hazel-light

Seraphina—clever as a blade and twice as polished, the sort who can make a compliment sound like a promise.

Daphne—pretty and effortless, all dimples and flirtation, built for ballrooms like a swan is built for lakes.

Imogen—sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, always the first to notice a weakness and the last to forgive one.

Cordelia—youngest, sweet-faced, eager, still soft enough to be shaped by the rest of them.

And then you.

Your father calls you “quiet” as though it is a virtue he might one day learn to tolerate. Your sisters call you “bookish” as though it is a disease. Your mother calls you nothing at all, most days, which is somehow worse—because it implies you are not a thing worth naming.

You’ve tried, in the ways a daughter tries.

You’ve worn the colors your mother prefers—pale pinks and creams that make you feel like a faded flower pressed between pages. You’ve practiced smiling until your cheeks ache. You’ve learned to curtsy without wobbling, to speak only when spoken to, to laugh on cue at jokes you do not find funny.

But there is no practice for being overlooked. No lesson for becoming small enough to stop disappointing the people who expect you to be someone else.

So you do the one thing you’ve always been able to do: you retreat to what does not ask you to perform.

You read.

In books, no one tells you that you are too much or not enough. No one sighs when you speak. No one looks past you to find the glittering thing behind.

Tonight, however, there will be no library to hide in.

Tonight, Arabella is hosting her first grand ball in London—her first as Viscountess Harrowgate, her first as the sister who has succeeded where your mother once feared daughters could fail. Her invitation came like a command sealed with lace: You will attend. All of you. The entire family. The ton must see us.

Your mother has clung to that final line like it is scripture.

“The ton must see us,” she repeats now, adjusting the line of your gloves with pinching fingers. “We must make an impression.”

“We always do,” Seraphina murmurs behind her fan, not quite hiding her smile.

“Precisely,” your mother says, and then her eyes flick to you like a draft sneaking under a door. “And you, my dear—please do try to look… pleasant.”

You swallow the first reply that rises in your throat. What does pleasant look like? Like Daphne? Like Arabella? Like someone worth watching?

Instead, you nod. Because you’ve learned that arguing only makes them look at you longer.

Imogen leans in as the maid pins a ribbon at your back. “Do not frighten away Arabella’s guests by talking about your dreadful poetry.”

“I don’t write poetry,” you say softly.

“You read it,” Imogen answers, as though that is equally offensive. “Which is nearly as bad.”

Cordelia, perched on the edge of the chaise like a bird too young to know the cage is real, tilts her head. “I like when she reads to me.”

Imogen’s gaze cuts. “That is because you are still a child.”

Cordelia’s mouth tightens. She looks down at her slippers.

Something in your chest twists—not dramatic, not sharp. Just a small ache you’ve learned to tuck away with the rest of the quiet hurts. You reach for Cordelia’s hand under the fold of your skirt, giving it a brief squeeze. She squeezes back, grateful, as though you’ve offered her a rescue rope.

Your mother misses the exchange entirely. “Remember,” she says, “you are not to wander. You are not to disappear into some corner like a—” She inhales, restrains herself, finishes with forced calm. “Like an unsociable girl.”

Seraphina’s eyes glint. “Like herself, Mama means.”

Daphne laughs, sweet and light.

Arabella, already dressed and luminous, pauses at the door. Her gaze lands on you. For a heartbeat, something softer lives there—under her pride, under her practiced hostess smile.

“Be kind,” she says to your sisters, quietly, but not quietly enough.

Imogen rolls her eyes. Seraphina’s smile turns sharper, but she says nothing. Your mother pretends she did not hear. Arabella hesitates, as if she might say something else—to you, perhaps—and then the moment passes. She is swept away by the crush of responsibility, the weight of her new title, the desperate need to appear perfect.

And you follow, as you always do.

The Harrowgate townhouse is a blaze of candlelight and expectation.

The entry hall smells of beeswax and perfume. Footmen take cloaks and names and secrets alike. The ballroom itself gleams—polished floors reflecting chandeliers like captured constellations. Everywhere there is silk and laughter and the soft shock of jewels catching light.

Your sisters bloom in it. Arabella floats through the room like she was born to move people where she wants them. Seraphina collects admirers as if it is sport. Daphne is surrounded before the first set ends, three gentlemen vying for her attention with the earnestness of men who have never been told no. Imogen stands near your mother, issuing judgments under her breath like a magistrate.

You stand where you are placed—near a pillar, close enough to be seen, far enough to be forgotten. Your mother’s hand presses briefly to your shoulder as she passes, a reminder that you are an accessory to her ambitions, not a person within them.

“Do not slouch,” she murmurs.

You straighten.

A waltz begins. Couples spin, skirts flaring like petals caught in wind. You watch the patterns because they are safe—numbers and music, steps and symmetry. It is easier to observe the world than to risk being noticed by it.

Your gaze drifts without meaning—past laughing mouths, past gloved hands, past the bright faces of girls who have practiced wanting what they are told to want.

And then you see him.

He is not bright.

He is not easy.

He stands at the far edge of the room near the shadowed archway that leads into the adjoining salon, as if the ballroom’s light is something he tolerates rather than enjoys. His hair is dark, brushed back with minimal care. His posture is too still—soldier-still, as though his body has learned to be ready even in peace.

The first thing people notice is his arm.

Even from here, you see the metallic gleam beneath the cuff of his sleeve when he shifts, the unnatural line where polished steel meets fabric. A murmur ripples through a nearby cluster of ladies; fans lift like shields. A gentleman leans in to whisper something that makes a woman’s eyes widen in fascinated horror.

The Duke of Barnes, someone says, and the name travels like a spark.

Duke.

War-torn.

Scarred.

A man made of stories the ton tells itself to feel thrillingly safe.

You should look away. It is what everyone else is doing—staring and then pretending not to, as though curiosity is indecent and empathy impossible.

But you don’t.

Not because you are brave, but because you know what it is to be watched like an oddity. You know what it is to be the thing people discuss behind fans and laughter.

As if he feels the weight of your attention, he turns his head.

His eyes find you across the room.

They are not the cold eyes of rumor. They are a blue-gray that holds storms and fatigue and something else—something older than the ballroom, older than polite society.

His gaze catches, and for one awful, breathless moment, you think you have done something wrong. That your staring has made you rude, that you are about to be exposed as the quiet girl who forgets the rules.

Then his expression shifts—not into a smile, not quite. Into recognition.

As if he has spotted another person standing at the edges, surviving rather than performing.

You look away first, because you always do. Because it is safer to become invisible.

But the heat of his gaze lingers like candle-warmth on your skin.

You last exactly twenty minutes before you need air.

It isn’t the crowd, not really. It’s the sense of being pressed into place—of existing as a piece on someone else’s board. You slip out when your mother is distracted by a conversation about dowries and Dorsetshire estates, and when your sisters are consumed by admirers.

The corridor outside the ballroom is cooler, dimmer. The noise becomes distant, as if you’ve stepped underwater. You move as quietly as you can, past a row of portraits in gilded frames—Harrowgate ancestors who look down at you with bored superiority.

A door stands slightly ajar at the end of the hall, light spilling from within. You recognize the room by its scent before you see it: paper, leather, dust warmed by lamps.

A library.

Your heart loosens, just a little, the way it does when you step into someplace that does not demand you shine.

You push the door open, slip inside, and close it softly behind you.

The room is lined with shelves, the kind that reach toward the ceiling like devotion. There are chairs by the fireplace, a writing desk, a scattering of volumes left open as if someone abandoned them mid-thought. A lamp glows on a side table, throwing warm light over a stack of books.

You move toward them as if drawn by gravity.

Your fingers brush a spine—Milton, then Rousseau, then a worn copy of Persuasion that makes your chest ache, though you are not sure why. You pick it up, almost reverently, flipping to a page at random.

“You’re hiding.”

The voice comes from behind you—low, roughened by disuse, as though he doesn’t speak often unless he must.

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn.

He stands near the doorway, half in shadow. The Duke of Barnes. Bucky Barnes, if the murmurs were accurate—though no one says “Bucky” in ballrooms. They say “Your Grace,” and they say it with a tremble.

He has removed his gloves. One hand is bare, strong, human. The other—metal, articulated in a way that is both beautiful and unsettling, fingers of steel catching lamplight.

He looks at you not like a creature to be studied, but like a person caught doing something familiar.

“I could say the same of you,” you manage, and it surprises you—how easily the words come.

His mouth tilts at one corner, nearly a smile. “I wasn’t subtle.”

“No,” you agree, and then you flush because it sounds like judgment.

He doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he looks… relieved. Like you have named the truth and spared him the performance of denying it.

“You shouldn’t be in here alone,” he says after a moment. “People talk.”

You glance at the book in your hand. “People talk no matter where I stand.”

He studies you as if the sentence has struck something in him. “That so?”

You shrug, a small movement. “My sisters are the sort people notice. I am… not.”

His gaze lowers briefly to the pages, then back to your face. “You came here for the books.”

“Yes.”

“And not,” he adds, almost cautiously, “because you were hoping to catch someone’s attention.”

The question is strange—almost too direct for polite society. But you realize he is not teasing. He is… checking. As if he has been hunted by expectations and wants to know whether you are another trap.

“No,” you say, honest. “I came because it is quiet.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing. “Good.”

You blink. “Good?”

“Quiet’s… rare.” His eyes flick to the door, as though he expects it to burst open with laughter and judgment. “And I’ve had enough of rooms full of people pretending not to stare.”

The words are careful, controlled, but beneath them you hear exhaustion. Something in you softens in recognition. Not pity—pity is a kind of distance. This is something else. Understanding, perhaps.

You find yourself speaking before you can stop. “Does it hurt?”

His gaze snaps back to you, sharp.

You almost apologize immediately. You almost retreat into silence, mortified at your own boldness.

But he doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t sneer.

He looks down at his arm, the metal gleaming where the lamplight catches the joints. His fingers flex once, slow. “Sometimes,” he admits. “Not like it did at first. But… there are things a body remembers.”

You swallow. “I’m sorry.”

He lifts his eyes again. “Don’t be. You didn’t do it.”

It is a simple sentence, but it lands heavy. Like a door opening into a room you’ve never dared enter.

You shift the book in your hands. “You fought in the war,” you say, not a question.

He nods once. “And I came home less… whole than I left.”

There’s no self-pity in it. Just fact.

You gesture helplessly to the library around you. “They talk as if you are a monster.”

His expression hardens, just a little. “They talk as if I’m entertainment.”

Anger rises in you—a slow burn, unfamiliar. You are used to swallowing hurt, not holding it.

“It’s cruel,” you say, and your voice is firmer than you expect.

Something flickers across his face—surprise, and then something warmer, softer. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It is.”

You look down at the book, at the lines of ink that have survived centuries because they mattered to someone. “I don’t think you’re a monster,” you say, and the honesty in it makes your throat tight. “I think you’re… tired.”

His breath catches, subtle enough that you might have missed it if you weren’t watching him the way you watch stories unfold.

“Tired,” he repeats, as though he is tasting the word. “No one’s called me that.”

“What do they call you?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

His jaw tightens. “Scarred. Ruined. Dangerous. Tragic.” A humorless exhale. “As if those are the only things a man can be.”

You meet his gaze, steady now because something in you refuses to flinch. “They’re wrong.”

His eyes hold yours for a long moment. The air between you feels charged—not with scandal, but with something strangely intimate: the shared relief of dropping masks.

“You got a name, Miss…?” he prompts gently.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know it, but because names, in your family, feel like expectations. Labels people use to decide what you are worth.

But his voice is not demanding. It is offering.

You give it. Quietly.

He nods as though it matters. As though he will remember it when the room grows loud again.

“I’m James,” he says, and then, as if he knows how stiff it sounds, he adds, “Most call me Bucky, when they’re brave enough to forget I’m a duke.”

You almost smile. “Bucky.”

The sound of it feels like stepping off a polished floor onto grass. Real.

He watches your mouth when you say it, and something in his expression softens into something you’ve never been the object of before: interest without agenda.

“You like books,” he says, gesturing to the one in your hands.

“I like stories,” you correct quietly. “I like… the way they tell the truth without making you perform it.”

His gaze drops again to the book. “Read to me,” he says, then pauses as if he cannot believe he asked. “If you want. I mean. You don’t have to.”

You should be nervous. You should be thinking about propriety, about how your mother would faint if she found you alone in a library with a duke whose reputation has frightened half of Mayfair.

But the room is warm and quiet and safe in a way the ballroom isn’t, and his eyes look at you like you are not a disappointment.

So you sit.

You choose a chair by the lamp, hands trembling only slightly as you open the book. He takes the other chair—not too close, not too far, positioned like someone who has learned to give women space. His metal hand rests on the armrest, glinting. His human hand folds loosely over his knee.

You begin to read.

At first, your voice is soft. Then it steadies. Then it finds rhythm—words like familiar footsteps. You feel him listening, truly listening, in a way most people do not. His gaze stays on the pages, on your hands, on your face. He does not interrupt. He does not tease. He does not try to impress you with his own cleverness.

He simply lets you exist.

When you reach the end of a passage, you look up without thinking.

He is watching you as if you are the most interesting thing in the room.

“What?” you ask, flustered.

He blinks, as if caught. “You look… different in here.”

“Different?”

“Like you belong to yourself.” His voice is quiet, almost reverent, and something in your chest aches with the sweetness of it. “In there—” his eyes flick toward the ballroom “—you were trying to disappear.”

You swallow. “It’s easier.”

He leans forward slightly, the movement careful, controlled. “Don’t,” he says, and the word is so gentle it almost hurts. “Not for them.”

Your throat tightens. No one has ever told you not to vanish.

Before you can answer, the door opens.

Light spills in. Laughter. A familiar voice, bright and sharp.

“There you are,” Seraphina says, stepping into the library as if she owns it. Her gaze darts to you, then to the duke, and her smile changes—becoming polished, predatory. “Oh.”

Behind her, your mother appears, like a storm finally finding the house it means to break.

You stand so fast the book nearly slips from your hands. “Mama—”

Your mother’s eyes lock on Bucky’s arm first, and you watch the reflexive flicker of distaste cross her face before she smothers it with forced courtesy.

“Your Grace,” she says, dipping into a shallow curtsy that contains more calculation than respect. “I did not realize you would be… joining us in private.”

Bucky stands, too. Taller than you realized. Broader. His expression closes like a door.

“Lady Ashford,” he says evenly.

Seraphina fans herself, eyes gleaming. “How extraordinary. I didn’t know you were acquainted.”

You open your mouth, but your mother speaks over you. “My daughter has a habit of wandering,” she says lightly, as though you are a child who strays from the nursemaid. “I was just reminding her of proper conduct.”

Bucky’s gaze shifts to you, and in it you see a question: Are you alright?

You nod, barely.

Your mother continues, oblivious to anything but appearances. “Of course, Miss Ashford is not… accustomed to such company. She spends most of her days with books rather than people.”

The insult is wrapped in silk, but it is still an insult. Your cheeks burn.

Bucky’s metal fingers flex once, the soft click of joints in the quiet room.

“She reads well,” he says, voice calm. “Better than most I’ve heard.”

Seraphina’s eyes narrow, quickly masked by delight. “How charming. I didn’t realize Your Grace enjoyed being read to.”

Bucky’s gaze is flat. “I enjoy honesty,” he answers.

Imogen’s voice drifts from the doorway now—she must have followed. “And what honesty is there in a girl hiding in a library?”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Imogen.”

Imogen shrugs, unrepentant. “It’s true. She cannot even survive one ball without fleeing.”

You want to disappear. You want the floor to open and swallow you whole.

But then Bucky looks at you again, and in that look is something steady—like a hand offered in the dark.

“She didn’t flee,” he says. His voice is still controlled, but there is iron beneath it. “She stepped away from the noise. There’s a difference.”

Your mother’s smile grows tighter. “A young lady’s duty is to be seen.”

Bucky’s gaze sharpens. “And a young lady is also a person.”

The room goes very still.

Your mother’s nostrils flare slightly, scandal barely held back. “Your Grace,” she says, warning threaded through the title, “I do not believe you understand—”

“I understand,” he interrupts quietly, and the quiet is worse than shouting. “I understand what it is to be treated as a thing rather than a human being.”

Your mother’s composure wavers for the first time. She recovers quickly, smoothing her skirts. “Come,” she says to you, voice clipped. “You will return to the ballroom.”

Your feet feel rooted.

Bucky’s gaze holds yours. He does not command you. He does not rescue you without permission.

But he stays.

So you take a breath you did not know you were capable of taking, and you nod at your mother.

“Of course,” you say, because it is not yet the moment to fight.

But as you pass Bucky, leaving the library, you feel something brush your hand.

Metal, cool and careful.

Not grasping. Not claiming.

Just… there.

A touch as light as a bookmark between pages.

Your breath catches.

His voice follows you, low enough that only you hear it. “Don’t disappear,” he murmurs. “Not entirely.”

You step back into the ballroom with your pulse racing like you’ve done something wildly improper—like you’ve done something dangerously brave.

After that night, the ton begins to talk in earnest.

They always talked about Bucky Barnes—about the tragedy of him, the horror and fascination, the rumors of how he lost his arm (a cannon, a blade, a French trap, a punishment). They talked about how he returned from war as if he carried winter in his bones.

But now, they talk about you too.

Because the Duke of Barnes calls.

He leaves his card at the Ashford residence the very next morning.

Your mother holds it between her fingers as if it might stain her. “This is highly irregular,” she says.

Seraphina’s eyes gleam. “It’s highly interesting.”

Daphne gasps, delighted. “A duke!”

Imogen sneers. “A scarred duke.”

Cordelia watches you quietly, worry and wonder tangled in her gaze.

Your father clears his throat, uncomfortable. “He is… wealthy.”

Your mother’s mouth tightens. “And damaged.”

Your stomach twists. “Mama—”

“I will not have you throw yourself at a man simply because he paid you a moment of attention,” she snaps, and the words hit harder than they should, because some part of you fears she is right. “You are not suited to the role of duchess. You would embarrass us.”

You go cold all over. “He wasn’t— I didn’t—”

Seraphina’s smile is syrupy. “Perhaps he only called because he enjoys being pitied.”

Bile rises in your throat. “I don’t pity him.”

Imogen tilts her head. “Then what do you feel?”

You don’t answer, because you cannot. Not without exposing yourself.

Not without admitting that one quiet hour in a library made you feel seen in a way you have been craving your whole life.

Your mother presses the calling card to the table as though pinning down an insect. “You will not be alone with him,” she declares. “You will not encourage him.”

“And if he asks to dance with you again?” Daphne asks, bright-eyed.

Your mother’s gaze flicks to Daphne, then Seraphina, calculating. “If he wishes to court an Ashford, he may court properly.”

Seraphina straightens, hopeful.

Your mother glances at you, and the disappointment sharpens. “But it will not be you.”

The room goes silent.

Your father does not contradict her.

Your sisters do not protest.

Only Cordelia looks stricken, like she has just witnessed a cruelty she cannot yet name.

You swallow the hurt until it tastes like blood. “Of course,” you whisper.

You excuse yourself before anyone can see you crack.

You take refuge where you always do—in a book.

But now, every page feels haunted by the memory of a voice at your side, listening. Of eyes watching you as if you mattered.

Days pass. Then another calling card arrives. Then another.

He does not stop.

Your mother refuses him twice before she can no longer do so without causing commentary, and commentary is the only thing she fears more than scandal.

So Bucky Barnes is invited for tea.

Your mother arranges the drawing room like a battlefield.

Daphne and Seraphina sit poised like flowers. Imogen sits like a judge. Cordelia hovers close to you, a quiet anchor. Your mother sits at the center, spine rigid, smile sharp.

You sit where you are told.

And then he enters.

In daylight, he looks even more out of place in your world—dark clothes, severe lines, a presence that fills the room without trying. His metal arm is covered by his coat sleeve, but you can see the shape of it beneath the fabric.

Your mother rises, all polite stiffness. “Your Grace.”

He bows, controlled. “Lady Ashford. Miss Ashford.” His gaze flicks over your sisters—and then finds you, and settles like something warm on your skin. “Miss Ashford,” he says again, softer, as if the second time is for you alone.

Your breath catches.

Tea is poured. Questions are asked—the kind meant to assess rather than understand.

“How is your estate?” your mother asks, as though she might find rot beneath the wealth.

“Managed,” Bucky answers, polite, clipped.

“And your health?” Seraphina asks, voice sugared. “You must have suffered terribly.”

His gaze is flat. “I recovered.”

Imogen’s eyes narrow. “Can you dance with that arm?”

The room freezes.

Your cheeks flame. “Imogen—”

Bucky’s metal fingers tap once against his teacup saucer, a soft clink. His expression doesn’t change. “I can,” he says simply.

Daphne leans forward, eager. “And do you plan to marry, Your Grace?”

Your mother sends her a warning look that says: Let him speak when spoken to, but the question is already out, and your sisters watch with hungry curiosity.

Bucky’s gaze drifts, slow, to you.

“I plan,” he says carefully, “to marry someone who doesn’t look at me like a spectacle.”

Seraphina’s smile falters.

Your mother’s eyes sharpen. “And where might you find such a woman?”

Bucky’s eyes do not leave you. “I’ve already met her.”

The air goes thin.

Your heart stutters. Surely he cannot mean— Surely—

Your mother laughs, brittle. “Your Grace, you scarcely know my daughters.”

“I know enough,” he replies, and there is quiet authority in it. “I know which one listens instead of performs. I know which one doesn’t flinch at my arm. I know which one reads like she’s speaking the truth.”

Your mother’s face tightens. “Miss Ashford is not—”

“Not what?” he cuts in softly, and it is the softness that makes it dangerous. “Not charming enough? Not loud enough? Not a proper ornament for your ambitions?”

Your mother’s mouth opens, shocked.

Cordelia’s hand finds yours under the cushion. She squeezes, hard.

You stare at Bucky, stunned. No man has ever spoken on your behalf. No one has ever put words to what you endure.

And yet terror coils in your stomach too, because his honesty could ruin you.

Your mother straightens, forcing control back into her spine. “Your Grace,” she says coldly, “you are not welcome to make sport of my family.”

“I’m not making sport,” he says. “I’m asking permission to court her.”

The word her lands like thunder.

Your sisters stare.

Seraphina’s cheeks flush with fury. Daphne looks bewildered. Imogen looks offended, as though he has insulted the entire concept of taste.

Your mother turns her gaze to you.

It is the same gaze that has weighed you and found you lacking all your life, but now it holds something new: fear. Fear that you might step out of your place.

“You will not,” she says quietly, as if she can command your choice by sheer will.

Bucky’s eyes are on you again, steady. He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t pressure.

He waits.

For the first time in your life, a room full of people is waiting to see what you will do.

Your throat tightens. Your pulse pounds.

You think of the library—of quiet, of warmth, of being spoken to like you are not a disappointment.

You think of your mother’s words: You would embarrass us.

And then you realize something terrifying.

Perhaps you are done trying not to.

You swallow. “I would like,” you say, voice shaking but real, “to be courted.”

Your mother’s breath hitches, a sound like outrage.

Bucky’s expression softens—not into triumph, but into something that looks like relief.

“As you wish,” he murmurs.

Courting Bucky Barnes is not like courting any other gentleman.

He does not bombard you with flattery. He does not bring you bouquets that smell like a stranger’s effort. He does not linger too close, smile too wide, speak too loudly.

He brings you books.

The first time he arrives with one, your mother nearly chokes on her own indignation.

“A gift already,” she snaps. “Your Grace, this is—”

“A book,” he says, calm. “Not a diamond.”

“It is still an impropriety.”

He glances at you, eyes quiet. “Does she think it is?”

Your mother’s gaze darts to you, warning.

You take the book with careful hands, as if it is precious. “No,” you say softly. “I think it is… thoughtful.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches. “Good.”

He visits, properly chaperoned, though he treats your mother’s hovering like bad weather—present, irritating, not something worth surrendering to. Sometimes the chaperone is Arabella when she can manage it, her presence a small mercy. Sometimes it is Cordelia, who tags along like a determined little guardian, refusing to let your mother poison every moment.

Bucky speaks to you as if the room is not full of observers.

He asks what you like. What you think. What makes you laugh when no one is watching. He listens when you answer, even when your voice is quiet.

At first, you don’t know how to do it—how to exist without shrinking. You catch yourself softening your opinions, hiding your enthusiasm, stopping sentences before they become too much.

And every time you do, he notices.

“You don’t have to edit yourself for me,” he says one afternoon, when you pause mid-thought about a novel’s heroine.

Your cheeks heat. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says gently. “I know that look. It’s the same one I wore when people asked me what the war was like and expected me to say something that made them feel brave for listening.”

You swallow. “What was it like?” you ask quietly.

His gaze drops to his tea. “Loud,” he says after a moment. “And cold. And… lonely, even with men beside you.”

Your chest tightens. “And now?”

He lifts his eyes. “Now it’s loud in a different way. People stare and whisper and decide what I am without asking.”

You shift, then, without thinking, you let your fingers brush the cuff of his sleeve where the metal begins beneath. Not grasping. Not claiming. Just touching the fabric, a question.

He goes very still.

Then, slowly, carefully, he moves his arm so the metal hand rests on the table between you.

The room is quiet. Even your mother, across the way, has paused—watching with something like horrified fascination.

Bucky’s eyes stay on yours. “You can,” he says, voice low. “If you want.”

Your breath catches.

You reach out.

Your fingertips meet cool steel.

It is not monstrous. It is not obscene. It is simply… part of him. And in the precision of its design, the careful way it responds when he flexes his fingers beneath your touch, you see something you didn’t expect.

Survival.

A body refusing to be ended.

A man refusing to be reduced to what he lost.

You don’t know why tears prick your eyes. You blink them back quickly, embarrassed.

Bucky’s gaze softens. “Hey,” he murmurs, as if the word is a comfort. “Don’t cry for me.”

“I’m not,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’m… angry for you.”

His throat works as he swallows. “No one’s ever been angry for me,” he admits, so quietly it feels like a secret.

Your fingers curl slightly around his metal ones—not tight, not possessive, just steady.

“I am,” you say. “And I think… I think you deserve better than their whispers.”

His eyes go bright for a moment, and you realize he is fighting something too—something sharp and painful and hopeful.

“So do you,” he says.

It is not the ton that tries to tear you apart first.

It is your family.

It begins with little cruelties. Imogen “accidentally” misplaces your gloves before an outing. Seraphina makes comments about your “strange taste” in men. Daphne, though less malicious, sighs and says, “But imagine the gowns you could have if you married someone… normal.”

Your mother grows colder by the day. She critiques your appearance like she is searching for flaws to justify her disapproval.

“Your hair is too plain.”

“Your laugh is too quiet.”

“Do not look at him like that. You’ll encourage him.”

One night, after Bucky leaves, your mother corners you in the corridor.

“You think this is romance,” she says, voice harsh. “You think you’ve found some poetic tragedy to live in. But men like that do not make good husbands.”

“Men like what?” you ask, quiet but steady.

“Broken men,” she spits.

Your chest aches. “He isn’t broken.”

“He is,” she insists, and her eyes flash with something ugly. “And he will break you too.”

You stare at her in the dim hallway, the candlelight making her face look older, harder. “You don’t know him,” you say.

“And you do?” she scoffs. “Because he listened to you read a book? Because he made you feel special for once?” Her voice sharpens. “You are vulnerable, and he sees it.”

Your throat tightens. “He sees me,” you correct, and your voice shakes on the truth. “No one else bothers.”

For a heartbeat, your mother looks struck—as if you’ve slapped her without touching her.

Then her face closes. “You are my daughter,” she says, as if it is ownership. “And you will not disgrace this family.”

You feel the familiar pull—the urge to shrink, to apologize, to become the obedient shadow again.

But the memory of Bucky’s steady gaze, his gentle don’t disappear, holds you upright.

“I’m not trying to disgrace you,” you say softly. “I’m trying to live.”

Her eyes narrow. “Then live quietly. Live properly.”

You swallow. “I have done that my entire life,” you whisper. “And it has never been enough for you.”

She inhales sharply, as though she might retort.

But footsteps echo from the entry hall—Bucky returning, perhaps forgotten something, or Arabella calling for you.

Your mother’s face hardens. “We will speak of this again.”

And she leaves you standing in the corridor, shaking.

The next ball you attend is not yours.

It is Seraphina’s—a smaller gathering, hosted by a friend who has a ballroom and a mother with ambitions just as sharp as Lady Ashford’s. Your mother insists you go, insisting that if Bucky intends to court you, he must show the ton he can tolerate society.

“He must prove himself,” she says, and you know she means: He must prove he is worth the risk of having you attached to him.

Bucky arrives late.

When he enters, the room shifts. Conversations stutter. Eyes turn. Whispers bloom like rot.

You stand near a wall with Cordelia, who clings to your hand as if she can feel the danger.

“There he is,” Cordelia whispers.

You look.

Bucky’s gaze finds you immediately, steady as ever. He crosses the room with controlled steps, ignoring the way people part like he is dangerous water.

When he reaches you, he bows. “Miss Ashford.”

Your mother appears at your shoulder like a hawk. “Your Grace.”

He doesn’t flinch at her chill. His attention returns to you. “Would you grant me this dance?”

A hush seems to fall around you—not because people are polite, but because they are eager to witness either romance or disaster.

Your mother’s fingers dig into your arm. “You must consider—”

“I have,” you say, and you step forward.

Bucky’s metal hand extends, palm up, not as a command but as an invitation.

You place your gloved hand in it.

His grip is careful, steady, warm through fabric despite the steel.

He leads you to the floor, and as you take your position, you feel the ton’s gaze like needles.

The music begins.

Bucky moves with surprising grace. The metal arm does not hinder him; it simply exists, as natural to him as breathing. His other hand rests at your back, firm but gentle, guiding you through the steps.

“You alright?” he murmurs, close enough that only you hear.

You swallow. “They’re staring.”

“I know,” he says softly. “Look at me.”

You do.

And the ballroom blurs.

Because his eyes are on you like you are not a spectacle, not a scandal, not a disappointment—just a person worth holding.

“Good,” he murmurs, as if praising bravery you don’t feel.

Halfway through the dance, you hear it—a sharp, cruel whisper from the edge of the floor.

“She must be desperate.”

Another: “No one else would have her.”

Your chest tightens. Your steps falter.

Bucky’s hold steadies you instantly, his hand at your back firming. “Hey,” he murmurs.

You blink rapidly, fighting tears. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, humiliated. “I shouldn’t—”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, and there is steel beneath the gentleness now. “Not for existing.”

You swallow hard. “They’re right,” you whisper, the old poison rising. “No one else would—”

His eyes sharpen, and for the first time you see anger in him—not wild, not violent. Controlled, purposeful.

“They’re not right,” he says quietly. “And if you ever repeat their cruelty to yourself again, I’ll have to spend the rest of my life proving you wrong.”

Your breath catches. “The rest of your—”

His gaze holds yours. “If you’ll let me.”

The music swells, and you realize the room has quieted again—not because of the dance, but because Bucky Barnes has tilted his head toward you as if speaking something intimate.

Your mother is watching from the sidelines, pale with fury.

Seraphina’s lips are pressed into a thin line.

Imogen looks disgusted.

Daphne looks conflicted.

Cordelia looks like she might burst into tears from sheer hope.

And you—

You feel like you are standing at the edge of a cliff you’ve been afraid to approach your whole life.

Bucky finishes the dance and does not let go of your hand when the music ends.

Instead, he turns to face the room.

The ton leans in, hungry.

He bows to you first, respectful.

Then he turns his gaze—cold, calm—toward your mother.

“Lady Ashford,” he says, voice carrying just enough. “May I speak with you.”

Your mother’s smile is rigid. “Now?”

“Now,” he says.

Whispers erupt.

He doesn’t wait for her to approve. He leads her—not by force, but by presence—toward a quieter corner, where Arabella has drifted close as a shield, and where your father hovers, uncomfortable but attentive.

You stand with Cordelia, your heart hammering, watching as Bucky speaks with your parents like a man who has decided he will no longer be treated as entertainment.

You cannot hear every word, but you see your mother’s expression change—anger, outrage, then something like calculation as she realizes the room is watching her now.

You see your father’s shoulders sag as if relieved someone else is bearing the weight of decision.

Then Bucky turns.

He walks back to you, the ballroom parting again, but this time the parting feels like acknowledgment rather than avoidance.

He stops in front of you.

“You told me once,” he says quietly, “that people talk no matter where you stand.”

Your throat tightens. “Yes.”

He nods. “Then stand with me.”

The simplicity of it steals your breath.

He turns, facing your parents, facing the room, facing the world that has tried to shape you into silence.

And then, in the most proper voice he can manage while still being utterly himself, he says:

“I intend to marry Miss Ashford, if she will have me.”

The room erupts.

Your mother makes a sound—half gasp, half protest.

Seraphina’s face goes red.

Imogen looks as if she might faint from outrage.

Daphne’s mouth falls open.

Cordelia clutches your hand so hard it hurts.

Arabella’s eyes shine with something like pride.

Bucky turns back to you, and suddenly none of the noise matters, because he is looking at you like your answer is the only thing in the world.

He doesn’t assume. He doesn’t claim. He asks—with his eyes, with his steady presence, with the gentleness in his voice.

“Will you?” he murmurs.

Your throat feels tight enough to choke you.

You think of your mother’s disappointment, your father’s silence, your sisters’ cruelty.

You think of the library, the lamp glow, the way Bucky listened like your words mattered.

You think of the metal hand that held yours like it was precious.

And you realize, with a clarity that makes you almost dizzy, that love is not loud.

Love is not a performance.

Love is someone seeing you in the quiet and choosing you anyway.

You take a breath.

Then you step forward.

“Yes,” you say, voice trembling but sure. “I will.”

Bucky’s eyes close for a brief second, as if the relief is too much to hold. When he opens them, they shine.

He bows over your hand—not for the room, not for propriety, but as if he is honoring you.

When his lips touch your knuckles through your glove, it feels like a promise sealed in warmth.

The engagement is a storm.

Your mother attempts to salvage control by insisting on conditions: timelines, announcements, guest lists. She speaks about scandal as though it is a living thing stalking your family.

Bucky listens, polite, unmoved.

He gives her the respect due to her position, and none of the power she thinks she holds.

Your sisters fluctuate between outrage and fascination. Seraphina makes pointed remarks about your “luck,” as if love is a lottery you cheated to win. Imogen predicts misery with the satisfaction of someone who wants to be right more than she wants you happy. Daphne, after one private conversation where she cannot quite meet your eyes, murmurs, “I didn’t know you could be… chosen,” and you realize she never believed you could be either.

Only Cordelia is unabashedly delighted. She slips into your room at night and whispers, “He looks at you like you’re his whole world,” as if that is the greatest magic she has ever seen.

And Arabella—Arabella pulls you aside a week before the wedding and presses your hands between hers.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

Your throat tightens. “For what?”

“For not noticing sooner,” she admits, eyes glossy. “For letting Mama and the others make you feel small.” She swallows. “I was so busy trying to be perfect that I didn’t see what it cost you.”

You blink, stunned. “Arabella…”

She shakes her head. “He sees you,” she says, and the words are soft, aching. “And I’m glad. I’m glad you found someone who does.”

You hug her, careful, and she clings back as if she’s been holding guilt for years.

On your wedding day, the world is still loud.

There are guests and whispers and eyes that try to measure you.

But when you stand at the front of the church and Bucky turns to face you, the noise recedes.

He looks nervous, you realize. Not about the ton, not about judgment.

About you.

About doing this right.

As if marrying you is something sacred, something he cannot afford to mishandle.

His metal hand trembles slightly when he reaches for yours.

You take it anyway.

You do not flinch.

You do not hide.

And when the vows are spoken, when you say I do, it feels less like stepping into a role and more like stepping into yourself.

Later, when the reception swirls with music and conversation, you find a moment of escape—not into a library this time, but into a quiet side room with a window cracked open to cool air.

Bucky follows you, as if drawn by instinct.

He closes the door behind him gently, then leans against it like he’s guarding you from the world.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You smile, small. “I should be asking you that.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Fair.”

You drift toward him. Close enough to see the faint scars along his jaw, the lines of weariness that have nothing to do with age and everything to do with memory.

“You look…” You search for the word.

He tilts his head. “Like what?”

“Like you can breathe,” you whisper.

His gaze softens. “Yeah,” he admits. “Because you’re here.”

Your chest tightens with something sweet and painful.

You lift your hand, slowly, giving him time to pull away if he needs.

He doesn’t.

Your fingers brush his cheek, and his eyes close briefly at the touch, like it’s a kindness he still doesn’t fully trust.

“You know,” you whisper, “they’ll still talk.”

He opens his eyes, looking at you like you are a truth he chose on purpose. “Let them,” he says, voice steady. “They can spend their lives whispering. We’ll spend ours living.”

You swallow, emotion thick in your throat. “I don’t know how to be… loud.”

His mouth tilts, gentle. “Then don’t be.” He lifts his metal hand, slow, careful, and cups the side of your face with it—cool at first, then warming where it meets your skin. “I didn’t fall in love with loud.”

Your breath catches. “You—”

“I did,” he says simply, as if it is not a confession but a fact. “In that library, when you read like you weren’t afraid to exist. I’ve been done for ever since.”

A laugh escapes you, soft and disbelieving. “That’s not how courtship works.”

“It is for me,” he murmurs.

He leans in, giving you every chance to turn away.

You don’t.

His kiss is gentle. Not hungry, not demanding. Just warm and sure, like a hand finding yours in the dark. Like a promise kept in quiet.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment.

“You don’t have to disappear anymore,” he whispers.

You close your eyes, breathing him in—the scent of clean linen and winter air and something steady.

“I won’t,” you promise, and for the first time in your life, the promise feels possible.

Outside the door, the world still spins with music and gossip and expectation.

But here, in the small quiet, you are not an odd one out.

You are chosen.

And in Bucky Barnes’s careful hands, you find a love that does not ask you to be anything but yourself.