Kiritella

You and Bucky had been together for 11 months and 6 days, but it felt like more time than that. The relationship truly started when the two of you met three years ago. You knew immediately he was special, and he knew immediately that he loved you. 

After years of tiptoeing around your feelings, he finally cracked and confessed to you. From there, your relationship took off. Dates anytime you were free, sneaking into each other's rooms every night, and quiet moments when the team had their backs turned. 

You both decided immediately not to tell anyone. To you, it didn’t matter who knew about it; you and Bucky loved each other no matter what. To Bucky, it was about safety. If people knew you could be used against each other, you could get hurt, and he would give his life for yours without second thought, but he didn’t ever want to be put in a situation where he had to. 

For the past 11 months and 6 days, your life has been bliss. You slept better, smiled more, and took better care of yourself. The team had been wondering what’s got you all giggly. As for Bucky, he snarled less, spoke more, and even smiled on occasion, and the team has been teasing him with remarks like “When are we meeting the lucky girl Barnes?” or “Whoever she is she has you whipped bud” Bucky always just rolled his eyes, but they always met your soft smile which he always returned, a little red in the cheeks. 

To you, Bucky was home. Not a place, but a person. The second he wrapped his arms around you, everything felt quieter somehow. Safer. You trusted him with your life, and trust had never come easy to you. Being with him made the bad days feel lighter. It wasn’t even big moments that made you love him so much; it was the small things. The warmth of his hand against your back, the sleepy sound of his laugh at two in the morning, the way he looked at you like he was still learning how to believe in something good. Being around him gave you a kind of peace you didn’t think you’d ever have.

To Bucky, you were the world, not just someone he loved, but the reason the world still felt worth staying in. You were the reason he got up in the morning, the reason life didn’t feel so heavy anymore. If it were just the two of you left in the world, he would still be happy, because as long as he had you, he had everything he needed. He needed you in a way that sometimes terrified him. You saved him without even realizing it. Before you, he was drowning in old memories and pain he couldn’t escape, but with you, it all became quieter. When you held him, he didn’t feel broken. He didn’t feel like the Winter Soldier or a broken thing somebody forgot to fix. With you, he felt human again. Loved again. Like maybe there was still something good left in him after all.

Everything the two of you had together was perfect, and it was even better with the feeling of sneaking around. Even when fighting, you two found moments together, which is how you ended up here, behind a wall, your back pinned to it, with Bucky's arm over your head. “Buck-”

“Doll,” he cut you off. His doe eyes looking into yours 

“We're fighting a fucking space alien right now, what are you doing!” You giggled as you tried to push him back, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he pulled his mask off. 

“You looked so good when you sliced his arm off, I couldn’t help myself. I just need one kiss,” you rolled your eyes, but so softly planted a kiss to his lips. 

“Happy?” 

“Yes,” he said simply, like there wasn’t a threat 20 feet from you, even worse, the team could see you at any moment. “Now let's kick ass.”

You giggled again, and it made Bucky debate whether to keep you pressed against the wall a little longer. The world was ending outside, alarms screaming through the streets, but all he could think about was the sound of your laugh against his mouth. Still, he forced himself to pull away. The faster he killed this thing, the faster he could get you home and hear that sound all night instead of in stolen seconds between missions.

His hand slipped from yours slowly, like neither of you really wanted to let go.

“Don’t die on me, Barnes,” you teased softly, trying to ignore the tight feeling in your chest that always came before missions.

Bucky’s expression changed instantly. Serious. Almost angry.

“Not funny,” he muttered.

Your smile faded a little at the look in his eyes. Bucky always acted like losing you could actually kill him. Maybe it could.

You leaned up quickly, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before stepping away. “I’ll be fine.”

He stared at you for a second too long before nodding once. “You better be.”

Then the two of you were running in opposite directions.

You headed left toward Nat while Bucky disappeared toward Tony, gunfire and smoke swallowing him almost instantly. The thing you’d all been fighting had torn through the city since sunrise, leaving wrecked buildings and fires behind like breadcrumbs. Nobody even fully knew what it was yet, only that it wouldn’t die.

Every hit barely slowed it down.

“Son of a bitch,” you muttered when the creature hurled a car toward you. You ducked just in time, the car smashing into the pavement behind you.

“Everyone okay?” Steve’s voice crackled through your earpiece.

“Define okay,” Tony answered breathlessly.

Nat slid beside you, reloading her weapon. “Any bright ideas?”

“Yeah,” you said, staring up at the thing tearing through another building. “I’m thinking we run.”

Nat snorted, but before either of you could move, the creature let out a deafening roar that made the ground tremble beneath your boots. The creature moved faster than before. One second, Nat was beside you, the next she was yelling your name.

You barely had time to look up before part of the building above you gave out.

“Move!” Nat screamed.

You tried, but something slammed into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.

Pain exploded through your body as concrete and metal crashed around you. Your head hit the pavement, everything ringing and blurry for a second before the weight settled over you.

Somewhere nearby, people were shouting, and you heard a loud crash. Your vision flickered.

“...shit— she’s down,” Steve said over the comms. You couldn’t speak…you couldn’t move. 

Across the battlefield, Bucky’s heart stopped at Steve's words. His body stopped with it. He felt the chaos around him, but couldn’t move to help anyone. He could only think of you as he left Tony to go find you. Tony yelled behind him something about needing to keep fighting, but he couldn’t hear him over the sound of his heartbeat; even if he could, he wouldn’t stop. 

When he found you, Nat hovered over you, trying to get you to speak. Your bloody body in her hands. Steve was beside them, looking for help. 

Although you couldn’t see, you could hear, Bucky. Horrified.

“No. No, no, no.” You had never heard him sound afraid before.

“Bucky—” Nat tried to warn softly, but Bucky was already dropping to his knees beside you.

Everything around him disappeared. The screaming. The fighting. The comms in his ear.

None of it mattered.

“Hey, hey, hey.” His hands shook as they carefully grabbed yours, almost terrified that touching you would hurt worse. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Blood covered your side. Too much of it.

Bucky felt sick.

You looked so small lying there.

“Look at me,” he begged, voice cracking badly. “C’mon, doll, look at me. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay, alright? Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

But the words sounded desperate instead of convincing, and everyone around him could hear it. Steve stared. Nat’s eyes widened slightly. Tony looked between the two of you in confusion.

Because Bucky Barnes looked terrified.

Not teammate terrified.

Not mission terrified.

Terrified like his whole world was bleeding out in front of him.

“Get her some help!” he shouted suddenly, loud enough that his voice nearly broke. “Now!”

Your fingers weakly curled around his metal hand.

“Buck…” you whispered.

His entire face crumbled at hearing your voice.

“I’m here,” he said immediately, tears burning in his eyes now. “I’m right here, baby. Stay with me, okay? Stay with me.” You tried to smile, but it came out weak.

“I love you.”

The words were barely audible. But Bucky heard them. And it destroyed him.

A broken sound left his throat as he leaned closer to you, pressing your joined hands against his chest as if he could somehow keep your heart beating with his own. “No, no, don’t talk like that,” he rambled quickly. “You’re okay. You hear me? I love you too. God, I love you so much. I love you more than anything.”

The battlefield had gone strangely quiet around him. Nobody understood what they were hearing. Bucky didn’t even notice.

“You can’t leave me,” he whispered, tears finally falling now. “Please don’t leave me. I can’t…I can’t do that again.”

“Bucky…” Steve said carefully. Bucky looked up then, eyes red and furious and terrified all at once.

“We’ve been together for a year,” he choked out. “So somebody do something. S-somebody help her! Somebody kill that fucking thing.”

He finally looked back to see that the monster was on the ground. Whatever happened in the two minutes you were on the ground stopped it, at least for the moment.

 “You’ve been together for a year?” Tony said, as he looked at Bucky, then at you, Your breathing was uneven now. Weak. 

Nat was somewhere behind him, yelling for medical, her voice sounding farther and farther away. Bucky’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He kept rubbing his thumb over your cheek as if he stopped touching you, you’d disappear.

“Yes, but we…we’ve loved each other for longer.”

Then he looked at Steve.

And suddenly, he didn’t look like the Winter Soldier anymore. He looked young. Terrified. Like the skinny kid from Brooklyn begging the world not to take another person from him.

“Please,” he said, voice cracking completely. “Help her.”

Tony dropped beside him quickly, scanning your injuries, but the second Bucky saw the look on his face, something inside him snapped.

“No,” Bucky said immediately.

Tony’s expression only fell further.

“Barnes–”

“No!” Bucky shouted, pulling you closer against him. “No, don’t fucking look at me like that.”

Your eyes fluttered weakly toward him.

“Bucky…” you breathed.

“I’m here,” he said instantly, tears falling freely now. “I’m right here, baby. I got you.”

Your hand twitched in his.

He grabbed it like it was the most important thing in the world.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he kept saying, voice trembling harder each time. “You hear me? We’re gonna go home after this. I’m gonna make you coffee tomorrow morning, and you’re gonna complain it tastes terrible even though you drink the whole thing anyway.”

A tiny smile ghosted across your lips. Bucky looked wrecked seeing it. “I love you,” you whispered.

And God, it sounded like goodbye.

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head hard enough it looked painful. “No, don’t say it like that. Don’t… please don’t say it like that.”

“I love you,” you repeated softly.

Bucky broke.

A horrible sound left his throat as he pressed his forehead against yours, clutching your hand against his chest.

“I love you too,” he sobbed. “I love you so much. More than anything, sweetheart. Please stay. Please stay with me.”

Your breathing hitched.

Then stopped.

For a second, nobody moved.

Bucky stared at you.

Waiting.

Waiting for another breath.

Another blink.

Anything.

“...Doll?” he whispered.

Silence.

Tony slowly reached forward, fingers brushing against your neck before his face fell completely.

Bucky noticed.

And the denial in his eyes shattered.

“No,” he breathed.

Steve took a step forward carefully. “Buck”

“No!”

Bucky pulled you against him harder, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other desperately held your lifeless hand.

“No, no, no, no, please.” His entire body shook violently now. “You can’t do this to me. Please don’t do this to me.”

Nobody knew what to say.

Nat had tears in her eyes.

Steve looked devastated.

Tony just looked numb.

And Bucky…

Bucky looked like the world had ended.

Because to him, it had.

What's worse is that no one knew how to comfort him. They didn’t even know the two of you were together. Steve put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“S-she wanted to get married in a barn house one day, a-and she wanted Nat to be her maid of honor.” Nat broke behind him, “A-and she was so excited to tell you guys one day.” Bucky looked up. “She was so happy…we were so happy together.”

They didn’t know what to do, so they sat with him over your body, as he spoke about things only he knew about you. “And she loved when no one was home so she and I could watch cheesy movies on the big TV, since I refused to admit to liking them.” Bucky choked on his breath, “I should have admitted I liked them… I-i should have”

No one could look at him, their hearts ached, “And she used to tell you guys she was going to go read, but really she’d come to my room and make me read her favorite books to her.” Bucky put his forehead against yours, “And she wore socks to sleep like a crazy person, but she looked so damn cute in her fuzzy socks.” Tony chuckled behind him. 

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The sound of the zipper catches your attention before his voice does.

You look up from the counter just as Bucky finishes pulling on his jacket, that worn black thing with the creases in the elbows and the slight fray at the left cuff. You’ve tried to get him to wear something newer, once. He said he didn’t like how they smelled. Something about the factory scent bothering him. You didn’t push.

Now, he’s shifting his weight like he’s already halfway out the door, one boot planted, the other tapping a quiet rhythm on the tile like he’s measuring time in heartbeats.

“Shouldn’t take long,” he says, without looking at you.

You nod. Your hands are damp—dishwater still clinging to your skin, the scent of soap clashing with the undertone of steel and leather that always lingers when he’s home.

“Just a quick pickup. In, out,” he adds.

You dry your hands on a towel that’s already half-damp and draped over your shoulder. “Don’t forget the part where you come back in one piece.”

That gets a small smile from him. Not teeth. Just that faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that feels like a secret between you.

He steps into the middle of the kitchen, hovering awkwardly, like he wants to say something else but doesn’t have the map for it. His hand finds the back of his neck. He scratches, nervous.

You cross the space before he decides to leave the moment behind.

He meets you halfway, eyes scanning your face like he’s taking a mental picture. You wonder if he always does that before he goes—cataloguing you, just in case.

You rest your hand gently on his chest, above the zipper. The fabric is still cool. You feel the steady thud of his heart through it. He’s calm. But not present.

“Hey,” you say, softer now. “Be safe.”

He leans in like he always does—brief, automatic.

But this time, you don’t let the kiss be brief. You lean into it.

You press your mouth against his like you’re trying to leave something on him. Like maybe if you kiss him hard enough, long enough, he won’t forget to come back. Your fingers curl slightly into his jacket, not pulling, just holding.

He stills.

And for a second—just a second—he kisses you back like he understands. Like he’s afraid too.

When he pulls away, his eyes don’t meet yours.

“You’ll be asleep by the time I’m back,” he says, already halfway toward the door.

You watch him pick up his gloves. The way his shoulders set, not in tension but in distance.

You open your mouth to say something—something stupid, probably. Something like come back to me whole, please, but what comes out is—

“Want me to leave a plate out?”

He hesitates. Then shrugs, voice easy: “Nah. I’ll grab something on the way.”

You nod.

He nods.

The door closes.

You exhale into the quiet.

Not loud. Not sudden. But final, in that way apartment doors sometimes are. Like the soft echo of a line you didn’t realize was being drawn.

You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, towel still in your hand, still folded in your fingers like you don’t remember picking it up. You can feel the heat of his mouth on yours, ghost-warm, already fading. The kiss sits in your chest like something unfinished. Like a thought interrupted.

You finally move.

One step. Then two.

The living room feels bigger when he’s not in it. The silence is different now. Not peaceful. Just… present.

You glance at the clock. Not even 5.

You try to talk yourself down before you start spiraling, because this is normal. You’ve been through this before. He goes. He comes back. You’re dating someone who disappears into black SUVs with government plates and comes back smelling like sweat and blood.

It’s not a surprise anymore.

Still, you catch yourself replaying the moment before he left. The pause at the threshold. The way he turned back—not all the way, just his head—and opened his mouth like he was going to say something.

And then didn’t.

You wonder if he knew you were watching him too closely. If he could feel you reading him like a language you hadn’t fully learned yet.

You could’ve said something. Be careful. I’ll be awake. Don’t make me wait all night again.

But you didn’t.

You’ve been trying to be cool about it lately. Trying to be normal. Civilians don’t cling. Civilians don’t panic when the mission takes longer than expected. Civilians don’t ask where the bruises come from when the report says “routine.”

Instead, you go into the kitchen and pour the rest of the dishwater down the sink. You rinse the plate you were washing. You clean the already-clean counter, like you’re trying to erase something from it.

You don’t even realize you’re still wearing the towel on your shoulder until you sit down.

The clock ticks.

You pull the blanket over your legs, flick on the TV. Something easy. Background noise. Something that doesn’t remind you that you’re not the one he calls when things go wrong. You’re not part of the mission. You’re just… waiting.

And you didn’t say come back to me this time.

You always say it.

This time, you didn’t.

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The apartment still smells like him.

You try not to notice that part.

It’s there anyway—his soap, the faint trace of his leather jacket, the deeper scent underneath that you only ever notice when he’s gone. Something cold and metal and human. A ghost of him that clings to the air.

You pull the blanket higher over your legs and try to focus on the sitcom playing, the laugh track too loud for how alone you feel. Your phone sits on the coffee table, screen dark. You stare at it, but only in the corner of your eye.

There’s nothing to check. No new messages. No missed calls. Just the echo of a kiss that felt a little too much like goodbye.

You let out a breath and realize your shoulders are tense.

Uncurl them.

Relax.

This isn’t new.

You’ve been here before.

You’ve done the wait.

Still, you’re not sure why this time feels different. Maybe it’s how fast he left. Or how long he looked at you like he was memorizing the shape of your face. Maybe it’s that weird edge in his voice when he said he wouldn’t be long.

Or maybe it’s just you.

You pull your phone into your lap anyway, unlock it, then lock it again. You scroll through your texts. Nothing from him.

You check your clock.

It’s 8:17.

Still normal.

You open your messages to Yelena, hover your thumb over the keyboard. You could say something casual. You could ask where they went, if she’s with him, if they’ve wrapped up.

But that makes it real, doesn’t it?

Like you’re worried.

And you’re not. Not yet.

You lock your phone again and toss it onto the other end of the couch. It lands face-down.

The apartment is so quiet now.

No boots by the door. No jacket draped over the back of a chair. No faint muttering from the bathroom as he brushes his teeth, always forgetting you can hear him talking to himself.

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10:03PM.

The credits roll.

You don’t remember the last five minutes of the episode. You weren’t watching anymore—just staring in the direction of the screen, your eyes blurry and dry.

You check your phone again.

Still nothing.

You tell yourself it’s fine. He said a few hours. Maybe things went sideways, but not in the bad way. Just in the someone got stuck in a hallway way. Or the they had to reroute the exit way.

You’ve heard him and Yelena debrief before. Sometimes the word complication just means boring as hell.

But still.

You pull up his contact. Your thumb hovers. You don’t want to be That Girlfriend.

You press call anyway.

The ring doesn’t even start.

Straight to voicemail.

You hang up before the beep.

And there it is—your stomach twisting.

You stand up before you know why you’re doing it, pacing the small length of the apartment like you’re trying to shake something off. You walk to the window. Look out.

Nothing.

Like you expected him to be down there, casually walking up the steps with that half-smirk and a bad takeout bag in hand.

You close your eyes. Count to five.

Then ten.

Then twenty.

You sit back down.

You stare at the phone.

At 10:12 you call again.

Voicemail.

You don’t leave one.

You chew your bottom lip until the taste of copper hits your tongue, then curse under your breath and get back up. The silence in the apartment has shape now. It’s following you. It’s louder than your footsteps.

You rub your palms against your jeans. You’re not cold, but you’re shivering anyway.

You walk to the kitchen and open a cabinet just to close it again.

10:26PM.

This isn’t normal.

It’s not not normal, but it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like a delay. It feels like something else. Something heavier.

You pick up your phone. Tap open your texts.

You:

Hey. All okay?

You hit send before you can overthink it.

You stare at the three little dots at the top of the screen, hoping—stupidly—for the typing bubble.

Nothing.

10:37PM.

You call Yelena.

One ring. Two. Three—

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You don’t even wait for the tone this time.

You end the call.

The silence after it clicks off is louder than the ringing.

You stare at the phone like it’s failed you. Or like it holds the answer and just won’t give it up. Like maybe if you tap the screen hard enough, a message will appear. Or maybe he will.

You sink onto the couch again, phone clutched too tightly in your hand. You pull your knees to your chest, the blanket tangled beneath you. Your heart isn’t racing yet—but it’s not moving normally either. There’s a rhythm to it that’s off, like a song you can’t remember the lyrics to but can’t stop humming.

10:48PM.

You text again.

You:

Just let me know you’re okay. Please.

You watch the message deliver. You check the time again like it’s lying to you.

It isn’t.

You leave the text thread and open his location.

Unavailable.

You close it.

Open it again.

Still nothing.

Your stomach churns.

Maybe his phone died. Maybe it got destroyed. That’s happened before, hasn’t it? You try to remember. Has it?

Or maybe it’s in his pocket and he just didn’t think to check.

You press your fingers to your temple and close your eyes. Don’t do this. Don’t spiral. Don’t be that girl who panics because her boyfriend didn’t text for a few hours.

Except it’s not just a few hours anymore.

And he’s not your boyfriend who works at a boring desk job. He’s a Thunderbolt. Which is just a sanitized way of saying government-approved chaos with body armor and legal kill orders.

You try calling again.

Voicemail.

You call Yelena again.

Voicemail.

You don’t leave one. Again.

Instead, you pace.

Kitchen to couch. Couch to door. Door to window.

You look out again, even though you know he’s not out there. Your arms are crossed, your shoulders tight, your breath shallow.

You open your phone and start to type out another message, then delete it.

Start again.

Delete.

You throw the phone down on the couch and immediately pick it back up.

It’s 11:06.

You sit on the armrest, perched like you’re about to launch into flight. You don’t blink.

You try to reason with yourself.

No news is good news.

They’d call you if something happened.

Wouldn’t they?

You try to imagine the Thunderbolts’ HR department having your number. You try to picture Yelena remembering you exist in the middle of a mess.

And then you try to remember if anyone’s ever called you when things got bad.

They haven’t.

Because they never had to.

Because nothing this bad has ever happened.

Your jaw tightens. Your leg bounces. You stare at the front door like you can will him through it.

But it doesn’t open.

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11:22PM.

You press call one more time.

Yelena’s name glows at the top of your screen, and for a brief moment, you believe she’s going to pick up. That she’ll say something sarcastic and roll her eyes through the phone and tell you to stop freaking out, Barnes is fine, probably just pouting in the backseat with a busted comms link and a bad attitude.

The screen goes dark.

Voicemail.

This time, you don’t hang up.

You wait.

You listen to the beep.

And your voice comes out so much smaller than you intended.

“Hey. I—sorry. It’s just me. Again.”

You laugh, and it’s hollow and cracked.

“I know I’m probably being stupid. But I haven’t heard from him. He said a few hours and it’s…it’s almost midnight. And I’ve called, and texted, and I just—can you call me back? Please?”

You press your lips together, try to breathe through your nose.

“He didn’t say where they were going. I know he’s not supposed to tell me. I know. But… I just—can you just tell me if he’s okay?”

You stop.

You shouldn’t say more.

But your chest hurts now, and the words are falling out whether you want them to or not.

“I keep thinking I should’ve told him to come back to me. I always say it, and this time I didn’t. I just let him walk out and I don’t—I don’t know why.”

You pause.

Then, very quietly: “I don’t know what I’ll do if something happened to him.”

You hang up before your voice fully breaks.

And then you sit on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, phone balanced on your thigh like it might buzz any second.

It doesn’t.

You don’t cry yet.

You just press your forehead to your knees and start to count in your head, trying to hold the panic at bay with math. With breath. With silence.

You make it to 45.

Then you start over.

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1:07AM.

You’ve gone quiet.

Not calm—just emptied.

You’ve stopped calling. Stopped pacing. Now you just sit on the floor, back against the couch, staring at nothing, letting the stillness throb around you like a bruise you can’t reach.

Then the phone buzzes in your hand.

Incoming Call: Yelena

You don’t breathe as you answer it.

“Yelena?”

She yawns immediately. A scratchy inhale, the sound of a blanket shifting on the other end.

“Mm. Yeah. Hey. Sorry. I just saw your call—what time is it?”

You don’t waste a second. “Have you heard from Bucky?”

She pauses—but not the way you want her to. Not sharply. Not with concern. Just groggy.

“Barnes? Yeah, he’s gone.”

Your heart stops.

Everything stops.

She keeps talking, her voice drifting somewhere in the dark between sleep and apathy.

“I figured someone would’ve told you. The mission ran late.”

Your body isn’t moving.

You aren’t sure it can.

“Anyway, I’m gonna crash. I love you, okay? I’ll swing by tomorrow if I can. G’night.”

The call ends.

Just like that.

You stare at the screen.

It takes a full ten seconds for your brain to catch up.

He’s gone.

Gone.

Gone and no one told you. Gone and it’s 1AM. Gone and she sounded like it wasn’t even worth mentioning.

You can’t breathe.

You’re still holding the phone like it weighs nothing. Then, suddenly, it weighs everything. You drop it. It hits the rug without a sound.

You curl forward like your body is trying to protect something inside it, like instinct is trying to shield your heart from what your brain just processed.

Your fingers claw at the hem of your shirt, trying to do something. Trying to anchor yourself.

But your chest is already tightening.

Your breath shortens.

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“Sweetheart?”

The word breaks through the noise in your head like light under a locked door.

You lift your head. Just enough to see the outline of him—jacket still on, hair damp from night air, keys still in his hand. He’s squinting, confused, like maybe he left something behind and walked into the wrong apartment.

Your mouth opens.

Nothing comes out but breath.

You push up on shaking hands, trying to move—crawl, stand, anything—but your body doesn’t follow. Your knees fold beneath you, and you crumble back down, all your weight hitting the floor like gravity just remembered you exist.

You reach for him without thinking, fingers outstretched, trembling. You can barely see through the blur in your eyes.

“Are you real?” you choke out.

And it sounds like it’s killing you to ask.

He’s moving before the words are even done.

“Hey—hey—baby, what’s—” His boots hit the floor hard, jacket dropping somewhere behind him as he crosses the space in seconds, kneeling beside you. “What’s wrong? What happened? Are you hurt?”

You can’t answer.

You’re gasping, trying to breathe around the sobs still tearing their way out of your chest. Your hands find his arms, his skin, his stupid metal shoulder—just trying to confirm that he’s here, that he’s solid.

His hands are on your face now, on your back, pulling you into him like he’s trying to hold the pieces of you together.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he murmurs, over and over. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

But you’re not okay.

You shake your head violently, fists curling in his shirt.

“Where were you?” you sob. “Why didn’t you—why didn’t you call? I thought—I thought you were—”

You can’t even say the word.

His whole body stiffens as the reality begins to dawn on him.

“I thought you were dead,” you whisper.

He goes still.

“No one told me. Yelena—she said you were gone—she didn’t mean—” You suck in another ragged breath. “She didn’t know I didn’t know. She just said it, and you weren’t here, and I couldn’t—”

“Shit,” he breathes, his voice breaking for the first time. “Shit. I didn’t—I didn’t think—”

You look up at him through tear-blurred eyes. “How the fuck was I supposed to sleep, James? Not knowing if you needed me? If you were hurt or bleeding out or—”

“I didn’t think to call,” he says hoarsely. “I thought—I figured you’d be asleep. No one’s ever stayed up for me before.”

You flinch.

And that’s when he realizes it.

That’s when it hits him.

You stayed up. You waited. You suffered. For him.

Your chest is still heaving. Your face is wet. But the words push out, broken and fierce.

“I love you,” you whisper. “You fucking idiot. I love you.”

His eyes lock on yours.

And for a second, he looks like he doesn’t believe you’re real.

Then he kisses you.

Hard.

He doesn’t stop kissing you.

Not when your lips go slack from exhaustion. Not when your hands tremble against his collar. Not even when your breathing finally starts to slow, hiccuping into his mouth like your lungs are still learning how to work again.

He kisses you like someone trying to undo something—something he knows can’t be undone.

When he finally pulls back, he’s cradling your face in both hands, and he’s looking at you like he doesn’t know what to say. Like he wants to apologize and crawl inside you and make you laugh, all at the same time.

Your eyes flutter open. They’re puffy. Raw. Tired.

But steady now.

And when you speak, your voice is cracked but clear.

“Give me your phone.”

He blinks. “…What?”

“Your phone,” you repeat, breath still shallow. “Right now.”

He hesitates for half a second—then shifts, pulling it out of his pocket without argument. He places it in your palm like it’s some kind of offering.

You unlock it.

You open contacts.

You scroll until you find yourself already saved there—just your first name, no last, no label.

You click edit.

And you add two words.

Emergency Contact.

He watches you do it.

He doesn’t say anything until you press “Done” and hand it back.

“Okay,” you murmur, collapsing again against his chest. “Now if you die, someone has to tell me.”

His arms come around you again. Tight. Unyielding.

You feel him exhale against your temple. It’s shaky.

“I’m sorry,” he says into your hair. “I didn’t think. I should’ve—I should’ve known. I just—I didn’t think anyone would care. Not like that.”

You close your eyes.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper. “Don’t you ever fucking say that again.”

His voice is barely there.

“I don’t deserve you.”

You press your forehead to his shoulder and breathe him in—sweat, metal, leather, skin.

And then you say it again.

“I love you.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

His eyes are glassy.

He presses his hand to your cheek, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

And he says it like it’s a vow.

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Yelena answers the door in mismatched socks and a protein shake in one hand.

“Finally,” she says, grinning. “Did Barnes survive the night or did you bury him in your walls?”

You hit her in the arm.

Hard.

She stumbles back a step—not from pain, but from sheer shock. “Ow?!?”

Bucky raises a hand behind you like yep, fair, but stays wisely out of it.

“You said he’s gone,” you snap, walking past her and into the hallway like you live there. “Do you understand what that sounded like to someone who hadn’t heard from him in over six hours?”

Yelena blinks.

Then: “Oh.”

You spin on her. “Oh?”

She blinks again. “I meant he left the mission. To come home.”

“Yeah, I figured that out between the full-body panic attack and the part where I thought I’d be planning a funeral.”

Her face crumples a little. “Shit.”

“I thought he was dead, Yelena.”

“I didn’t—” she starts, but the words die on her tongue. She puts her protein shake down. “Okay. That one’s on me. Punch me again if it helps.”

You stare at her.

Then you walk over and hug her so hard she makes a noise like a kicked dog.

“I love you,” you mumble into her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” she mutters. “You really love him, huh?”

You pull back. “Yeah.”

She looks at Bucky.

Then at you.

Then says, like she’s reporting on the weather, “You’re so soft now. It’s disgusting.”

Behind you, Bucky mutters, “You have no idea.”

You turn to him, ready to jab back, but he’s already pulling you into his side, arm firm around your waist. He kisses the top of your head like he doesn’t even care who’s watching.

“You’re not allowed to love everyone,” he says, gruff. “Just me.”

You smirk. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

You tilt your face up.

He kisses you—slow, warm, no apology.

Yelena makes a gagging sound in the background, but neither of you hear it.