For the first time in so long, Y/N felt her shoulders relax, felt laughter spill out of her without guilt chasing it down. And every time she caught Bucky’s gaze across the table, it was like he was silently telling her, See? You’re allowed to feel this again.

The plates were cleared, the candle had burned lower, and the hum of the restaurant had softened into the background. Their laughter slowed into quieter words, their conversation naturally turning toward quieter things—dreams, hopes, pieces of themselves they rarely said aloud.

“So,” Y/N said softly, swirling the last sip of wine in her glass, “if you could picture a future. Something just for yourself. What would it be?”

Bucky hesitated, his thumb brushing against the rim of his water glass. For a moment, his jaw tightened like the question was too heavy, too tender to touch. But then his gaze lifted to hers, steady and unflinching, and he spoke.

“I always thought I’d have kids,” he said simply. His voice was low, but certain, each word deliberate. “Not a lot of them, just...enough to fill a house with noise. I pictured a little backyard, maybe a dog running around. A place to come home to. A family.” His throat worked, and his gaze flickered down to his hand. “But life had other plans. Too much chaos. Too much blood. It never felt fair to dream about it. But it never really went away either.”

Y/N’s smile faltered. Her chest clenched tight, her heart aching at the quiet confession. There was no dramatics in his tone, no self-pity, just a longing so pure it hurt to hear.

She swallowed hard, looking away for the first time that night, her eyes catching on the restaurant’s warm lights, the couples leaning close in their booths, the fragments of happiness she’d spent a year convincing herself she didn’t need.

“That sounds...wonderful,” she whispered finally, her voice tight with the effort of control. She forced herself to turn back, her lips curving into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I always wanted the same. A family. Kids. A place where things are safe and steady. It was all I ever wanted, really.”

But the words snagged like glass in her throat, because the image that flashed in her mind wasn’t a dream—it was a memory of what she had lost, what had been stolen when her husband chose someone else, when he built the very life she had begged for with another woman.

Her smile wavered, the mask slipping for just a second, but she straightened quickly, forcing a light laugh, pushing her wine glass slightly away as though she were fine, perfectly fine. “But hey,” she added too brightly, “that’s everyone’s dream, right?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly, not unkind, but perceptive. He tilted his head, studying her with the same quiet intensity he had shown all evening.

“Not everyone,” he said carefully. His gaze lingered, as though he could see right past her fragile façade to the ache she was burying beneath her practiced words.

Y/N dropped her gaze to her hands, fiddling with the edge of her napkin, her throat tightening. She tried to smile again, tried to say something light to push the heaviness away, but the air between them had already shifted.

The dinner ended quietly after that shift in the air. The easy flow of laughter and stories that had carried them through the evening now ebbed into silences that stretched just a second too long. Y/N tried to smile through it, tried to match his small jokes with polite laughter, but the ache in her chest wouldn’t let her sink back into the comfort they had shared earlier.

When the check came, Bucky reached for it without hesitation. “Don’t even think about it,” he said with a firmness softened by a small smile. She opened her mouth to argue, but something in the way he held himself—the gentle insistence, the steady warmth in his gaze—stopped her. Instead, she simply lowered her hand back to her lap, watching as he slipped a couple of bills inside with quiet finality.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he cut in gently, folding the leather booklet and setting it aside. He said it in a way that left no room for debate, no room for her to chip away at the simple kindness he was offering.

Outside, the night air carried a chill that nipped at her skin, but it felt almost welcome after the heat of the restaurant. The city hummed around them—car horns in the distance, the muted conversations of strangers spilling onto sidewalks—but for a moment, it felt like they stood in their own little silence, the glow of the streetlamp painting Bucky’s features in shades of gold and shadow.

He shifted slightly, turning toward her with a hesitant smile. “I just want to say…” He paused, running a hand through his hair, clearly choosing his words carefully. “I really enjoyed tonight. More than I expected to, honestly.” His voice was soft, earnest, the kind of tone that came from someone who didn’t hand out compliments lightly.

Her stomach twisted painfully as she watched him reach into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small slip of paper and a pen. He scribbled quickly, then held it out to her with a crooked, almost shy smile. “Here. My number. No pressure, but… if you want to, maybe we could do this again. Or just… talk.” His blue eyes flickered to hers, full of hope he tried to play off as casual. “I think we should keep in touch.”

The paper hovered between them like a fragile thread, and for a heartbeat, Y/N almost reached for it. She almost let herself take that step, let herself believe she could allow someone like him into her bruised and battered world. But then, like a cruel whisper, she saw her ex-husband’s face in her mind again.

You know this is my dream. I'm sorry, I lov—

Her hand twitched, but she forced it back to her side. She lifted her gaze to him, and though her lips curved into a smile, it was thin, strained, an imitation of happiness rather than the real thing.

“Bucky…” Her voice cracked slightly, and she swallowed hard, forcing steadiness back into it. “You’re...you’re wonderful. Really. But I don’t think...we’re a match.”

The words landed heavy in the space between them. His expression faltered, the quiet hope dimming as though she had blown out a candle. He blinked, slowly, his brows pulling together just slightly. “What?”

She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, her fingers curling into her palms. “You deserve someone who..who’s ready for this. For you. And I’m not. I thought maybe I was, but..” Her throat tightened, and she forced another brittle smile. “It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, subtle but unmistakable. He lowered the slip of paper, his hand curling loosely around it again, though he didn’t tuck it away just yet. His voice, when it came, was low, almost rough. “You don’t think we’re a match, or you don’t think you’re allowed to try?”

The question cut sharper than she expected, and for a moment, she had no answer. She looked away, blinking quickly against the sting in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, the apology carrying more weight than the simple words could hold.

He inhaled slowly, as though grounding himself against the sting of rejection, then nodded once. The smile he gave her didn’t reach his eyes, and it looked wrong, like something he wore out of habit rather than sincerity. “Yeah. I get it.”

But the tightness in his shoulders, the way his gaze lingered on her like he was trying to memorize her before letting go, betrayed him.

For a moment, they just stood there under the streetlamp, the city moving around them while they stayed still, caught in the quiet wreckage of what almost could have been. And then, with a final glance that felt like both a promise and a goodbye, Bucky slid the slip of paper back into his pocket.

“Take care of yourself, Y/N,” he said softly, before turning away.

She watched him go, her chest aching with the weight of her choice, knowing it had hurt him, and knowing, deep down, it had hurt her too.

--

The next morning crept in with pale gray light filtering through the blinds, far too bright for how heavy Y/N felt inside. Sleep had been a restless thing, more like drifting in and out of shallow water than real rest. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him again. Bucky’s eyes soft and open across the table, the tentative hope in his smile when he held out his number, the flicker of hurt when she turned him down.

She had laced up her sneakers out of habit more than choice, dragging herself through a run that left her lungs burning and her legs aching but did little to untangle the knots in her chest. By the time she returned, sweat cooling uncomfortably against her skin, she felt heavier than when she started, not lighter. The air in her apartment was stale and quiet, suffocating in its stillness.

Dropping her keys on the counter, she toed off her shoes and peeled off her jacket, her movements automatic. She grabbed the mail from the small stack that had slipped through the slot during her run—bills, a catalog, an envelope with her ex-husband’s name still mistakenly printed alongside hers despite the divorce being finalized months ago. She shoved them onto the table with a sharp breath, unwilling to look too closely.

It wasn’t until she reached for her phone, half-buried under yesterday’s discarded hoodie, that she noticed the small red dot blinking at the corner of the screen. Voicemail. She hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen as dread coiled low in her stomach. Please don’t be him, she thought.

She tapped the notification.

“Y/N? It’s Sarah.”

Her heart sank at the sound of her friend’s voice—gentle, careful, so carefully wrapped in concern that it only made Y/N feel worse. Sarah’s words carried a hesitation that spoke louder than anything she actually said.

“I just...wanted to check in. I know Sam told me he set you up with Bucky last night, and I was really hoping it went well. He’s a good man, Y/N. A good one.” There was a pause, a small inhale as though Sarah was choosing her next words with delicate precision. “Sam said Bucky looked...upset when he came back. He wouldn’t say much, just that you didn’t think it was a match.”

Y/N sat down heavily at the edge of her couch, her damp hair sticking to the back of her neck. Her throat tightened as Sarah’s voice continued, warm but edged with a quiet confusion.

“I don’t want to push, but I need to ask… why? What happened?” Another pause. Softer now. “I know you’ve been hurting for so long, and I get it—I do. But Y/N, you deserve someone who sees you. And from the way Sam’s always talked about Bucky...I think he might.”

The silence that followed made the apartment seem even emptier. Then Sarah’s voice returned, lighter, almost forced into cheer. “Anyway, call me back when you can, okay? We’ll talk. Love you.”

The message ended with a quiet beep, leaving Y/N staring at her phone, the weight of Sarah’s words pressing hard against her chest.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her damp shirt clinging to her skin. Her hand pressed against her mouth as if to hold back the sob that threatened to rise, but the ache wouldn’t be silenced.

She had wanted it—the laughter, the warmth, the fragile spark of something new. She had wanted to take that slip of paper from his hand, to pocket his number like a secret hope she could hold onto in the dark.

--

The late afternoon sun shimmered on the water, its golden reflection rippling against the worn hull of the Wilson family boat. Y/N wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, smudging a streak of dust as she leaned against the railing. She had come over to help Sarah with the clean-up, convincing herself that manual work would quiet her mind. It hadn’t. Each scrape of rust, each bucket of water sloshed across the deck only gave her thoughts more room to echo.

Sarah crouched a few feet away, tugging at an old rope with stubborn determination. “So,” she said, her voice too casual to be anything but deliberate, “we never really circled back to… you know. That night with Bucky.”

Y/N froze, her hands tightening around the rag she had been using. She forced her eyes back to the deck, scrubbing at a stubborn patch of grime as if her life depended on it. “There’s nothing to circle back to,” she said lightly, though the wobble in her tone betrayed her. “It was a date. It didn’t work. End of story.”

Sarah straightened, bracing her hands on her hips, eyes narrowing. “You expect me to believe that? That’s it? You didn’t like him?”

“Yes,” Y/N snapped too quickly. “Exactly. I didn’t like him. There. Done.”

But Sarah didn’t budge. She crossed her arms, her gaze piercing, carrying all the weight of someone who had known Y/N too long to fall for her flimsy lies. “No. You did like him. I can tell. Hell, Sam could tell, and Sam’s oblivious to this stuff most of the time. You liked him, Y/N. You’re just scared.”

The words landed like stones in her chest, heavy and suffocating. Y/N’s heart lurched, her throat tightening as she scrubbed harder at the deck, her movements turning frantic. “Sarah, stop. I told you,it’s not happening. I don’t like Bucky, and I don’t want him. That’s final.” Her voice cracked, frustration bleeding into every syllable. She tossed the rag aside, chest heaving as she spun toward her friend. “Why can’t you just let it go?!”

The shout echoed across the docks, startling even the gulls perched on nearby posts. For a long second, all Y/N heard was the rush of her own pulse in her ears. And then—

A throat cleared. Low. Hesitant.

Her stomach dropped.

She turned, her body stiff with dread, and there they were—Sam and Bucky standing a few yards away at the end of the dock. Sam’s brows furrowed in confusion, his mouth half-open as if unsure whether to intervene. But it was Bucky her eyes landed on, and everything inside her stilled.

He stood frozen, his posture taut as a bowstring. The late sun caught on the edge of his metal arm, glinting sharp and cold, while his expression... God. His face wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t neutral either. It was that quiet, wounded look—the one that said he had heard more than he should have, that something fragile inside him had been cracked by the weight of her words.

Y/N’s throat burned as the silence stretched unbearably long, her hands trembling at her sides. Sarah shifted uneasily beside her, clearly realizing the storm she had just helped summon.

The awkward tension clung to the air like humidity, thick and suffocating. Y/N wanted to disappear, to rewind time, to swallow back the lie she had screamed. But it was too late. The words were out there now, ringing between them, cutting sharper than she had ever intended.

Y/N’s pulse hammered in her ears, but she forced herself to stand straighter, smoothing her hands down the sides of her dusty jeans as if she could brush away the crackling tension with the gesture. Her mouth went dry, her tongue heavy, but she somehow managed to shape her lips into what she prayed resembled a casual smile.

“Sam,” she greeted, her voice painfully bright, too high-pitched to be natural. “Bucky. Hey. Didn’t hear you guys walk up.”

Sarah gave her a look that could have cut through steel, but Y/N ignored it, stepping forward and brushing her palms together like she had simply been too focused on cleaning. She tried to meet Sam’s eyes, anchoring herself to his easy presence, but every fiber of her body was too aware of the man standing just behind him.

Sam gave her one of his long, suspicious stares, the kind where you knew he had clocked everything, but he played along, adjusting the strap of the toolbox slung over his shoulder. “Yeah, uh... we just got here. Thought we’d help Sarah out with the boat before it gets too late.”

“Perfect timing,” Sarah muttered under her breath, but Y/N elbowed her lightly, teeth clenched in a smile that was begging her to shut up.

Bucky hadn’t said a word.

She could feel him though, his presence heavy at the edge of her vision, silent but pressing in on her like the tide. Against her better judgment, she risked a glance past Sam’s shoulder.

Bucky was looking right at her.

His expression was unreadable. Like he wasn’t going to challenge her here, wasn’t going to demand the truth, but he also wasn’t pretending he hadn’t heard every syllable she’d thrown into the air moments before.

Her stomach knotted painfully, heat rising to her cheeks. She swallowed hard and snapped her gaze back to Sam, babbling the first thing that came to her lips. “So, uh..toolbox. You two gonna fix the railings, or just here for the moral support?”

Her words tumbled out too quickly, too forced, but Sam let out a low chuckle anyway, shaking his head. “Man, I forgot how much you talk when you’re nervous.”

Y/N’s laugh came out brittle, splintering at the edges. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, nodding as if she hadn’t just been caught in the middle of screaming a lie about the man now standing a few feet away.

“Right,” she said, her voice thin. “Well, let’s get to work then.”

But as she bent down to grab the bucket beside her, her eyes betrayed her again—darting one more time toward Bucky. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, but his gaze was still on her. Not angry. Not cold. Just...steady. Watching.

And somehow, that was worse than anything else.

The next half hour stretched like an eternity wrapped in salt air and creaking wood. The four of them worked in stilted silence, punctuated only by the scrape of metal tools, the slosh of water in buckets, and the occasional clang when Sam tightened a stubborn bolt too forcefully.

Y/N kept herself busy, crouching by Sarah’s side, scrubbing at the peeling paint along the lower deck. Her knees ached against the wood, but it was easier than turning around and risking another glance at Bucky. She could feel him behind her, sometimes passing tools to Sam, sometimes moving along the railing, his footsteps steady and unhurried. Every sound he made carved into her chest.

When she leaned closer to Sarah, her voice dropped into a frantic whisper. “I fucked up.”

Sarah didn’t even look at her, just kept scrubbing with methodical swipes. “Obviously, man.”

Y/N winced, dragging the brush harder than necessary across the chipped paint. “I didn’t think.”

“That much is clear.” Sarah’s tone wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t sugarcoated either. “Y/N, you screamed it. And now he knows. Hell, everyone knows.”

Y/N bit her lip until she tasted the faintest trace of copper. Her eyes burned, but she blinked rapidly, refusing to let the sting turn into anything more. “I wasn’t thinking straight. I just... panicked. And now—” She glanced over her shoulder despite herself, catching the broad line of Bucky’s back as he leaned against the railing, his sleeves pushed up, forearms taut as he worked alongside Sam. He looked collected. Too collected. Like someone who had already made peace with disappointment.

Her stomach twisted painfully. “God, I need to apologize,” she muttered under her breath. “But what do I even say? ‘Sorry I screamed to your best friend’s sister that I didn’t like you when I actually—’” She broke off, clapping her mouth shut before the confession spilled out.

Sarah snorted quietly, shaking her head. “Yeah, maybe don’t start with that.” She nudged Y/N’s shoulder with her own, still scrubbing. “Just be honest. He deserves at least that much.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her throat tight. Honesty. The very thing she’d run from for months now, terrified it would crack her wide open. She glanced again toward Bucky, but this time he shifted, his eyes flicking toward her for the briefest second before returning to his task.

Even that small glance unraveled something in her chest.

She ducked her head quickly, pretending to focus on the paint, but her hands shook, her brush dragging uneven streaks across the wood. The weight of the unsaid words pressed heavier and heavier against her ribs with every moment that passed.

--

The kitchen smelled of garlic and simmering tomatoes, the air warm and rich with the promise of dinner. Y/N stood at the counter with a knife in hand, slicing through vegetables with careful precision. The rhythmic sound of the blade against the cutting board was almost soothing—almost.

Her mind, however, was far away, scattered and restless. She wasn’t even really watching the carrots she was chopping until her gaze drifted past the window above the sink, drawn like a magnet to the sound of laughter outside.

There, in the yard, Bucky was crouched low, his metal arm gleaming under the waning sun as Cass and AJ clambered over him with delighted squeals. One boy tugged at his sleeve, another swung from his shoulder, and Bucky only laughed, catching them easily, spinning them both in circles before setting them back down. He was careful with them, impossibly gentle, his steel hand cradling AJ’s back as if it were made of glass.

Y/N’s lips curved before she realized it, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. But just as quickly, the warmth in her chest curdled into something heavy. Her smile slipped, replaced with that familiar ache that had rooted itself there for months. The sight of him—happy, unguarded, safe—was too much and not enough all at once.

Sarah, stirring a pot on the stove, noticed the shift immediately. She followed Y/N’s line of sight out the window, her brows raising slightly as she took in the scene. When she turned back to Y/N, her eyes softened, sharp with realization.

“You can’t tell me this is why,” Sarah said quietly, though her tone carried just enough weight to leave no room for dodging.

Y/N froze, her knife pausing mid-slice. Slowly, she lifted her eyes to Sarah, her face a canvas of sadness she hadn’t managed to paint over fast enough. She swallowed hard, her voice unsteady when it finally came. “During dinner, he told me how he wanted kids. A family. A big one.” Her throat tightened, and she glanced back at the window, where Bucky had just hoisted Cass onto his shoulders, both of them laughing freely. “And… I can’t, Sarah.”

The knife clattered onto the cutting board as her hand slipped, trembling. She pressed her palm flat against the counter, grounding herself, her gaze distant.

Sarah’s expression shifted, a mix of empathy and exasperation. She stepped closer, her voice low but firm. “Y/N, you can’t give up on yourself like this. You can’t give up on him like this. If that’s the truth, if it’s something you can’t give him, then you should’ve told him. Not lied. Not pushed him away before even giving him the chance to decide what he wants. You're being a little selfish here, it took Sam two weeks to make agree to a date because of who he is, and he actually liked you, he told me so. And you like him to, you'll never be happy if you continue to live in the past and let Theo ruin all of you chances.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched, her eyes stinging as she shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Y/N.”

“No.” The word came sharper than she intended, slicing through the steam and warmth of the kitchen. She set down the vegetables, wiping her hands on the dish towel with quick, jerky movements. “It’s done, Sarah. He wants one thing. I can’t give it. That’s it. End of story.”

Sarah studied her for a long moment, her lips pressed thin, but she didn’t press further. The pot bubbled softly on the stove, the only sound filling the silence between them.

Y/N turned back to the window once more, her chest tightening at the sight of Bucky’s smile, wide and unguarded, as the boys tackled him again. It was almost too much to bear.

And she hated herself for wishing that things could be different.

The Wilsons’ dining room was alive with the clatter of cutlery and the hum of conversation, the smell of roasted chicken and seasoned vegetables filling the air. The table was just big enough for six, though with Sarah at one end and Sam at the other, it felt smaller, tighter.

Y/N sat wedged between Sarah and AJ, her shoulders tense, her posture straighter than usual. Across from her sat Bucky, his metal arm glinting faintly in the light as he passed the breadbasket to Cass. He smiled easily at the boy, his voice low and warm as he teased him about taking the last roll. But when his gaze drifted, just for a flicker, and caught hers, making her stomach lurched.

She quickly looked down at her plate, spearing a piece of chicken she wasn’t really hungry for.

Conversation swirled around her, mostly between Sam and Sarah, with the boys chiming in between mouthfuls. They were loud, happy, a kind of noise that normally comforted her, but tonight every laugh and clink of a glass only seemed to underline how unnatural her silence was.

Bucky wasn’t much louder. He spoke when the boys asked him about his arm, flexing it with exaggerated flair to make them giggle. He murmured a few words to Sam, offering to help with a repair job next week. He even thanked Sarah warmly for dinner. But with Y/N, there was nothing. Not one direct word. Just those stolen glances—quick, unreadable, and enough to set her pulse racing in her throat.

Once, when she risked a glance up, she found him already looking at her. His expression was careful, unreadable, but his eyes lingered longer this time, enough to make her chest tighten. She dropped her gaze so quickly her fork scraped against her plate.

Sarah noticed. Of course she noticed. Her sisterly glance flicked between the two of them like a metronome, her lips twitching as if biting back the urge to say something pointed. Y/N sent her a warning glare beneath her lashes, silently begging her not to.

“Bucky,” Sam said suddenly, breaking through the thick quiet. “Tell AJ about that fishing trip last spring. The one where you almost fell overboard.”

“I did not almost fall overboard,” Bucky corrected, his mouth twitching with a rare smirk. “Your uncle’s just jealous because I caught more fish than him.”

That sparked laughter from the boys, and Sarah rolled her eyes at Sam’s exaggerated groan. For a moment, the tension eased, the table buzzing again with warmth. But as Y/N reached for her glass, she felt it, that pull, that weight, and when she looked up, Bucky’s eyes were there again, steady and unflinching.

Her hand trembled just enough to make the water ripple inside the glass. She sipped quickly, hiding behind it, her cheeks burning.

Dinner stretched on like that, smiles and chatter for everyone else, but under the surface, a taut wire pulled tight between the two of them, humming with everything unspoken.

Dinner ended in a clatter of plates and a chorus of voices, the boys scrambling from the table the second Sarah gave them permission. AJ and Cass bolted toward the living room, already arguing over which movie to put on, their laughter echoing down the hall.

Sam leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach with exaggerated satisfaction. “Now that was a meal,” he declared, earning himself an amused eye-roll from Sarah.

“Good,” Sarah said briskly, standing up with her plate. “Because you can help me with the dishes.”

Sam groaned. “Aw, come on, sis.”

“You eat in this house, you clean in this house,” she shot back, already stacking plates. Then, with the kind of nonchalant ease only she could pull off, she added, “Bucky, Y/N, why don’t you two clear the rest of the table? We’ll handle the sink.”

Y/N froze, her fork halfway to the stack. “Oh, I—”

But Sarah was already bustling toward the kitchen, balancing plates on one arm, herding Sam behind her with a sharp look when he tried to protest again. Within seconds, it was just Y/N and Bucky left at the table, the sudden quiet pressing in around them.

Y/N’s throat tightened. She gathered a few glasses, careful to avoid clinking them too loudly, her hands trembling slightly. She could feel him move across from her, his chair scraping against the floor as he stood. His presence loomed, steady, impossible to ignore.

“Here,” he murmured, reaching for the serving dish at the center. Their hands brushed, just barely, but it was enough to send a jolt racing through her arm. She withdrew quickly, clutching the glasses to her chest like a shield.

For a beat, neither of them spoke. The air between them was thick, heavy with everything unsaid. Y/N’s pulse hammered in her ears as she forced herself to move toward the kitchen doorway, desperate to escape the weight of his silence.

But then, from behind her, his voice came low, careful.

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

The words froze her mid-step. Slowly, she turned, the glasses still clutched in her hands. Bucky stood a few feet away, plates stacked in his grip, his expression calm but unreadable. His eyes, they were soft, almost unbearably so.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady on hers. “I heard what you said, Y/N. About... not liking me. About not being a match.” His jaw tightened just a fraction, like the words still stung even now. “But I don’t think that’s the truth.”

Y/N’s chest constricted. She opened her mouth again, but Sarah’s voice called from the kitchen before she could form a reply.

“Are you two planning to bring those dishes in today or what?”

--

A couple of weeks had passed since that dinner at Sarah’s house, since Bucky’s quiet words had lingered like a bruise against Y/N’s heart. That night, she had wrestled with herself, pacing her small apartment until the early hours of the morning. But Sarah’s voice had echoed in her head—You can’t give up on yourself. You should’ve been honest. And when she finally collapsed into bed, the thought that carried her into restless sleep was one of choice. She could choose to keep living half-alive in the shadows of her past, or she could choose to risk something new, something terrifyingly beautiful.

So, the next day, with trembling hands and a heart that wouldn’t stop racing, she had scribbled her number onto a slip of paper and left it on Sarah’s kitchen table before walking out. No explanations. Just a leap of faith.

Bucky had picked it up. And he had called.

From there, everything had shifted like the slow turning of the tide. They had gone on five dates since then—five moments of magic she had almost convinced herself she didn’t deserve. Each one had been wrapped in gestures that felt impossibly tender: the bouquet of flowers he always brought, never the same kind twice; the way he beat her to every door, refusing to let her lift a finger; the steady warmth of his hand at the small of her back as he pulled out her chair, waiting until she sat before taking his own seat.

At first, she had laughed nervously at the old-fashioned chivalry, teasing him about being a man out of time, but Bucky had only smiled, faint and earnest. “Maybe I am,” he had said. “But I like taking care of people I care about.”

And God, she was falling. She felt it in the way her stomach swooped whenever his blue eyes softened on her, in the way her cheeks ached from smiling by the end of every night they spent together. He made her laugh until her ribs hurt, made her forget, if only for a little while, about the fractures in her past that still ached when the world went quiet. He was gentle with her silences too, never pushing, never prying, just offering her steady company until she was ready to speak.

Y/N tried to push aside the doubts, tried to lock away the sharp sting of that night at dinner when he had confessed so casually, so wistfully, that he wanted a family of his own. She told herself not to think about it, not yet. One day, she knew, the conversation would have to happen. The truth would have to come out, and it might shatter everything.

But for now... for now, she let herself bask in it. The magic. The tenderness. The way he looked at her like she wasn’t broken, like she wasn’t a woman carrying the wreckage of a failed marriage and a hollowed-out dream.

For now, it felt like happiness. Fragile. Precious. Almost too much to hold.

And she couldn’t stop herself from wanting more.

It was their sixth date, and Bucky had insisted on taking her somewhere “simple but special.” No five-star restaurant, no candlelit table under dimmed chandeliers this time—just a little family-owned Italian place tucked away on a quiet corner, the kind of place you could smell before you even saw it, warm bread and basil drifting through the air like a promise.

Y/N had laughed when he’d led her there, teasing him for keeping it a secret. But when they stepped inside, with its checkered tablecloths, mismatched chairs, and the faint strains of Sinatra crooning from an old speaker in the corner, she felt her chest tighten with something almost painful. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was comfortable, familiar, intimate.

And that was Bucky.

He’d ordered for the both of them, confidently but not without asking her preferences first—no olives, extra garlic, red wine instead of white. He remembered, she realized, all the little things she’d mentioned in passing weeks ago.

Dinner had been easy, laughter spilling between them as naturally as the wine being poured into their glasses. He told her about a disastrous mission Sam had dragged him into, how he’d gotten stuck trying to wrangle a goat of all things. She nearly choked on her pasta when he mimicked the goat’s cry, his voice deep and indignant, and when she reached across the table to steady herself, her hand brushed his.

Neither of them pulled away.

It was in the little pauses that the weight of it hit her—the way he looked at her when she spoke, not just listening but hearing, his gaze steady, unflinching, like every word mattered. She wasn’t used to that. She wasn’t used to being seen without judgment, without comparison to what she once had or what she had lost.

At one point, she caught herself studying him while he twirled spaghetti onto his fork. The sharp line of his jaw, softened by the smile he wore when she teased him; the way his metal hand was so careful with the glass stem of his wine, as if he feared breaking it; the slight frown line that lingered between his brows, even in moments of peace. He was handsome, yes, almost unfairly so—but it was more than that. It was the kindness she kept finding tucked in the corners of his every gesture.

Halfway through dessert—a shared slice of tiramisu he insisted they split—he leaned back in his chair, arms folded, watching her with that soft expression that made her chest ache.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you laugh with your whole face. Not just your mouth. It’s... it’s nice.”

The words were simple, but they landed heavy. Compliments from her ex had always been sharp-edged, tangled with expectations. But Bucky’s voice carried no agenda, no demand. Just truth, bare and unadorned.

She looked down at her plate, suddenly shy, and tried to mask the tremble of her lips with a smile. “That’s probably the wine talking.”

“No.” His voice was firm, but gentle. She dared to meet his eyes again, and the sincerity there nearly undid her. “That’s me talking.”

Her breath caught, and for a moment, she let herself believe him. Let herself imagine that maybe this could last.

When he walked her to her door later that night, flowers once again in her hand, she asked him to stay for the first. Her heart beating fast against her ribs, but fought against it.

Both knew that the night was magical for both, their kisses seemed made for each other, and their bodies seemed like a puzzle they had been waiting to be complete.

Even after years of marriage, Y/N remembered thinking how someone could fullfill her so fast and so easy when she fought so hard for a man who dropped her in two minutes, during the worst time on her life.

The evening had begun like something out of a dream.

Sarah had insisted on hosting, and her kitchen had come alive with warmth: the clatter of dishes, the sizzle of garlic in olive oil, the hum of voices woven with bursts of laughter. Y/N had been tucked between Bucky and Sarah at the long wooden table, her cheeks warm from the wine and from Bucky’s arm brushing hers whenever he reached for something. She felt light—lighter than she had in a long, long time.

Sam told stories, Sarah teased him relentlessly, and even Bucky, who so often seemed guarded, was relaxed, smiling in that small, rare way that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. The food was incredible, the kind of meal that made everyone linger at the table long after the plates were empty, sipping wine and soaking in the moment.

When they finally decided to stretch their legs, the night was cool and gentle, the city humming softly around them. They walked in pairs, Sam and Sarah a few steps ahead, leaving Y/N and Bucky to fall naturally into stride together. He had his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, glancing at her with quiet amusement whenever she made some passing comment about the shop windows or the street musicians scattered along the sidewalks. It was easy, the kind of ease she’d once thought she’d never feel again.

And then, like a cruel twist of fate, it shattered.

The laughter from Sam’s joke was still lingering in the air when Y/N froze mid-step, her gaze snagging on the man across the street. She tried to look away, to will herself into blindness, but it was too late. His eyes had already met hers.

Theo.

Her ex-husband. The man she had once built her world around, only for him to shatter it piece by piece. He stood there, baby tucked securely in his arms, Ciarra, the woman who had once been nothing but a shadow in Y/N’s suspicions, by his side. They looked like the glossy picture of a life Y/N had once dared to dream for herself. And now, it belonged to them.

Theo’s face flickered with something, hesitation, maybe guilt, before he murmured something to Ciarra and crossed the street. Every step he took toward her stole the air from her lungs, left her limbs stiff, her body screaming no, no, no.

“Y/N,” he said softly when he reached her, his voice painfully familiar, laced with a calmness that felt like salt in an open wound. “Hey. I… I just wanted to say hi.”

She blinked at him, rooted in place, words locked tight in her throat.

“The last time we saw each other,” Theo continued, shifting the baby against his chest as if it were nothing, as if it hadn’t been the dream he had used to gut her, “was with the lawyers. It wa.. it was ugly. I don’t want that to be the last thing between us. I just—” He glanced down at the child, then back at her, his expression softening. “I just wanted you to know I wish you the best. Really. I found something with Ciarra that we... didn’t have. And, well, I always wanted children.”

The words struck her like physical blows. She felt her knees weaken, her throat tighten, her vision blur with the sting of tears she refused to let fall here, in front of him, in front of them.

Before she could even form a response, before she could stop herself from breaking in the middle of the street, Sarah’s voice cut through like a blade.

“Piss off, Theo.”

Theo startled, taken aback by the fury in Sarah’s tone. She had stepped forward, planting herself firmly between Y/N and her ex, her eyes blazing with the protective fire of someone who’d seen far too much of her friend’s pain.

“Who the hell do you think you are,” Sarah spat, her voice sharp enough to draw a few curious glances from passersby, “to just walk up like this? Like you didn’t destroy her? Like you didn’t throw everything away for your mistress and then parade it around with a goddamn baby in your arms? You think she needs this? You think she owes you this little... closure fantasy of yours?”

“Sarah,” Theo said quickly, almost pleading, “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Shut up. Just shut. Up.” Sarah’s voice shook, but her stance didn’t. “She doesn’t owe you a smile. Or forgiveness. Or even this conversation. So do her a favor, and walk away before I really lose my temper.”

Y/N stood frozen behind her, her fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms. Her lips trembled, her vision blurred, but she refused to crumble here. Not in front of Theo. Not in front of Ciarra. Not in front of Bucky. She bit back the sob clawing at her chest, trying to hold herself together as the moment stretched unbearably.

Theo’s gaze flickered over her, regret painted across his features, but he said nothing more. He adjusted the baby in his arms, glanced once at Ciarra waiting at the curb, and then turned, retreating back into the life he had chosen for himself.

And Y/N was left standing in the wreckage of her composure, her heart pounding, her throat tight with everything she wanted to scream but couldn’t.

“Sarah, come on, let's just go. Bye Theo, I'm very happy for you..”

--

Later that night, Y/N shut her apartment door behind her and leaned against it as if she could somehow hold herself upright with just the weight of the wood at her back. The silence of her home pressed in on her, deafening after the chaos of the evening. She kicked off her shoes, abandoned her purse on the floor, and stumbled toward the kitchen on autopilot, her fingers fumbling for the light switch.

Her reflection in the darkened window caught her off guard—eyes red, face pale, lips trembling despite her clenched jaw. She didn’t recognize herself. She looked like someone hollowed out, scraped raw.

For hours she had held herself together, playing her part as if nothing had happened, smiling when Sarah tried to pull her back into conversation, laughing faintly when Sam cracked another joke, keeping her gaze carefully away from Bucky’s steady blue eyes. He had seen too much, she knew, he always did, but she couldn’t bear to crumble in front of them all.

So she had waited. Waited until the night closed around her. Waited until the walls could hold her secrets. And then, when there was nothing left but the silence and the memory of Theo’s voice, she broke.

The sob tore out of her like it had been clawing at her ribs for years, and once it began, there was no stopping it. She sank onto the kitchen floor, knees pulled to her chest, fingers gripping the fabric of her dress as if she could anchor herself against the flood. Tears streamed hot and unrelenting down her cheeks, her breath hitching, the ache of betrayal and loss and fear bleeding into every sound that ripped from her throat.

She didn’t hear the knock at first. Or the second. It was only when her phone buzzed against the counter, Bucky’s name lighting up the screen, that she realized someone was at her door.

“Y/N,” came his voice, muffled through the wood. “It’s me.”

Her heart clenched. She swiped at her face, tried to still the sobs, but her body wouldn’t obey. She staggered to her feet, each step toward the door heavier than the last. When she opened it, Bucky stood there, framed by the dim glow of the hallway light.

His expression softened the moment he saw her. No surprise, no judgment, just quiet, aching concern. He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to. Instead, he stepped forward, his hands hovering until she gave the faintest nod, and then he pulled her against him.

Y/N collapsed into his chest, her sobs muffled against the fabric of his shirt. His arms were strong and steady, one flesh, one metal, both holding her like she might shatter if he loosened his grip. He murmured something she couldn’t quite catch, low and soothing, not words so much as comfort woven into sound.

“I can’t—” she finally choked out, her voice hoarse, broken. “I can’t give you what you want, Bucky. I can’t... I can’t be her. I can’t give you kids, a family. I’m not enough.”

He stilled, and for a heartbeat she thought he might let go. But then his hold only tightened, his voice firm in her ear.

“Don’t you ever say you’re not enough.”

Her sobs shook harder at the conviction in his tone.

“You hear me, honey?” he whispered, leaning back just enough to look at her, his thumb brushing away a tear with unbearable tenderness. “You are enough. You’re more than enough. Whatever you can or can’t give me, it doesn’t change what I feel. It doesn’t change what I want. You!”

The words pierced through her despair, fragile hope flickering in her chest even as fear coiled tight around it.

Her sobs hadn’t slowed, even in Bucky’s arms. If anything, his gentleness only made them worse, because it cracked something in her chest that she had welded shut with silence for far too long. She clung to him like she might drown without the anchor of his arms, and when she finally found her voice, it tore out raw, jagged, broken.

“How—” she choked, words catching in her throat, “how can I believe you, Bucky? How can I believe that I’m enough for you when I know what you want? When I know what you deserve?”

“Y/N” His voice was low, pained, but she shook her head violently against his chest.

“No, you don’t understand,” she cried, the words tumbling out faster, heavier, like a dam finally giving way. “I dreamed of it too. I wanted to be a mom more than anything. I wanted the house, the family, the stupid Saturday mornings with cartoons and sticky pancakes. And every time I go to Sarah’s, every time I see her with her kids, and it just...it breaks me all over again. Because that was supposed to be me, Bucky. That was supposed to be my life.”

Her body shook with sobs, the memory clawing up her throat, sharp and merciless. “Theo and I...we were supposed to have a baby. A little girl. Thirty-six weeks, Bucky. Thirty-six weeks, I carried her, I loved her, I talked to her like she was already here. And then” Her voice cracked, splintering into pieces. “And then she just...she died. No reason. No explanation. One day she was there, and the next she wasn’t.”

She pressed her fists against her eyes, as if she could rub out the memory, but the images only burned hotter behind her lids. “I had to give birth to her. I held her in my arms and she was already gone. And then the doctors told me that because of the complications, I can’t..” Her voice faltered into a whisper. “I can’t ever have children. Not now. Not ever.”

Bucky’s arms had stilled, his breath caught sharp, but she kept going, as if she had to spit out every shard of grief before it swallowed her whole.

“And Theo” her voice broke on his name, bitter and ragged“Theo couldn’t handle it. He couldn’t handle me. I was drowning in depression, and instead of helping me out, he found someone else. Someone who could give him the family I couldn’t. And when Ciarra got pregnant, he told me everything. Just like that. Like I was disposable. Like I was broken goods.”

Her sobs shook her so violently she almost collapsed, but Bucky’s arms tightened, holding her up.

“So tell me,” she whispered through the tears, pulling back just enough to look up at him, her face streaked and raw, “how can I trust you with a future when I know the one thing you want is the one thing I can’t give you? How can I let myself believe in you when I’ll never be enough?”

The room went still.

Bucky’s jaw was tight, his blue eyes glassy, as if her words had cut through him deeper than any knife ever had. He swallowed hard, his throat working, his hand trembling as he brushed away a tear from her cheek.

“Jesus, doll,” he murmured, voice thick, raw with emotion. “I… I didn’t know. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through.” His thumb lingered against her skin, his hand warm despite its faint tremor. “But listen to me. Don’t you ever say you’re not enough. Not to me.”

Her chest heaved, desperate, fragile. “But..”

“No.” His tone was firm, but not unkind. He cupped her face in both hands, forcing her eyes to meet his. His gaze was steady, fierce, aching with conviction. “I wanted a family, yeah. I dreamed of it because I never had it. But what I want more than anything, more than kids, more than some picture-perfect life, is you. Do you understand me? You. Right here. Right now. You are not broken. You are not less. You are everything I never thought I’d find, and I don’t give a damn if it looks different than I once imagined.”

Her lips trembled, fresh tears streaming. “But what if I can’t give you the life you deserve?”

Bucky leaned closer, pressing his forehead gently against hers, his breath warm, steady, grounding. “Then we make a new one. Together. One that’s ours, not anyone else’s. I don’t care if it doesn’t look like Sam’s, or Sarah’s, or.. that idiot who didn't deserved you in the slightest. I care about you. That’s it. We will make it work.”

The words lodged deep in her chest, warring with the years of grief and guilt that had convinced her otherwise. She let out a shuddering sob, closing her eyes as his arms wrapped around her again, his hold unrelenting, as if daring her to believe him, daring her to stay.

--

The first thing Y/N noticed when she woke was the smell. Warm, buttery, familiar. It tugged her gently out of sleep, softening the heaviness in her chest that lingered from the night before. She blinked against the pale light spilling through her curtains, her body curled in the same position she’d collapsed into hours ago, cheek pressed to the pillow, the faint outline of dried tears still tight against her skin.

For a moment, panic stirred. Had she really told him everything? Had she really broken open that way in front of Bucky Barnes?

Then came the second thing she noticed. The quiet clatter of pans from the kitchen. The low hum of a voice, his voice, half-singing, half-muttering to himself.

He was still here.

Her throat tightened at the realization. He hadn’t left in the middle of the night. He hadn’t recoiled from the weight of her confession. He was here.

Dragging herself from bed, she padded barefoot to the kitchen, tugging the hem of her shirt lower. And there he was, framed by the morning light: hair a little mussed from sleep, sleeves pushed to his elbows, standing at her stove like he’d done it a hundred times before. His vibranium arm caught the sun as he flipped something in the pan with careful precision, his other hand steadying the spatula.

On the counter, a pot of coffee steamed, two mugs waiting. Beside them, a small bouquet of daisies—fresh, simple, clearly bought that morning.

“Hey, honey,” he said without turning, as if he’d sensed her long before she stepped into the room. “Hope you don’t mind I invaded your kitchen. Figured you could use something to eat.”

Her lips trembled around the words, but she managed a small, shaky smile. “You cook?”

“Debatable,” he said with a smirk, finally glancing at her. “But I can manage eggs without burning the place down.”

The sight of him there, so casual, so present, made her chest ache in the best and worst way. It was such an ordinary scene, domestic, quiet, and yet it was something she hadn’t dared let herself imagine in years.

Breakfast was simple. Eggs, toast, coffee. Nothing extravagant. But the care behind it made it taste like the most thoughtful meal she’d ever had. He didn’t push her to talk; instead, he filled the silence with little stories about Sam’s terrible attempts at fixing Redwing, about a neighbor who’d gifted him zucchini bread and how he’d eaten the whole loaf in one sitting. He made her laugh, soft and hesitant at first, then freer, looser, until her ribs ached in a way that wasn’t painful but alive.

Later, when the plates were cleared and the sun was higher in the sky, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady on her. There was no pressure in it, but something unspoken passed between them: it was time.

“Y/N,” he said gently, “last night... what you told me. I need you to know. I meant every word I said. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her throat tightened. She toyed with the rim of her mug, eyes lowered. “But what about the future, Bucky? You said you wanted kids. A family. That’s not something I can give you.”

He reached across the table, covering her hand with his. His palm was warm, grounding. “Who says that’s the only way? Families don’t just happen one way. We could adopt. Foster. Hell, we could fill a house with cats if we wanted.” His mouth tugged into a half-smile, but his eyes stayed serious. “The point is.. I don’t need biological kids to be happy. I need you. And whatever we build together, whatever it looks like, that’s what I want.”

Her eyes finally lifted to his, shimmering. “But what if I’m too broken for all of that? What if I ruin it somehow?”

His hand tightened around hers. “You’re not broken. You’re human. You’ve been hurt. You’ve carried more than anyone should have to. But that doesn’t make you less, it makes you strong. And if you stumble, if you fall apart sometimes.. then I’ll be there. That’s what this is. It’s about choosing each other, every day.”

Tears welled again, but this time they weren’t jagged with grief—they were soft, warm, edged with something she hadn’t dared feel in so long. Hope.

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his, her voice a whisper. “You really mean that?”

Bucky’s smile was small but certain. “With everything I’ve got.” Kissing her forehead, letting his lips press on her skin, “Also you kinda own me, I still got my heart broken by going on the best date of my life and the girl rejected me like twice...one she even yelled it to the word.”

The metal walls around you are sweating condensation from the cold outside. The air is astringent, reeking faintly of antiseptic, like adrenaline that hasn’t finished leaving the bloodstream.

You feel the constant noise of the quinjet in your teeth more than your ears. You can taste metal on your tongue, like pennies thrown into your mouth, and every inhale chatters against the soreness layering behind your ribs.

Sam is cracking some joke in the corner and Natasha’s smirk is sharp enough to slice the tension in half, but no one laughs too loud. Everyone’s voice is dipped in that tired kind of calm, the one you only wear after the gunfire stops but before the bruises bloom.

You shift in your seat. The fabric of your suit still smells faintly of smoke, of something burnt. There’s a line of fire along your side where the bullet carved skin but not life, a neat little warning branded into you. The medkit says it’s fine. You say it’s fine.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

He is sitting across from you, three feet away. Or maybe it’s three miles. Hard to tell with the emotional distance between you that just continues to stretch.

He is hunched over with an elbow braced on his knee, flesh hand covering his mouth as if he’s holding his jaw in place. His steely eyes are fixed on the floor as though there are answers written in the rivets. You want to tell him you’re fine, really fine, better than fine because you’re alive and so is he, but the words get blocked in your throat, too clumsy, too simple for what happened.

His head does not once lift off the floor. Not even to glance at you.

And maybe you should be grateful. Because if he looked at you, if he head-on looked at you, you’re not sure if he’d scream or shatter.

Natasha eyes you from across the cabin, quickly, as though she is measuring the damage and cataloguing your foolishness all in one glance. It makes you sit up straighter even when your body tries to collapse in exhaustion. Her gaze snaps once toward the man in front of you, the one who hasn’t said a single thing since you boarded.

He is sitting so still. His jaw is locked, rigid, a muscle ticking like the echo of gunfire he can’t outrun. He doesn’t even move when a turbulence shivers through the jet. He is galaxies away, orbiting his own fury.

Tony tosses a protein bar at you. It lands in your lap. “Eat. You look like a corpse cosplaying as a superhero,” he says.

You roll your eyes, peel back the wrapper. The sugar tastes too sweet. Too human. Your tongue rebels, but you chew anyway.

“It’s just a scratch,” you state, casual, careless.

A chorus of scoffs follows. Familiar. Frustrated. Almost affectionate.

But not him.

Not Bucky.

He is still silent. Still folded into himself, hands clasped tightly, flesh knuckles white. There is a tremor running up his arm. The sound of leather groans under the strain of his grip.

You know he isn’t ignoring you. He is holding himself together with threads that are fraying by the second.

“A scratch is a papercut,” Sam pipes up, scoff in his voice. “That was a bullet, sugar.”

“She’s walking. That’s a win,” Clint muses, throwing you an encouraging smile you try your best to reciprocate. But you can’t force your gaze away from Bucky for too long.

He doesn’t flinch when Sam talks, doesn’t respond to Clint, doesn’t rise to Tony’s jab. He sits there with his hands curled too tight, a silent sermon of outrage and fear. You watch as he presses his trembling fingers hard into his thigh as if to ground himself here, now, instead of where his mind is replaying the scene.

You want to reach for him. You want to link your hand with his, take him into your arms, and tell him that you would do it again, ten times over, a hundred, because the thought of him falling while you stood still is unbearable. But the words feel heavy in your chest, and his silence is heavier still.

Steve’s gaze switches between you and Bucky. It lingers on him a fraction longer. Like he knows. Like he always knows. But he doesn’t say anything either.

You can feel Bucky growing roots in the corner. The air between you is threaded too tight, pulling every breath thinner. He’s trapped inside his head, and you’re the one who put him there.

Not the bullet. Not the shooter. You.

You think about the moment again - how fast you moved, how instinct overtook thought, how your body was already in front of his before you even realized what you were doing. The sting. The heat. His face, right after. The kind of pale dread that makes time stop.

And now this.

Natasha leans back in her seat, eyes half-closed, but she’s watching. Always watching. “The scar will look hot on you,” she says casually, like she’s talking about what food you’re going to order when you’re back.

Someone chuckles. Maybe Clint. Maybe Sam. You don’t catch it.

Because Bucky finally looks up.

Just for a second.

And he is not fixed on the others, but finally, finally on you.

And it’s too much. The devastation. The terror. The rage building dark and boiling behind his pupils.

His eyes are not gentle. They are not soft. They are not melting the way they usually do when he looks at you. They are wild and desperate and hurt. A thousand words bitten down to silence.

And you know.

You know the fight is already waiting for you on the other side of the quinjet door.

Because it‘s all there. The way he is replaying the moment in his mind, the way he saw you step in front of him, the way you flinched when the bullet kissed your side. He is watching it again, again, again. A loop he cannot find his way out of.

And you are left wishing you could reach inside his skull and silence the reel.

But for now, he just sits there, broken and furious and so impossibly quiet.

The quinjet tilts. It lowers almost in a reluctant way, as if it doesn’t want to come back down to earth. There is that gradual drop in your stomach, the kind that says home is near. The kind that says everything dangerous is technically over, but not really.

The engines whine softer, softer still, until the rumble becomes a heartbeat underfoot. The floor vibrates through your boots in a way that feels almost human - like the jet is alive and exhausted and glad the night is nearly over.

The others unbuckle in a choreography you know too well. Tony first, impatient, muttering something about a hot shower and an ice-cold drink. Clint following, stretching like his spine is a bowstring. Sam trailing after him with clipped movements, the kind of gestures people make when they are trying not to look at what actually bothers them. He gives Bucky one last glance, and it’s a glance you feel, something unspoken between them. But Bucky doesn’t even seem to notice. Or care.

Natasha stands too, graceful as always, rolling her shoulders, and she lets her hand brush your shoulder as she passes. You can’t make out the intention behind the move, but you hope it’s meant for comfort, because that’s what you need right now.

Steve lingers. Of course he does. One hand gripping the edge of a seat as though he’s not sure if he should play mediator or ghost. His eyes swap between the two of you again - Bucky’s still form, your restless hands. He looks at you with that kind of concern you never ask for, but he’s been alive long enough to recognize when not to push. So he just sighs, presses his lips together, and finally goes. The sound of his boots fades down the ramp.

And then it’s just you. And him.

The silence with the others gone is too large, a silence with elbows and knees that bruise if you bump into it.

You don’t even hear him breathe, but you see the way his chest heaves unevenly.

He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. He still sits hunched forward, elbows on his thighs, flesh hand dragging across his jaw. His metal hand stays clenched, the dull silver gleaming under the overhead lights. But they are dimmer now.

You swallow against the knot in your throat. Try his name once, softly. “Bucky.”

Nothing.

Not even a twitch. He’s carved himself into stone across from you, shoulders rigid, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the floor like it’s the only thing keeping him from spinning off the planet.

You wait. You give him a moment. Two. A whole eternity stretched wide.

Still nothing.

He doesn’t breathe differently, doesn’t blink in your direction. He is an unmoving photograph, locked in grayscale.

The pain in your chest sharpens. You sigh, a sound heavier than you want it to be, and push yourself upright slowly. The motion makes the cabin shift beneath your feet, your body pulling against gravity like it doesn’t quite know not to fight against it. The wound pulls at your side when you straighten, and you wince, but it’s nothing compared to the way he won’t look at you.

You take a step, just one, because you don’t know where you’re supposed to go when the space between you is so wide and so small all at once.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

His voice. Rough. A scrape of gravel across the floor. The question is a demand, a plea, an accusation. All three at once.

It stops you cold.

You turn, and there he is - finally looking at you. Not blank. Not silent. Alive with fury that isn’t really fury at all, that’s shaking, ripping, cracking open. His hands are fists, his chest is rising too fast.

He’s looking at you and it feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with no railing. His eyes are sharp, wild, too wide, and too wet. And you are the storm he’s trying to survive.

And suddenly the fight you’ve been tiptoeing around is no longer waiting. It’s here.

Bucky leans forward. Blue eyes darker than usual, fractured into pieces you can’t put back together. Not just like that. He stares at you as though you’re both the answer and the problem, as if you have stolen something from him and he doesn’t know how to take it back.

You blink, say his name like it might put the fire out. “Bucky-”

But the match has already struck.

He’s already shaking his head, not giving you room to start, to soften it, to explain. His hand scrapes down his face again, metal fingers clinking against his stubble. He looks wrecked. He looks furious. He looks like someone who just crawled out of a nightmare and hasn’t realized he’s awake.

“No. Don’t” His tone cracks. His voice is hoarse, low and harsh. Ashes in his throat. And he keeps shaking his head as if to shove away the memory. “Don’t even- don’t give me some bullshit answer. Don’t tell me you’re fine. Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter.” His fists are shaking on his thighs. “Do you even get what you did?” His voice is rough, wearing thin. “You just- you jumped in front of me. You took a bullet that was meant for me.” He laughs, but it’s not a sound of joy or anything like it. “Do you even hear how fucking insane that is?”

You straighten your shoulders, though you can feel the sting at your side where the bandage presses too tight. “It barely grazed me.”

He is on his feet before you realize it, breath ragged, chest heaving. The shadows under his eyes are bruised with exhaustion and fear, but his fury is louder than either. “That’s not the point.” His voice cracks, then hardens. “That’s not- Jesus, you don’t get it.”

You cross your arms, defensiveness piercing your chest. Your throat is dry. You try again, softer, but it comes out sharper than you mean. “I didn't think, okay? I-”

“Yeah, that’s the fucking problem.” The snap in his voice is loud enough to echo against the metal walls, then it collapses into something quieter, more vulnerable. “You didn’t think. You didn’t even give me the chance.”

The quinjet might as well be a cathedral now - all cold metal and echoes and saints made of anguish.

Your pulse is in your ears. Your side is throbbing. Your mouth is full of rust. You meet his eyes, and wish you hadn’t.

Because Bucky isn’t just angry. He’s wrecked.

“I was supposed to protect you,” he grounds out. Quiet now. Barely above a whisper. “That’s the deal. That’s always been the deal.”

His voice folds around the words as if they’re used to having a meaning. As if they’re vows etched into his bones.

“You don’t get to just- just take it for me, doll.” The petname is a tremble. Like it hurts to say. He always uses so many pet names when you’re caught in an argument. It’s as if he tries to remind himself every single time that he still gets to call you that. Gets to call you his. That he hasn’t lost you just yet. But a fight between the two of you never escalated the way it seems to be doing now.

And then he moves - too fast - pacing like a storm in a cage.

One hand scrapes through his hair, the other clenches so tight you hear the metal whine.

“You don’t get it,” he says again, voice breaking in the middle. “You don’t get what it did to me- watching you go down. Watching you bleed. Watching you-” He swallows it. Chokes it back. “I couldn’t even move. I couldn’t breathe.”

You’re shaking now. You didn’t mean for this to hurt him. Didn’t mean to tear open every stitch he’s sewn shut. But this fight is different. This one is real. This one cuts somewhere neither of you knows how to bandage.

“You always do this,” he mutters. “You always- throw yourself in front of the fire. God, baby, it drives me up the wall.” His voice climbs higher.

You feel like a child again, being scolded for touching the stove, for chasing puddles, for running into traffic, and saying you were chasing the moon.

You want to be calm. Rational. You want to explain that it wasn’t a choice, that it was instinct. But frustration rises inside you, choking. “What was I supposed to do, Bucky? Just watch you get shot?”

He turns to you, eyes slashed open, burning wild. “Yes! Damn it- yes. You should’ve let me take it. I can take it. I’ve taken worse. A bullet wouldn’t have done a damn thing to me.”

Your throat goes hot. “And if it was worse?” Your words spill too fast, too brittle, louder now. “What if it wasn’t just your arm, or your shoulder, or wherever the hell you think you can take it? What then?”

“You think I can’t handle a gunshot?” His laugh is bitter, hollow, empty. “Do you have any idea how many times- how many times I’ve been shot? I would’ve walked it off. But you-” He gestures at you, wild, helpless. “You can’t. You’re not-”

“I’m not what? Not you? Not indestructible?” You hear the bite in your own voice and hate yourself for it, but you don’t stop. “I know I’m not you. But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to sit back and let you get torn apart in front of me.”

“I can take it,” he snaps, desperate now, his eyes piercing and locking on yours like if he stares hard enough you’ll finally understand. “That’s the difference. I can take it.”

The words hit harder than the bullet did. Heat burns your throat. The anger sparks before the hurt has even settled. “Wow.” Your laugh is bitter, breathless. “So that’s what you think of me? That I’m some fragile little liability on the field?”

He shakes his head instantly, quick, desperate. “That’s not- doll, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” The question tears out of you, hurt and harsh. “Because all I’m hearing is that you’re built to take it and I’m not. That I’m- what- breakable? Fragile? Disposable?”

“No, baby, that’s not-” His voice stumbles, rough edges colliding. “That’s not what I’m saying.” With a groan, he drags his hands down his face, flesh and metal both. “I’m saying I can take it better than you can, and you damn well know it.”

You freeze. The room tilts a little. His words slice in ways he didn’t intend, but the cut is real all the same. You can feel the wound at your side throbbing, sharper under your anger. “Look, I know I’m not some special kind of superhero, okay? I don’t have powers, I don’t have some serum running through my veins, and there is nothing explicitly great about me, but don’t stand there and tell me I can’t handle a goddamn graze, Bucky! I’ve had worse.”

His shoulders tense, his whole frame falling inward.

“God, that’s not-” His voice rasps like something splintering under pressure. Then it hardens again, lashing out in panic disguised as fury. “That’s- I don’t-” It falters mid-breath as though his lungs don’t want to carry the weight of the sentence. He catches himself with a fist clenched too tight and a jaw that looks like it’s been grinding down a scream. When he speaks again, it’s serrated and sharpened anguish. “I know you’re strong, baby.” His voice is worn. Throaty. “Stronger than anyone gives you credit for, hell, stronger than me most days. But this- this isn’t about that.” His breath cuts short, chest shuddering, and he looks at you with eyes that are all storm, no shore. “This is about-” He stops. Stutters. “You could’ve-” The word wilts on his tongue. He swallows profusely, like it burns going down. A tremor rushes through him. He rakes his hand through his hair, breath half-held, whole body trembling like he’s standing barefoot in a blizzard. “You could’ve died, doll.” The words crack like ice. “And you don’t even-”

You step forward, something molten rising up your throat. “But I didn’t.” You throw your arms out, as if to show him the whole inventory of your body, bruises and all. “I’m fine, Bucky. Look at me.”

“Fine?” He spits the word as if it tastes like blood. His voice lifts again, strong with desperation he can’t mask. And then his metal hand slams into the armrest of the seat beside him with a violent clatter, the sound a boom in the belly of the quinjet. The chair jerks sideways, bolts groaning in protest. “You call that fine?” His voice is scraped raw from the inside out. “Sweetheart, you’re bleeding under that damn bandage and you almost didn’t-” His words collapse on themselves. He breathes like he’s chasing oxygen that won’t stay in his lungs. He is visibly fighting the tremor in his throat.

Silence. A silence that isn’t really silence, because his breathing is jagged and your pulse is thunder in your ears.

You want to tell him you acted on instinct. You want to tell him that it wasn’t a decision. That your body just moved when it saw him in danger. That fear has a language all its own and yours always spells save him. That the image of him falling, broken, is worse than any pain you could imagine.

But he’s looking at you like you pulled the trigger yourself. Like you opened your chest and aimed the bullet at your own ribs just to punish him. Just to rip the ground out from under him.

You glance down at the torn fabric, the dried blood that crusts around the bandage. “I’m handling it, okay?” you tell him, and your voice is strained, stretching thin against the silence. “It’s not a big deal.”

The sound he releases is a scar, twisted and hollow and painful to hear. “Not a big deal?” he echoes, voice incredulous and so, so wounded. “You could’ve been dead. Do you get that? Do you understand what that means? One inch deeper, one second slower, and I’m holding your body instead of your hand.”

The silence after that feels too big, too swollen to hold.

Your arms wind around yourself, because his words keep finding the softest parts of you and keep pressing down. You exhale and it hurts to let go of the air.

He looks away, hands on his hips, head bowed as though he’s just emptied himself out. His shoulders rise and fall in numbed, uneven lines.

“Can’t you see what it does to me, Bucky?” you whisper, the words hitching in your throat. Splintering with weariness. “Watching you go headfirst into danger every goddamn time? It kills me, Bucky. It kills me to picture you not coming back.”

He scoffs. Rough. Dismantling. The sound of something breaking. His hand flies out, gesturing wide, as though the whole world is a mess he can’t control and he’s trying to hurl it away. “That’s different!”

“No, it’s not!” you shout, heat boiling in your chest, heart hammering. You step closer, refusing the distance he’s trying to put between you. “Why is it different? Because you’ve been through hell? Because you’ve survived it before? That doesn’t mean it should always be you taking the fall. You can’t expect me to always just stand behind you while you get hit.”

“If it keeps you alive,” he says, voice low and lethal, “then yeah. That’s exactly what I want. That’s exactly what you’re going to do.” The words are a blow. But you don’t flinch. You fire back.

Anger tears through the cracks of your ribs. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I do when your life’s on the line!” His voice booms, ricocheting off the metal walls as though looking for a way out. His body is shaking. He is pacing again, shoulders rigid, breath stormy. His hands are firecrackers, bursting through the air, erratic. “It’s not noble, throwing yourself in front of me like that. It’s not- it’s reckless. It’s fucking reckless. You don’t get to make that call, not when I-” He stops, swallows audibly, shakes his head as though he is choking on the words. His fists are clenched at his sides.

Your side pains, wound burning hotter, but the fury blinds you to it. You throw his words back at him, icy and fast. “Don’t talk to me about reckless,” you snarl. “You’ve thrown yourself into worse for all of us. You don’t hesitate when it’s your body on the line. But the second it’s mine, suddenly it’s a crime?”

He turns so fast it shakes the air. His head snaps toward you, eyes blazing. Searing. Sorrowful. Fury and devastation are wrapped so tight you can’t tell them apart. He takes a step toward you, and then another, until there’s barely air between you.

His voice drops, rough and shaking and dangerous. “You don’t get it. You don’t get what it felt like- seeing you drop, seeing blood on you because of me.” He closes the last distance between you in two quick strides. His eyes are oceans mid-tempest. “You were on the ground, and I swear to God, I stopped breathing. I saw you hit the floor and I thought- this is it. This is the moment I lose her. And if that happens- if you’re gone- if I lose you-” He bites down hard. You see the pain stretch across his face like glass cracking under pressure. “I’m done,” he breathes. “You hear me? Done.” His voice is gravel and grief. “There’s no coming back from that.”

Your chest caves in, slowly, painfully. But your voice rises anyway. “And what if I feel the same?”

He freezes.

“What if I can’t survive watching you die? What if I’d rather take that bullet every time than live in a world without you?”

His face breaks, and for a second you think he’s going to fall apart. Say something raw and unfixable.

But then he turns away. Fast. Hands in his hair. His metal fist curls, clenches, presses against his mouth like he’s trying to stifle the sound coming out of him - a noise you’ve never heard before.

It’s not rage. It’s not grief. It’s terror. Strangled and trembling.

The sound makes your wound flare, a hot, twisting pain, but you bite down on it, refuse to wince. Refuse to show him one ounce of weakness.

“It’s not the same,” he grits out through harshly clenched teeth.

“Yes, it is,“ you shoot back, frustrated.

“Goddammit,” he mutters, voice scraping bottom. “Why don’t you get it?”

You step closer. Close enough to feel the quake in his shoulders. “Why don’t you?” you throw back, chest aching. You’re not yelling anymore. You’re just breaking. “I made a choice, Bucky. My choice. And you don’t get to tell me it was wrong just because it scared you.”

He whirls on you with a snarl of disbelief, eyes wild.

“Scared? You think that’s all it is?” He steps forward, and you swear the jet shrinks around you. “It wasn’t just wrong,” he claims, “it was stupid. Suicidal. You gambled your life like it meant nothing.”

“And I’d do it again.” The words rip from your throat, vehemently, tears stinging behind your eyes. “A thousand fucking times, I’d do it again.”

His face crumples as if he’s folding under the strain of every second that’s passed since the bullet tore through you, heartbreak and grief colliding until he looks almost unrecognizable. His hands fall to his sides. His mouth parts, shaking. Silent. His eyes glisten as if he’s seconds from drowning.

“You’re gonna drive me insane,” he whispers, defeated.

And the silence after that feels like it’s been held in the mouths of stars.

The wound in your side pulses again - no, not a pulse. A bite. Teeth, dragging. Sharp. Cruel. Hungry. You press it down like you’ve been taught to do. Like the pain owes you obedience. But it doesn’t. And he’s looking at you as if you’re a stranger in your own skin.

And God, you’re too deep in the fire to pull back now.

Your voice is soft when it finally comes. Paper-thin. A whisper trying not to tremble. “You’re not the only one afraid of losing someone, Bucky.”

He exhales like he’s coughing up a wound. A sound so raw it cleaves the air between you. His chest stutters. Caves. Fights to lift again.

“Then stop putting me in a position where I almost do.” His words are not loud, but they land.

Your hands curl into fists, your nails digging crescents into your palms. Your side is screaming now. Screaming. Not a throb anymore. Not even a burn. It’s a hurricane. A tidal wave. It climbs your spine, presses sweat through your skin, swirls around your lungs and tightens.

You feel lightheaded, but you dig in. Dig deeper. Because anger is easier than fear. And you’re too stubborn to give the pain permission.

“You don’t get to tell me how to love you,” you say, and your voice has a raspy note. But there is a certain confidence in the way you speak to him. “I won’t apologize for saving you from a bullet wound.”

He flinches.

It’s small - almost nothing.

But you see it. You feel it.

For a moment, it is quiet again. The air between you quivers, explosive and tenuous. Everything but peaceful.

Just two people breathing hard enough to unnerve the walls, hearts banging like warning sirens against ribs too shrill and too bruised to carry them.

You don’t even realize your breathing is too shallow until the world shifts. Just a tilt. Just a smear of light. The overheads cloud, lengthening into halos you can’t quite reach.

You blink. Once. Twice. Mouth pressed tight. Trying to glare at him. But your vision is molasses now, slow and honeyed and dangerous. The wound - your whole side at this point - is a furnace. A pulse that spikes, hot and penetrating. Like someone driving a nail under your skin. At first, you think it’s nothing - just your body’s reminder that adrenaline always runs out. But it is expanding. Deepening. A slow burn blooming into fire.

You tell yourself that this is what a graze feels like. But the air doesn’t enter your lungs the way it should anymore and the lights overhead are suddenly a single sting behind your eyes.

You don’t remember when your knees began to give, only that they did. Just a slight buckle. A warning shot you try to keep to yourself.

Bucky doesn’t miss it. Of course, he doesn’t. His eyes snap down, sharp as knives, then back up to your face. His expression changes, sharpens in a different direction. Like a tide pulling out. Like a cliff eroding in fast-forward.

“What is it?” he asks, voice low, croaky, unstable. It sounds as if his throat is lined with sandpaper.

“Nothing,” you bite out too fast. Too curt. You straighten. Or you try to. “I’m fine.”

But the pain is not fine. It’s surging now, like the wound has been waiting for the argument to end before it demanded center stage. As if summoned by your lie. It grabs hold of you now. All at once.

The bandage feels wet. Your side feels like it’s trying to tear off your body. The edges of your vision grow fuzzy for just a moment longer - enough to make you catch your breath, enough to make your body sway.

“Hey-” Bucky’s voice is urgent now, sharp and thick with alarm. And he is there in an instant, too close, too fast. His hands are on you before you even register him moving, one warm, one metal, both steadying you before the ground has the chance to steal you.

“I said I’m fine-” you grit out, trying to shove him away with hands that don’t quite do what you want them to. Your words are clumsy, just like your movements. You try to straighten, but instead your body sags against his grip. Your body doesn’t cooperate. Your muscles slur. Your spine folds. “It’s nothing,” you gasp, “just-”

“Nothing?” The word snags in his mouth. His eyes flash down and he sees the blood. The bandage soaked through. The way the red spills across your side like it’s writing a warning in ink. His face goes slack with horror. Then it tightens. Hard. Like a door slamming shut behind a scream. “Jesus, Y/n-”

“I can handle it,” you exclaim stubbornly. But your voice trembles, shivers, betrays you. You’re trying to stay upright, trying to fight the proof of your body’s collapse. Trying to win, even now. To prove him wrong, to prove yourself right. “I told you, I can handle it.”

His arms shift again, cradling you like you’re already slipping through his hands. His metal arm hooks under your legs without hesitation. He’s trying to hold you without hurting you, panic in every movement.

“Handle it?” His voice pitches up, hoarse and fierce and broken. “You’re bleeding out on me.” His words are a tremor. A truth too loud to ignore. “You’re white as a sheet, you can barely stand - don’t you dare tell me you can handle it.” His voice is pulled straight from the center of him.

You stumble again, and this time there’s no denying it. Your whole body lurches. The pain spikes - bright and feral - and a gasp slips from your mouth before you can stop it.

Your hand flies to your side. Hot. Wet. Sticky. The bandage is gone. Useless. You’re losing too much, too fast.

Your knees crumple, and your body pulls you down despite your mind’s insistence, but his arms are already catching you with a curse under his breath. His body braces around yours with the force of something terrified. You feel his heart pounding where your head presses into his chest. A thunderous rhythm.

“Shit- shit, hold on, I’ve got you,” His voice has no rhythm now, just pieces - pointed, breathless, all jumbled together like falling debris.

He clamps one hand to your wound, hard and fast, like he’s trying to hold the blood in, like if he just presses hard enough, he can undo it.

His breath is coming in stutters. Not clean. Not measured. Just labored little gasps, broken fragments pulled too fast into his lungs.

His arms - one flesh, one metal - tighten. Not gently. Not delicately. Desperately. Scared you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even for a second.

You want to tell him to stop. You want to tell him you can walk, that this isn’t necessary, that he’s overreacting and this is excessive. But your tongue feels plushie, your mouth tastes like copper, and the air won’t sit still long enough for your lungs to catch it and shape the words.

He’s moving too fast. Too fast for someone with a heart that’s breaking.

“Hold on,” he utters. Two words. Strained. Snapped in half. Laced with dread and too many maybes.

He shifts you against him, pulls you closer, your weight drawn easily against his chest, one arm under your knees, the other anchoring your back, as though you’re breakable and already broken. His warmth, his solidity - it’s too much. It makes you want to collapse entirely.

You shouldn’t feel this safe. Not when everything hurts. You don’t even notice him taking off, the ramp of the quinjet groaning and moaning under his weight.

Your head lolls against his shoulder as the corridors rush by in a haze. Too heavy. Too hollow. The vibrations of his boots slam into your spine, and travel up, up, up. Too fast, too hard. Each step proof of how close he is to breaking.

You feel him everywhere. The heat of him. The tremor in him. The wild, frantic, unsteady beat of his heart crashing against your ribs, against your ear.

“Bucky-” Your voice is a whisper, a thin wire strung between your teeth.

“Don’t.” One word, but it lands like a plea. Gruff. His breath catches like it's snagged on something sharp. You feel his jaw flex against your temple. Hear the way his voice fractures. “Don’t talk, baby. Don’t waste your strength.”

You almost laugh - because wasting your strength on words is all you know how to do - but pain is a cruel thief, and it steals even the sound of a smile.

You catch the tremor in his hands. Not the metal one. The other one. The human one. The one made of skin and scar tissue. The one that remembers how it felt to hold hope and lose it. Fingers press too tightly at your shoulder.

“I should’ve seen it.” His voice is quieter now, almost to himself. “Should’ve known. I was too- too wrapped up-” The rest dissolves into another language. Russian, maybe. Sharp syllables. Soft fury.

You try again, your voice thinner now. “I told you- it’s not that bad.”

But you’re lying. And he knows it.

He lets out a sound you’ve never heard from him before - something guttural shredded with disbelief. He jerks his head, eyes burning down at you, and the expression on his face is something you’ll never forget. Not anger. Not this time. Just naked fear. “Don’t you dare say that. Not one more time. You’re bleeding through my shirt, baby.” His voice hitches. Shatters in the middle. You feel the break. Taste it. “That’s bad. That’s fucking bad.”

And you realize he’s right. You can feel it now - the consistent warmth soaking through layers of fabric, the pain sharpening into something blinding. Your skin is clammy, your head spins harder, your breaths grow weak. You feel the way the world spins like it’s on the verge of forgetting you.

“Stay with me,” he grates out, the syllables wrecked. He sounds out of breath. He’s never out of breath. “Don’t close your eyes, baby. Look at me.”

You try. You do. But the world is softening and there is nothing you can do about it. Each step he takes sends another sharp pang through your side, the ache sweltering and radiating.

You gasp, eyes fluttering, and the pain sings its jagged lullaby.

He adjusts his grip, faster now, speeding down the corridor. “Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you- god- baby-”

You blink, slow and stupid. You swallow as best as you can, words slurring in your mouth. “We were busy.” It sounds like a joke. And maybe it is. A terrible, unforgivable joke.

His face contorts like you’ve struck him. He looks down at you as though you’ve just ripped his heart out. “Busy fighting?” His jaw tightens. His voice drops to a choked whisper. “You should’ve told me. You should’ve told me. I should’ve seen-”

You hum something in return. Maybe agreement, maybe apology. But the world is a merry-go-round now and you’re slipping off the edge. Your eyes close for just a moment. Just one. The dizziness is inviting.

“No. Hey.” His voice spikes, piercing and raw. Loud and terrified. He jostles you lightly, desperate, hysterical. “No, no, no- eyes on me. Look at me, sweetheart. Look at me. Don’t even think about it, baby.”

Your lashes flutter, the hallway tilting again. His grip tightens, trying to hold you inside your own body. His face is a watercolor now, smudged and moving.

“Almost there,” he gasps against your hair, but the earthquake in his voice doesn’t get muffled. “Almost there, baby. Hang on.” He bites down on the next words, his jaw hard enough to crack. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t- please, baby-”

You want to reach for him. To cup his face and tell him he’s being dramatic again because he always gets dramatic when it’s about you and your health. But your hands aren’t working. Your body is sinking. Your bones are tired of holding you up. Your tongue is sluggish and your mouth won’t work the way you want it to.

The med bay doors loom ahead, too far and too close all at once. He shoulders them open without slowing, the slam of metal against metal echoing behind you.

“Somebody-” His voice cracks through the room, loud, panicked. “Somebody get in here!”

You try to tell him to stop yelling. To stop making a scene and that it’s not as bad as it looks and that others might be doing worse. But the ceiling is spinning and your words are gone.

“Stay with me,” he breathes, voice breaking down to almost nothing as he lowers you onto the nearest bed. His hands are everywhere - pressing at your side, brushing hair off your face, shaking, steady, shaking again. “Stay awake,” he pleads again. He’s trying to hold all your pieces together, but they‘re slipping through his fingers. “Stay with me, baby, please. Please, I can’t-”

The fight is gone. The fury is gone.

All that’s left is fear.

Your eyes flutter, heavy, and you whisper his name like it’s the last coin in your pocket.

And the look on his face when you do - the panic engraved so viscerally, the desperation rasping through every line - is enough to keep you tethered, just barely, just enough.

The med bay fills too quickly. Footsteps hammering, voices swinging through the air with urgency. Dr. Cho’s commands come clipped, efficient, the language of someone used to patching up gods and soldiers alike. A tray clatters, gloves snap, lights blaze white above you.

But all you see is him.

Bucky doesn’t move from your side, not even when Cho snaps at him to give space. His hands are sticky with your blood. His eyes are frantic, tearing over your face as though he can will you to stay awake just by looking hard enough. “Easy, doll. I’ve got you. Right here, I’m right here.” His voice is wreckage.

Your fingers twitch, searching. Blind. Weak. They find nothing but air.

Until his hand is there. Big, calloused, trembling. He links your fingers and you grip with what little strength you have, your palm slipping against his. He clutches you with deeply rooted desperation.

His breath catches audibly. He bows his head close, closer, forehead nearly touching yours, his hair falling forward in a curtain that hides you both for a heartbeat.

“I’m here,” he croaks, broken into pieces. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You believe him. You always do. You should. You can.

The medics are talking around you, about pressure and blood loss and IV lines, but their words aren’t registering. You focus only on his voice, the gravel and quake of it, the way it buckles against your skin.

You squeeze his hand. Hardly. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. The words are frail, wobbling things. “Bucky- I’m sorry.”

Bucky’s face crumples. His whole body folds. His reaction is immediate, violent in its tenderness. His hand grips yours tighter. His forehead presses to your temple, his lips moving over your hairline, your cheek, your brow, your knuckles - feverish kisses, despairing, wherever he can reach in the chaos. “No- no, don’t you say that.” His voice shreds as he speaks. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, baby. It’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay. You don’t get to be sorry. You don’t-”

Another wave of pain sears through you, sharp enough to make your vision go white. You gasp, your body arching, your grip on his hand faltering.

He squeezes tighter. His thumb rubs over your knuckles, rushed and intense. You see the wet shine in his eyes. The tears breaking loose, tracking down his face. And your chest clenches because you’ve seen him bloodied, broken, beaten - but never shattering like this.

“I can’t-” His throat locks, helpless and human. He shakes his head, presses another desperate kiss to your hair. “I can’t lose you. Don’t make me, please- please don’t”

You want to answer. You want to promise him. To tell him again you’re fine, or will be fine, or something that might sew his fear back together. Something that might make him stop crying. But the room is melting into darkness and it is opening its mouth for you. You’re already halfway inside. The sounds around you are dimming into a single hum. Your body feels heavier, every heartbeat slower, slower still. You don’t even know if you’re present anymore.

“Stay awake,” Bucky begs, voice crumbling as his tears hit your skin. He shakes your hand, gentle but miserable. In demise. “Please, sweetheart, stay awake.”

You try to hold on, to give him one more word, one more look. But your body is slipping. Your hand slackens in his.

The last thing you hear is his voice breaking open against your name as your eyes fall shut.

The last thing you feel is the heat of his tears falling into the hollow of your throat as the world disappears.

“We loved with a love that was more than love.”

- Edgar Ellen Poe