Angel

The next few days were unbearable.

Pretending you didn’t know Bucky in the hallways felt like swallowing glass. The way he’d look straight ahead when passing you. The way you had to train your face not to soften at the sound of his laugh.

He hated it too, you could see it in the tightness of his jaw, in how quickly his eyes flicked toward you before forcing themselves away.

Your friendship had been reduced to scraps.

Hidden notes slipped through locker vents.

Brief glances across crowded corridors.

Five stolen minutes beneath the bleachers by the gym stairs.

Speaking of which.

That was exactly where you were heading now.

You were practically glowing, eager to tell him about your morning, the way your literature teacher had mispronounced “melancholy,” the way Steve had drawn a caricature of the principal. Small things. Normal things. Things you used to share freely.

You heard a masculine laugh under the stairs and smiled to yourself.

Of course he was early.

“Hey, you won’t believe what the teacher said ab-”

You lifted your head.

And froze.

William was there.

He was stepping back from a boy you recognized vaguely from his friend group. Tall. Brown hair. You’d heard his name before.

Howard?

Harold?

It didn’t matter.

Because he hadn’t stepped back far enough.

William had been kissing him.

Your brain short-circuited.

“F-Fuck!” William jumped back like he’d been burned. “Y/n, it’s not what it looks like!”

“William,” the other boy said under his breath. “She saw us.”

“Shut up, Harold!” William snapped, pointing at him.

Oh.

Harold, then.

“Y/n, look-” William started again, panic bleeding through his voice.

“Hey, doll! Sorry I’m late, I got stuck in cla-”

Bucky stopped mid-sentence.

His eyes moved from you…To William…To Harold.

Both flushed. Both breathless.

“Oh.”

Silence fell heavy.

Then Bucky’s brows furrowed. “Wait-were you sneaking around with him? With your little friend?”

William flinched.

“You were kissing yours!”

“Lower your voice!” William hissed, glancing around wildly.

Bucky’s eyes widened, not in disgust, not in anger. Just surprise. Processing.

“Then maybe lower your tone when you talk to her too,” Bucky shot back.

William deflated.

Completely.

He looked at Harold, jaw tight, and jerked his head toward the exit. “Go.”

Harold hesitated, then left quickly, avoiding everyone’s eyes.

“Y/n…” William’s voice was smaller now. Afraid. “Can we talk? Just us.”

Bucky crossed his arms immediately. “I don’t trust you alone with her. Remember the last time?”

You reached out and touched his arm, stopping him mid-sentence.

“It’s okay, Bucky,” you said softly. “I can handle my brother.”

His eyes searched yours for a long moment before he gave a reluctant nod and stepped back, though he didn’t go far, positioning himself within earshot, near where Harold awkwardly lingered.

William turned back to you.

He didn’t look defensive.

He looked terrified.

“Y/n…It’s not what it looked like. We were just-”

“No...You like him,” you said quietly.

It wasn’t a question.

William’s gaze dropped to the ground.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, barely audible-

“Yeah.”

The word hung between you.

Raw. Honest. Unprotected.

Your anger shifted. Not gone, but complicated now.

“You’ve been seeing him in secret,” you said slowly.

He nodded once. “For months.”

“And you were scared someone would find out.”

Another nod.

“And that’s why you-” your voice wavered slightly. “That’s why you’re so obsessed with controlling everything. With me. With who I talk to.”

His jaw tightened. Shame flooding in.

“You don’t understand,” he said quietly. “If Dad finds out-”

“I do understand,” you cut in gently. “Better than you think.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you. Searching for judgment.

There wasn’t any.

Just hurt.

“You stole my letters,” you said softly.

He swallowed.

“I didn’t want him having that much power over you,” William admitted. “He already does.”

Your chest ached.

“You don’t get to protect me by hurting me.”

His eyes filled slightly, but he blinked it back.

“I was scared,” he whispered.

You glanced over your shoulder.

Bucky was watching, not intruding, not mocking. Just alert. Steady.

Waiting.

You turned back to your brother.

“You don’t get to ruin my life because you’re afraid of yours,” you said. Not cruel. Just firm.

William nodded slowly.

“I know.”

For the first time, he didn’t argue.

And under the gym stairs, in the dim space where secrets kept colliding, you realized something heavy and fragile at the same time-

Everyone was hiding something.

Some secrets just hurt more than others.

“I’m a disgrace to this family, Y/n…” William’s voice cracked in a way you had never heard before. “And Dad…Dad always loved you more. I tried to be what he wanted. I’m the best player in almost every sport, I-I get good grades, I’m smart, I-I’m-”

His words fell apart under their own weight.

You stepped closer before he could spiral further.

“You are perfect the way you are, William. You are my brother.,” you said firmly, your voice steadier than you felt. “When I was little, I was so proud of you. You were my hero. I never understood why you started pulling away. Why you started being angry at me…”

He covered his face briefly, dragging a shaky breath through his hands.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were small. Honest. Stripped of ego.

“I miss when you were my best friend,” you admitted, your throat tightening.

His shoulders trembled slightly.

“I miss it too,” he whispered. “When I realized what I was doing, it was already too late. You hated me. I hated me.”

“I never hated you, William.”

He looked up at that. Really looked at you.

There was disbelief in his eyes. And hope. Fragile hope.

“Aren't you ashamed of me?“”

“For what? Because you like your friend? Jesus, no!” you laughed softly. “I'm ashamed of you because you wear this ridiculous hairstyle...”

“Idiot!”

A comforting silence hung over you two.

“I was jealous,” he admitted hoarsely. “You were…Free. Even when Dad was strict, you were still you. You didn’t bend the way I did. And then when I started figuring out that I liked boys…” His voice dropped to almost nothing. “I panicked.”

Your heart ached.

“And when Bucky came around,” William continued, glancing briefly toward where Bucky stood, “he didn’t care what Dad thought. He didn’t care what anyone thought. He just…Stood next to you.”

You couldn’t help the small, sad smile that touched your lips.

William let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

There was a long pause.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “If Dad finds out…I don’t know what he’ll do. I don’t know if he’ll look at me the same. He will send me to the army or worse...”

You swallowed.

“Then we don’t tell him,” you said quietly. “Not until you’re ready. This is your story. Not his.”

William’s eyes filled again, but this time he didn’t look away.

“You’d really…Keep this for me? After everything?”

“You’re my brother,” you answered simply. “You hurt me. But you’re still my brother.”

His breath left him in a shaky exhale.

For a second, he hesitated, like he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

Then he stepped forward.

And you hugged him first.

It was awkward at the start. Stiff. Years of distance sitting between you.

But slowly, carefully, his arms wrapped around you too.

“I’m going to fix this,” he murmured into your shoulder. “With you. I promise.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

Behind you, Bucky shifted slightly, but he didn’t interrupt. He had seen enough to understand this wasn’t a fight.

It was something else entirely.

Something that looked a little like healing.

The next morning, you went downstairs earlier than usual.

For the first time in weeks, you felt something close to relief. You could talk to Bucky again without sneaking around your own brother.

You just had to make sure your father never found out about the real reason.

You were on the last step of the staircase when you saw William rushing toward it.

And then you saw it.

The bruise.

Dark purple blooming beneath his eye.

“What-” you started.

He didn’t stop.

He just gave you a small, almost dismissive shake of his head and continued up the stairs.

Your stomach dropped.

“Y/n, come here!” your father’s voice boomed from the living room.

Your blood ran cold.

You forced your legs to move.

He was standing near his armchair, posture rigid, jaw tight.

“William told me he lied about the James Barnes,” your father said flatly. “Therefore, you are no longer grounded.”

The words barely registered.

All you could see was your brother’s bruised eye.

“He…He lied?” you repeated carefully.

“Yes. He admitted he exaggerated. I won’t have false accusations made in this house.”

False accusations.

You swallowed.

“He understood the importance of honesty.”

There was something in his voice. A warning. A line you weren’t supposed to cross.

You nodded slowly.

“Yes, sir.”

“You are dismissed.”

You walked out of the room on steady legs.

But the second you were out of sight, your composure cracked.

He told the truth.

And he paid for it.

A bruise for your freedom.

Your chest tightened painfully.

You hurried back upstairs, knocking once before pushing William’s door open slightly.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, an ice pack pressed to his eye.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

“He hit you,” you said quietly.

William gave a humorless half-smile.

“Not the first time,” he replied, like he was commenting on the weather.

“William…”

“I can take it,” he continued, voice steady but low. “I’ve been taking it for years. But I’m not letting him use me to control you anymore.”

The weight of that settled heavily in the room.

“You shouldn’t have to take it at all,” you whispered.

He shrugged one shoulder.

“Maybe not. But I’m done hurting you to survive.”

Silence stretched between you.

Not tense.

Just real.

From downstairs, you heard your father moving around. The house felt smaller than ever.

William lowered the ice pack slightly.

“You can see him now,” he said quietly. “Barnes.”

You hesitated.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded.

“Just…Be careful.”

You stepped closer and, without overthinking it, gently adjusted the ice pack back against his eye.

“Thank you,” you said.

He didn’t brush your hand away.

For the first time in a long time-

You felt like you had your brother back.

You didn’t waste any time.

The moment the conversation with your brother ended, you grabbed your coat and hurried out the door, your feet carrying you straight down the familiar street toward the Rogers’ house.

Like always, their door was unlocked.

Like always, it smelled faintly of coffee and whatever Mrs. Rogers had baked that morning.

And like always.

Bucky Barnes was exactly where you expected him to be.

Sitting on the Rogers’ worn sofa, one ankle resting on his knee, the morning newspaper spread wide in his hands like he was some respectable middle-aged man instead of the same neighborhood troublemaker he’d always been.

He looked up when he heard you enter.

And he smiled.

It was immediate.. Automatic.

“There she is,” he said easily. “Everything alright, doll?”

You didn’t even sit before the words started spilling out.

You told him everything.

William’s black eye.

Your father’s sudden decision.

The punishment being lifted.

By the time you finished, Bucky had lowered the newspaper completely, his brows slightly furrowed in thought.

“Y’know…” he said slowly, scratching the back of his neck. “Never thought I’d say this in my life…”

He leaned back into the couch.

“But I feel bad for your brother.”

You blinked at him.

“Seriously?”

Bucky shrugged one shoulder.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. The guy can be a real jackass sometimes.” he said bluntly. “But…He was raised by your old man.”

There was a quiet understanding behind the words.

You nodded silently.

Across the room, Steve sat at the small table by the window, completely absorbed in his sketchbook, pencil moving quickly across the paper.

“Hey, punk!” Bucky suddenly called, rolling up the newspaper and smacking the back of Steve’s head with it. “Pay attention when a lady’s pouring her heart out.”

“Hey-!” Steve winced, dropping his pencil. “Ow!”

He rubbed the back of his head, glaring up at Bucky.

“And the lady in this situation would be you?”

“Always the gentleman,” Bucky shot back dryly.

You laughed under your breath.

“What are you drawing, Stevie?” you asked, leaning over curiously to peek at the page.

Steve reacted like you’d just caught him committing a crime.

“N-Nothing!” he blurted.

His face turned red. Not just pink.

Red.

Like a tomato.

He slammed the sketchbook shut with sudden force.

Well-

As much force as Steve Rogers could manage with his thin arms.

“Oh ho,” Bucky straightened on the couch immediately. “Now that’s suspicious.”

You stood up too, grinning.

“Is it a girl?” you teased.

“Oh it’s definitely a girl,” Bucky said confidently, already getting to his feet. “I’ll bet my last few coins it’s Daisy from art class.”

He even whistled, clearly delighted by the possibility.

“C’mon, punk!” he lunged for the notebook. “Don’t be shy with us!”

And just like that.

The living room turned into chaos.

Steve, despite being smaller and clearly at a disadvantage, darted around the table with surprising agility, twisting away every time Bucky tried to grab the sketchbook.

“Give it back!” Steve protested.

“Not a chance!”

You laughed loudly from the sidelines, clutching your stomach as the two of them circled the furniture like a pair of idiots.

Steve ducked under Bucky’s arm.

Bucky nearly tripped over a chair.

“Hold still!” Bucky groaned.

“You’re the one chasing me!”

Finally, after a dramatic lunge across the couch.

Bucky managed to snatch the sketchbook.

“Got it!” he declared triumphantly.

But the victory only lasted a second.

His smile slowly faded as he looked down at the page.

“…Steve?”

His voice had changed.

Confused.

He turned the notebook slightly so you could see too.

And your laughter died in your throat.

It was a drawing of Steve.

Not how he looked now.

But taller.

Stronger.

Broad shoulders.

And dressed in a United States Army uniform.

Your chest tightened.

“Steve…” you started gently. “You never said that you-”

But Steve moved fast.

He yanked the sketchbook right out of Bucky’s hands.

“It’s a stupid dream!” he snapped.

His voice cracked with frustration.

Before either of you could say anything else, he turned and rushed up the stairs, his footsteps pounding angrily all the way to his room.

The house fell quiet.

“I think we were a little hard on him…” you murmured.

Your eyes were still fixed on the staircase where Steve had disappeared.

Bucky sighed beside you and dropped back onto the couch cushions.

“Yeah…” he admitted quietly. “I’ll talk to him later.”

He rubbed his hands together, thoughtful.

“Kid probably just needs some space right now.”

The room settled into a softer silence after that. The kind that used to feel normal between the two of you, comfortable, familiar.

You glanced at him.

“I missed talking to you like this,” you confessed.

Bucky turned his head toward you almost immediately.

There was something gentle in his expression.

“Yeah, my love…” he said softly. “Me too.”

My love.

The words landed in your chest like a stone dropped into still water.

New.

Strange.

Your heart skipped before you could stop it.

Bucky didn’t seem to notice the effect they had on you.

Or maybe he did, and chose not to acknowledge it.

“Our friendship’s been…Weird lately,” he continued, looking down at his hands. “And right when we finally sorted things out, that whole mess with your brother happened. Then your old man banning you from seeing me…”

His fingers reached for yours.

You let him take your hand.

“I don’t wanna lose your friendship again, Y/n.” he said quietly.

Friendship.

The word echoed in your head.

But you nodded anyway.

Because the truth was simple.

Even if that was all he could offer…

It was still him.

And that had always been enough for you.

The hallway never really recovered after William left.

Whispers followed him like smoke, and when he disappeared through the front doors, the air felt thick, charged, unfinished. You were still standing there, heart racing, fingers numb, when you felt Bucky shift beside you.

“Y/n,” he said, quieter now. “Hey-”

You turned toward him, already overwhelmed, ready to say something. Anything

“Come on.”

William’s hand clamped around your wrist.

The suddenness of it made you gasp. His grip wasn’t painful, but it was firm, possessive in a way that made your skin crawl.

“William, let go of me,” you said, trying to pull free.

“We’re leaving,” he snapped, already dragging you down the hallway. “Now.”

“Stop,” you protested, stumbling to keep up. “I need to talk to him!”

Bucky moved instantly.

“Get your hands off her,” he said sharply, stepping in front of William, blocking his path.

William sneered. “Stay out of this, Barnes.”

“She didn’t say she was going,” Bucky shot back. His voice wasn’t raised, but it was hard, controlled in a way that made it more dangerous. “You don’t get to pull her around like that.”

Your wrist throbbed under William’s grip. “William, you’re hurting me.”

That was enough.

Bucky reached out, not to hit, not to shove, just to pry William’s fingers loose from your arm. His touch was careful, deliberate, like he was afraid of doing any more damage than had already been done.

William yanked his hand back like he’d been burned.

“Don’t touch me!” he hissed.

“You touched her first,” Bucky replied, eyes dark. “Do it again and we’re going to have a bigger problem.”

“William and James!”

A teacher’s voice echoed faintly down the hall, and William’s expression shifted, anger folding into something sharper, more calculated.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered.

He grabbed your arm again, this time higher, around your elbow, and pulled you toward the exit before you could react.

“Bucky!” you called over your shoulder, panic rising. “I’ll- I’ll talk to you, okay? I promise.”

Bucky followed a few steps, stopping only when you were nearly out the doors. He looked helpless standing there, hands clenched at his sides, watching you be taken away.

“I’ll be here,” he said. “Don’t let him decide this for you...”

Too quiet. Too tight.

You were halfway up the stairs when your father’s voice cut through the hallway.

“Y/n. Living room. Now.”

Your stomach dropped.

William was already there, sitting far too comfortably on the arm of the couch, one leg bouncing, eyes bright with something that wasn’t quite anger, but satisfaction. Your mother stood near the doorway, arms crossed, worry etched deep between her brows.

Your father didn’t ask you to sit.

He stood in front of the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid in that way that meant he’d already made up his mind.

“William tells me there was an incident at school today,” he said.

You glanced at your brother. “An incident,” you repeated quietly.

“He says James Barnes put his hands on him,” your father continued. “In front of other students.”

Your heart began to race. “That’s not what happened!”

William scoffed. “Oh, really? Because last I checked, he grabbed me by the shirt and threatened me.”

“That’s not true,” you said, voice shaking. “He asked you about the letters. The ones you took. You-”

“That’s enough,” your father snapped.

The word landed heavy.

“You will not accuse your brother of lying in this house.”

You froze.

William leaned back, folding his arms, not even trying to hide the smirk now.

Your father turned fully toward you. “I warned you about that boy,” he said. “I warned you he was trouble. And today, he proved me right. Violence. Public humiliation. Dragging our family name through the halls like it meant nothing.”

“He wasn’t violent,” you pleaded. “He was angry. Because William stole my mail. Because he lied to me all summer-”

“James Barnes has no place in your life,” your father said flatly.

The finality in his voice stole the air from your lungs.

“Until further notice,” he continued, “you are not to speak to him. Not at school. Not on the street. Not through friends. No notes. No letters.”

Your vision blurred. “You can’t-”

“I can,” he interrupted. “And I am.”

Your mother shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe we should talk about this-”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said. “That boy disrespected this family. And I won’t have my daughter mixed up in it.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. “He didn’t disrespect me,” you whispered. “He defended me!”

“That doesn’t matter,” your father replied. “What matters is appearances. And safety.”

You let out a broken laugh. “Safety? You think I’m safer with someone who lies to my face and controls what I read?”

William shot up. “Watch it.”

Your father raised a hand, silencing both of you. “This discussion is over.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and for the first time that night his voice softened, just a little.

“You’re a good girl,” he said. “Don’t ruin your future over a boy who doesn’t know his place.”

You swallowed hard, nodding because you didn’t trust yourself to do anything else.

“Go to your room.”

You turned and walked away on legs that felt like they might give out beneath you.

That night, you cried.

Not the quiet, graceful kind of crying people talked about, this was messy and unfair and came in waves that left your chest aching.

You was angry.

Angry at William.

Angry at your father.

Angry at the way adults made decisions about your life and called it protection.

Angry, too, at Betty.

For dating Bucky.

For existing at the wrong time.

Your pillow was damp, eyes burned, and your room felt too small to hold everything you wasn’t allowed to say.

Then-

Tap.

Soft. Careful.

You froze.

Tap. Tap.

Not a knock.

Something lighter. Something familiar.

Your breath caught as the sound registered fully.

A small stone hitting her window.

Your heart knew before your mind did.

James Barnes.

You pushed yourself off the bed and crossed the room on unsteady legs, wiping your cheeks with the back of her hand. The curtain shifted as you pulled it aside just enough to peek out.

There he was.

Standing in the shadows below your window, shoulders tense, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jacket, the other holding another tiny stone like he wasn’t sure if he should throw it again. He looked up the second the curtain moved, eyes searching, hopeful and terrified all at once.

For a moment, you two stared at each other.

The street was quiet. The house was asleep. The world felt like it was holding its breath.

You lifted the window slowly, careful not to make a sound.

“James,”

His shoulders sagged in relief at the sound of your voice. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately, just as softly. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I just- I needed to see you. I needed to know you were okay.”

You shook your head, tears threatening all over again. “I’m not.”

Bucky nodded like he’d expected that. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Then silence.

He took a step back.

“I should go,” he said quietly. “Before I make it worse.”

Panic flared in her chest.

“Bucky-! Wait!”

He froze, looking up at you again.

Your fingers tightened around the window frame. Your heart was hammering so loud you was sure the whole house could hear it. “Don’t go,” you whispered. “Please.”

“Y/n-”

“Come up,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Just for a minute. We’ll be quiet. My parents are asleep.”

He hesitated, glancing toward the dark street, then back at her. “That’s…That’s probably a bad idea.”

You let out a shaky breath, tears slipping free. “I don’t care. I just- I need you. Right now.”

That did it.

His expression softened completely, resolve crumbling. He nodded once. “Okay,” he murmured. “Okay.”

You pulled the window open wider, stepping back as he moved carefully, testing each step, climbing slowly, deliberately, to avoid any sound. Every movement was cautious, controlled, like he was afraid of breaking the moment if he breathed too hard.

When he finally reached the roof edge, he paused, meeting her eyes again.

“You sure?” he whispered.

You nodded, reaching out to grab his hand and pulling him the rest of the way inside.

The window slid shut behind him with the softest click.

And for the first time that night, you felt like she could breathe again.

“W-William told my dad,” you stammered, panic tightening your chest. “A-About what happened. A-And…And-! ”

Your voice broke completely, tears spilling freely down your face again.

“Doll, breathe,” Bucky urged gently, taking a careful step toward you. His voice was low, grounding. “Hey. Look at me.”

“I-I can’t-” you sobbed, shaking your head. “M-My dad said-”

The words tangled in your throat, fear drowning them before they could come out. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes, not with the weight of it crushing your chest.

“Y/n.” His tone softened even more. “Princess, I need you to calm down for me, okay?”

Slowly, your gaze lifted.

His eyes were steady. Worried. Right there with you.

And then he was closing the distance, arms wrapping around you before you could overthink it. One hand rested firmly between your shoulder blades, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you gently into his chest.

You clutched at his shirt like he was the only solid thing left in the room.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, over and over, lips brushing your hair as he spoke. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

Your sobs softened, still shaking but quieter now, muffled against him. He held you like he wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon, rocking you ever so slightly.

Whatever your father had said, whatever consequences were coming.

For this moment, at least, you weren’t alone.

It was safe.

It was right.

You thought about going after him.

Your body even leaned forward, one foot lifting from the ground, your heart screaming his name before your mouth could form it.

“Y/n!” your mother called from inside the house. “Come get your things out of your suitcase!”

You froze.

Home. Routine. Reality. Everything you were supposed to step back into.

You hesitated only a second longer.

Then you nodded, more to yourself than to anyone else, and turned toward the house.

But you didn’t go empty-handed.

Your gaze dropped to the sidewalk.

The bouquet lay there, abandoned and bruised, stems crooked, petals scattered like it had lost a fight it never meant to start. You bent down and picked it up carefully, cradling it in your hands as if it were something fragile. Something that mattered.

William scoffed from the doorway. “Y/n-”

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut. He shut up.

You stepped inside, the door closing softly behind you.

The next morning, Steve was waiting for you at the front gate, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, a stack of books tucked awkwardly against his chest.

No sign of Bucky.

Not on the sidewalk.

Not leaning against the fence.

Your eyes searched the street anyway, slow and hopeful, before you could stop yourself.

Steve noticed. Of course he did.

“Here,” he said gently, stepping closer and reaching for your bag before you could protest. He slung it over his shoulder along with his own, immediately hunching forward under the weight. “I’ve got it.”

“Steve, you’re going to tip over-” you murmured.

He smiled, stubborn. “I’ve survived worse.”

You started walking side by side, the morning air crisp, the neighborhood still quiet except for the distant hum of traffic. After a few steps, you glanced back again.

Nothing.

Steve adjusted the straps digging into his shoulder. “He didn’t come by this morning,” he said casually, too casually. “I think he left early.”

You nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. I figured.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but familiar.

Steve cleared his throat. “You know,” he began, eyes fixed ahead, “you don’t have to explain anything to me.”

You looked at him.

“I mean it,” he added quickly. “Whatever’s going on with you and Bucky. Or Stanley. Or…Anyone.” He hesitated, then smiled softly. “You don’t owe me a report.”

That only made your chest ache more.

“I wasn’t looking for him,” you lied.

Steve didn’t call you on it. He never did.

Classes dragged by in a blur of chalk dust and murmured conversations. Teachers asked about summer break, students whispered about tans and trips and boys who held hands too tight under fireworks. Girls compared notes on summer romances, voices hushed and giggly...

You barely listened.

Your mind kept drifting, back to a bouquet on the sidewalk, to the way Bucky hadn’t looked at you that morning.

The bell rang, releasing the hallway into controlled chaos. You stepped into the current of bodies, clutching your books to your chest-

And collided with him.

“Sorry-” the word caught in your throat.

Bucky didn’t stop.

He didn’t even glance at you.

He just kept walking, shoulders squared, jaw set, heading straight for his classroom like you hadn’t existed at all.

Steve, who had been walking beside him, stumbled to a halt and turned back toward you immediately. “Hey,” he said softly. “I-I’m sorry about him.”

You watched Bucky’s back disappear into the crowd. “It’s fine,” you said, even though it wasn’t. “Why is he acting like that?”

Steve’s mouth tightened. He shook his head. “I don’t know. He won’t talk to me either.”

You swallowed. “Well…He’s definitely not going to talk to me. He can’t even look at me.”

Steve hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, torn in that familiar way between the two of you.

Then something in you settled.

An idea.

You reached into your notebook, hands moving before you could second-guess yourself. The pencil scratched quickly across the page. One sentence. You folded the paper carefully, once, twice, like it mattered how it looked.

You pressed it into Steve’s hand.

“Give it to him,” you said.

Steve glanced down at the folded note, then back up at you. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Please.”

He studied your face for a moment, then tucked the note into his pocket. “Okay,” he said gently. “I will.”

As Steve turned and headed for his classroom, you leaned back against the lockers, heart pounding like you’d just jumped off something high.

Across the hall, Bucky sat at his desk, staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, completely unaware that a small square of paper was about to undo every wall he’d spent the summer building.

Steve slid into his seat like nothing was out of the ordinary, dumping his books onto the desk with his usual lack of grace. Bucky barely acknowledged him, eyes fixed on the blackboard, jaw tight.

A moment later, Steve nudged his elbow and passed the folded paper across the desk, casual, practiced.

Bucky took it without looking, assuming it was one of Steve’s dumb doodles or a complaint about homework. He unfolded it slowly, already half-annoyed-

And froze.

“Can we talk?

-Y/n”

His breath caught.

For a second, the classroom noise faded, the scrape of chairs, the murmur of voices, the teacher shuffling papers. All he could see were those few words, your handwriting unmistakable, soft but steady.

He read it again.

Then again.

Steve watched him from the corner of his eye, saying nothing.

Bucky swallowed hard and folded the paper back up, this time carefully, like it might fall apart if he wasn’t gentle. His fingers trembled just slightly as he tucked it into his pocket.

He didn’t look at Steve.

Didn’t look at the door.

Didn’t look anywhere at all.

But for the first time that day, the tight set of his shoulders eased.

And somewhere deep in his chest, a quiet, terrifying hope sparked.

You stood in the hallway long after the final bell rang, fingers lingering on the cool metal of your locker like you were stalling on purpose. Around you, students spilled out in noisy clusters, laughter echoing, plans being made.

Nothing.

No Bucky.

Your chest sank slowly, painfully.

So he ignored it.

You closed your locker with a quiet click and exhaled, squaring your shoulders before turning toward the exit. It was fine. You told yourself it was. You had survived worse than being ignored by James Barnes.

You had barely taken a few steps when something caught your eye.

At the far end of the corridor.

William.

Your brother leaned casually against the wall, smiling, that lazy, too-confident smile you knew far too well. In front of him stood a girl with perfectly curled hair and a laugh that rang just a little too loud.

Betty.

You slowed.

Then stopped.

William and Betty?

Your stomach dropped.

She reached out and swatted his arm playfully. William leaned in, saying something that made her giggle, her hand briefly brushing his sleeve like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Oh.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered under your breath.

The universe had a twisted sense of humor, apparently.

“Hey…”

Bucky’s voice came from behind you, low and unmistakable, and you startled despite yourself, shoulders jerking slightly.

“Sorry,” he added quickly. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

He wasn’t looking at William.

He wasn’t looking at Betty.

He was only looking at you.

“No, it’s fine,” you murmured, your gaze betraying you as it flicked back toward your brother at the end of the hall.

“I got your note,” Bucky said. “What did you want to talk about?”

You swallowed, then turned fully toward him, the words spilling out before fear could stop them. “Why are you ignoring me?”

“Y/n-”

“No, Bucky. Tell me.” Your voice shook, but you didn’t back down. “Why all of this? I thought we were okay. We talked before I left, we agreed we’d still be friends, and now you won’t even look at me-”

“What are you talking about?” he cut in, incredulous. “You’re the one who ignored me all summer.”

Your breath hitched. “I didn’t.”

“You did,” he insisted. “You never answered any of my letters.”

Your head snapped up. “You didn’t send me any letters, Barnes. What, did you expect me to chase after you?”

He stared at you like you’d slapped him. “Are you kidding me?”

“I never got a single one.”

“I wrote to you,” he said, his voice dropping, tight with disbelief. “Every day. From the moment you left.”

The hallway seemed to quiet around you, a few students slowing, curious. Bucky shot them a sharp look, rigid and warning enough that they quickly minded their own business.

“That’s impossible,” he continued, turning back to you. “I checked the address. Four times. Every letter. And you never replied.”

Something inside you sank.

Slowly.

Your heart clenched as the realization hit you all at once.

William was always the first one to check the mail.

William had never liked Bucky.

Oh.

Oh no.

“Fuck,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Bucky caught it instantly, the way your face changed, the way your eyes darted.

His gaze followed.

Straight to William.

And in that single, silent exchange, the truth settled between you, heavy, ugly, undeniable.

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

“Your brother,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

The hallway felt too small.

And suddenly, everything that had been broken that summer had a name.

Bucky moved before you could think.

“Bucky-” you reached out, your hand pressing flat against his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t.”

It didn’t stop him.

He was solid under your palm, all tension and restrained violence, and he barely seemed to register your touch. He didn’t look at you. Not even for a second.

Blinded by anger, he just kept moving.

“Bucky, please,” you tried again, your voice breaking as you stumbled after him. “Stop.”

He gently, but firmly, pushed past you, not rough, not careless, just utterly determined. The kind of strength that came from years of holding himself back finally snapping loose.

William noticed too late.

Bucky stopped in front of him so abruptly that Betty startled, her smile dropping as she took an instinctive step back.

“What the hell is your problem?” William scoffed, puffing his chest like he always did when he felt challenged. “You lost or something, Barnes?”

Betty's smile returns, thinking that Bucky was feeling jealous of her.

A big mistake.

Bucky leaned in just enough to tower over him, his voice low and deadly calm. “Did you take my letters?”

William blinked. “What?”

“The letters,” Bucky repeated, slower now. “The ones I sent to your sister.”

You hovered a few steps away, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might shatter your ribs. Every muscle in Bucky’s jaw was tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

William laughed, short, dismissive. “You’re insane.”

“You’re lying,” Bucky said quietly. “You hated me. You always have.”

“So what if I did?” William snapped, glancing at Betty like he wanted an audience.

Bucky didn’t wait for permission.

His hand shot out and fisted into the collar of William’s shirt, yanking him forward just enough to steal the smugness right off his face. Gasps rippled through the hallwa, Betty stumbled back completely now, eyes wide.

“I’ve heard a lot of shit from you, William,” Bucky said, his voice low, shaking with restraint rather than volume. “You talking crap about me. About Steve. About how he looks. About how he breathes.”

William’s bravado faltered, his hands coming up instinctively to grip Bucky’s wrist. “Let go of me-”

“I stayed quiet,” Bucky continued, tightening his grip just enough to make his point. “Out of respect for Y/n. I swallowed it every damn time because she loves you. Or she’s supposed to.”

You felt frozen, your heart slamming against your ribs.

“But I am not,” Bucky went on, leaning in, eyes burning, “going to let you mess with my relationship with her. I’m not going to let you steal her letters, lie to her face, and play hero while I look like the bastard who didn’t care.”

William swallowed hard. “You don’t have a relationship with her.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“You know it's not about that.”

William scoffed, rubbing his shoulder. “Whatever. You’re crazy.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Three months.

Three months since your life had grown quieter, less sharp around the edges. You told yourself the pain had dulled because you stopped seeing Bucky, stopped hearing his name spoken out loud, stopped allowing memories to ambush you in the middle of ordinary days.

Distance helped.

At least, that’s what you chose to believe.

You were realistic enough to know you would never truly be over Bucky Barnes, not completely. Some loves didn’t disappear; they simply learned how to stay quiet.

Still, you tried.

You tried to breathe through the empty space he left behind, to build routines that didn’t revolve around his presence, to convince your heart that survival counted as healing.

On the other side of that silence, the same three months felt like a slow, relentless torment for Bucky.

Restless, didn’t even begin to cover it. He paced more, slept less, and carried a tension in his shoulders that never seemed to ease. Steve had stopped mentioning you altogether, no casual updates, no accidental slips of your name, and Bucky knew exactly why.

Steve was right. Bucky knew it. That didn’t make it hurt any less. The blond thought he was helping.

Thought that sparing him would make things easier.

Some days, Bucky understood that.

Other days, the absence burned so badly he had to clench his fists to keep from punching something...Someone. For the first time in his life, that someone was his best friend.

What surprised him most was the jealousy. The ugly, irrational kind that curled in his chest without warning. Jealousy over the time Steve still got to share with you. Jealousy over the fact that Steve knew how you were doing, even if he refused to say it out loud. Bucky let out a hollow laugh one night at the realization, staring up at the ceiling as if it might answer him back.

He had never imagined a world where he’d feel jealous of Steve Rogers. And yet, there it was, heavy and undeniable, tangled up with regret, love, and everything he’d lost.

“Can you at least tell me when she’s coming back?” Bucky asked one afternoon, his voice tighter than he meant it to be.

They were sitting on the front porch of the Rogers family home, the wooden boards warm beneath them, the air thick with late-summer stillness. Steve sat a few steps away, hunched over his sketchbook, pencil moving steadily as if the world beyond the page didn’t exist. Bucky, meanwhile, stared straight ahead at the house across the street.

Your house.

It looked exactly the same. Same porch, same curtains in the window, same front door he’d watched you walk through a hundred times before everything fell apart. The familiarity made his chest ache.

“Y/N?” Steve asked absently, not lifting his gaze from the paper. He flipped the page with his thumb, considering his next line. “Oh. Probably today-”

“Probably today?!” Bucky snapped, finally turning to face him.

Steve paused. His pencil hovered mid-air before he slowly looked up, blue eyes narrowing just a little, not in anger, but in recognition. He’d heard that tone before. Too many times.

“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘probably’?” Bucky pressed on, his jaw tight. “You either know or you don’t.”

Steve sighed, closing the sketchbook on his knee. “It means she didn’t give me an exact time,” he said calmly. “Just said she’d be back today.”

Bucky scoffed, running a hand through his hair. His knee bounced uncontrollably now. “So she could show up any second,” he muttered. “Or not at all.”

“That’s usually how ‘today’ works,” Steve replied.

Bucky shot him a look, then turned back toward your house, eyes scanning the street like he was expecting you to appear out of thin air. His heart pounded harder with every passing car, every distant footstep.

He wasn’t sure what scared him more.

The possibility of seeing you again, or the possibility that you’d come back and never look his way at all.

Steve watched him quietly, expression softening. “Buck,” he said gently, “you don’t have to do this to yourself.”

Bucky laughed under his breath, humorless. “Too late for that.”

His gaze never left your front door.

“Do you need help?” Stanley asked kindly, holding the car door open for you.

“No. Thank you, Stan.” you replied with a small smile.

Before either of you could say more, your older brother appeared, slipping an arm around Stanley’s shoulders and pulling him into an easy, brotherly half-embrace.

“I’ve got my eye on you two, you know,” he said with a grin, clearly teasing.

Stanley straightened a little, suddenly earnest. “Don’t worry about that, William. I intend to treat her properly.”

“You’d better,” William said, his smile sharpening just a touch. “If you hurt Y/N, I hurt you. Physically.” He winked, serious for half a second longer than necessary, then laughed.

You rolled your eyes.

The car stood at the curb. Beyond it, your grandfather’s house loomed quietly, familiar and heavy with memory. The front steps where you’d sat on warm evenings.

You took a breath.

This was it.

Brooklyn was waiting.

Bucky and Steve was waiti-

“Y/N, could I talk to you for a minute?” Stan asked.

Before you could answer, your brother all but shoved him gently in your direction, flashing you a knowing look before retreating a few steps away.

“Hey…” you said softly.

Stan hesitated, just for a second, then stepped closer. His hands settled on your shoulders, careful, almost reverent, and before you could fully process what was happening, he leaned in and pressed a brief kiss to your lips.

It was strange.

Unexpected.

Harmless in intent, yet heavy all the same.

It took you a moment to react, to step back, your breath catching slightly.

“Stan, I-” you began, searching for the right words.

“No. I’m sorry,” he said quickly, cutting in before you could finish.

You shook your head. “No. If it were up to me, I’d love to love you, but-”

“It’s not up to us to choose who we fall for,” he finished quietly, his gaze drifting toward the street.

“Yeah…”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sounds of the neighborhood filled the silence, the distant hum of a radio, footsteps on the sidewalk, a car passing too slowly.

Stan didn’t look hurt.

He stepped forward again and wrapped his arms around you, holding you close in a way that felt safe, familiar, and achingly final.

“You’re incredible, Y/N,” he murmured. “This Bucky is lucky to have you, but if he doesn't value you, you should go ahead.”

You closed your eyes briefly, returning the embrace.

As you climbed into the back seat, the door closing with a dull, final thud, your chest tightened in a way you hadn’t expected. You pressed your gloved hands together in your lap. You glanced back through the window and lifted your hand in a small wave.

Stan stood by the curb, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, returning the gesture with a gentle smile.

“Hey, idiot,” your brother William said suddenly, leaning back in his seat to look at you.

“Hm?”

“I’m glad you’re getting away from those two idiots.”

“What?” you frowned, lifting your gaze to meet his in the rearview mirror.

Will shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, Barnes didn’t write to you all summer. That’s gotta mean something, right? Looks to me like he forgot about you.”

The words landed harder than you expected.

They hurt, sharp and immediate, and what made it worse was that, deep down, you’d already thought the same thing.

“He must be busy,” you said quietly, staring out the window.

“Or my version,” William countered. “Either way, this’ll be good for you. If James pulls away, Steve won’t be far behind. Skinny Rogers always follows him around. You really think if he had to choose between the two of you, he’d pick you?”

“William, stop-”

“It’ll be great for your reputation at school,” he continued, undeterred. “Girls’ll stop judging you. Maybe they’ll finally invite you to more parties-”

“William! Leave your sister alone!” your mother snapped from the front seat, turning just enough to glare at him. Then her voice softened as she looked back at you. “I like Steve, sweetheart. His mother is a dear.”

You pressed your lips together, nodding faintly, even as your chest tightened.

No letters.

No words.

When the car pulled to a stop in front of your house, you spotted Steve immediately, standing on his yard, a sketchbook tucked under his arm, smiling like he’d been counting the seconds.

He lifted his hand and waved.

You didn’t wait.

Didn’t grab your bags.

Didn’t even think.

You shoved the car door open and ran straight into his arms.

Steve laughed as the impact knocked the breath out of him, arms wrapping around you automatically, tight and familiar. “Hey-hey, easy!” he joked, but he hugged you back just as hard, chin resting on the top of your head.

“I missed you,” you murmured into his chest, your voice muffled but honest.

“I know,” he said softly. “I missed you too.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still on your shoulders, blue eyes scanning your face like he was checking to make sure you were real. “You look...Good. Happy!”

You smiled, small but genuine.

“Yeah,” you said. “I think I am.”

Steve’s smile softened, something unreadable flickering behind it, relief, maybe, or pride. He stepped aside and held up the sketchbook. “I, uh…I drew some things while you were gone. Thought I’d show you.”

You glanced past him, toward the street, half-expecting-

No.

You stopped yourself.

You looked back at Steve and nodded. “I’d like that.”

You heard the sound before you registered it, hurried footsteps against the pavement, uneven, desperate. Then a breathless voice cut through the afternoon air.

“Y/n!”

Your heart lurched before your mind could catch up.

It was Bucky.

He came into view at the end of the street, running toward you, chest rising and falling too fast. In his hand was a small bouquet of flowers, clearly bought in a rush. A few petals scattered behind him like breadcrumbs marking his panic.

Steve’s mouth twitched. Then his brows knit together in something dangerously close to amusement.

He leaned slightly toward you and murmured, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Bucky slowed as he got closer, trying, and failing, to look composed. He stopped a few feet away, hands clenched around the flowers like they might disappear if he loosened his grip. His hair was still damp, like he’d rushed out right after washing it, and his shirt was buttoned wrong at the collar.

He had dressed up.

For you.

“Hi,” he said, too quietly for someone who had just shouted your name across the street.

For a second, no one spoke.

The neighborhood felt frozen in time, cicadas buzzing somewhere far away, laundry swaying gently on a line. You stood there, caught between the boy who had always been there and the boy who had just realized he couldn’t afford not to be.

Steve cleared his throat, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “So,” he said lightly, tilting his head at the bouquet. “You went home, changed, and bought flowers?”

Bucky shot him a look. “Not helping, pal.”

Then his eyes were back on you, soft, searching, painfully familiar.

“I heard you were back,” Bucky said. He held the flowers out, a little awkward, a little unsure. “They’re not great. The lady said they’d last a few days, but I ran, so…”

You stared at the bouquet, then at him.

God, this was unfair.

Steve watched your face carefully, the humor fading into something gentler. “I’ll, uh…Give you two a second,” he said, already stepping back.

He disappeared inside, leaving the space between you and Bucky wide open.

Bucky swallowed. “You don’t have to take them,” he added quickly. “I just...I wanted you to know I’m glad you’re home.”

The flowers trembled slightly in his hand.

You didn’t even have time to react.

“Hey, Barnes! Get away from my sister, you jerk!” William’s voice cracked through the moment like a gunshot.

You turned sharply toward the front door of your house, your stomach dropping. Your brother stood there, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other pointing straight at Bucky like he’d been waiting years for this exact opportunity.

“Y/n,” William continued, louder now, deliberate, cruel in the way only an older brother could be. “Don’t take flowers from him. Not now that you’re dating Stanley!”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Dating Stanley.

Bucky went still.

Not tense.

Not defensive.

Just…Still.

The bouquet slipped slightly in his grip. One more petal fell to the sidewalk.

“Dating…?” he echoed quietly, like he was testing whether the word would hurt less if he said it softly.

William scoffed. “Yeah. Stanley. The nice guy. The one who actually walks her home instead of stringing her along.”

“William,” you hissed, mortified. “Go inside!”

He ignored you completely. “She’s happy, Barnes. So take your flowers and scram.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, not in anger, but in something worse. Understanding.

He nodded once, slow.

“Right,” he said. “Of course.”

He looked back at you then, really looked at you, searching your face for something, denial, maybe, or permission to fight for you anyway.

You didn’t know what expression you were wearing.

Because the truth was messy.

Stanley was kind.

Stanley listened.

Stanley held doors open and never made you feel small.

But Stanley wasn’t-

Bucky lowered the bouquet before you could decide.

“I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Then Bucky stepped back.

One step.

Then another.

He hesitated, then added, softer, almost to himself, “I-I mean, it's not like these flowers mean anything, you know? It's just a friend welcoming you...”

That hurt.

It hurt you to hear that,

it hurt Bucky to say that.

He turned before you could call his name, walking away with his shoulders hunched and his hands empty leaving the crushed bouquet on the sidewalk between your house and Steve’s.

William watched him go, satisfied.

You couldn’t breathe.

Because somewhere deep in your chest, something fragile cracked again and you weren’t sure who had broken it this time.

But you knew one thing.

Bucky Barnes has always been right.

After that conversation with Bucky, your heart felt lighter.

Not healed, but lighter. Like a bruise that still ached when touched, yet no longer throbbed constantly.

That had been two months ago.

He gave you the space he thought you needed during the trip, and honestly, you were quietly grateful for it. Still, your chest tightened every time you checked the mailbox and realized there were no envelopes with his handwriting. No familiar, slanted letters spelling your name.

Steve was the opposite.

You had even joked in one of your replies that he was turning you into his personal diary.

He told you everything.

About the neighborhood,

About school,

About his frustrations,

His dreams,

His fears.

The few times Bucky’s name appeared, it was always through Steve, never directly, never in Bucky’s own words.

My dearest Y/n,

I miss you. The street isn’t the same without you. Mom said that the day you come back, she’ll make your favorite cookies…

My beloved friend Y/n,

Bucky...He’s different. The teachers scolded him because he hasn’t been paying attention in class. He always seems like his head is somewhere else. When he comes over, he keeps looking at your house through my window. And I don’t see him with Betty anymore. Actually, I saw her today talking to Robert, the one from your brother’s group.

They looked…Pretty close. Things are strange.

Stranger than they usually are, but then again…This is Brooklyn.

Dear Y/n,

Sorry for taking so long to answer your last letter. I was in the hospital, again…You know. Asthma. Tell me how your summer is going! What about your grandfather’s neighbor? Stanley, right?

You remember mentioning Stanley in one of your letters.

Stanley, the son of your grandfather’s friend. Cute, polite, impossibly gentle. Even your brother liked him, which felt like a miracle in itself.

You smile softly at the memory.

Stanley who always offered to carry things for you.

Stanley who laughed too easily, like life hadn’t taught him to brace for disappointment yet.

Stanley who sat beside you on the porch in the evenings, close enough that your shoulders brushed, far enough that it felt safe.

You pick up your pen.

You tell Steve that the summer is quiet.

That your grandfather wakes up early and hums while making coffee. That the air smells like grass and dust and something warm you can’t quite name.

And then you write about Stanley.

You keep it light. Careful.

You say he’s nice.

That he walks you home sometimes.

That he listens when you talk.

You don’t say that he looks at you like you’re something precious.

You don’t say that sometimes, when he smiles at you, your chest doesn’t ache the way it does when you think of Brooklyn.

You don’t say that he feels like a maybe.

You fold the letter neatly once you’re done, sealing it with a strange mix of guilt and hope.

Because for the first time since you left, your life feels like it’s still moving forward.

And somewhere in Brooklyn, you have no idea that Steve will read that letter twice.

Or that Bucky Barnes will overhear just enough to make his stomach drop.

Steve and Bucky sat at the small kitchen table, knees almost touching, quietly demolishing a slice of cake Mrs. Rogers had baked that afternoon. The radio hummed softly in the background, something cheerful that didn’t quite match the heaviness in Bucky’s chest.

“You’ve been talking to Y/n…?” Bucky asked casually, like it didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t taken him weeks to say your name out loud.

Steve glanced up, fork halfway to his mouth. “Y/n? Yeah. Of course. I write to her all the time.”

Bucky swallowed. “A-and…And she writes back?”

Steve frowned, genuinely confused. “Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t she?”

Bucky nodded slowly, eyes dropping to his plate. He didn’t mention that he’d written almost every day at first, then every week, then only when the silence got too loud to ignore.

Didn’t mention that your handwriting had never appeared on an envelope with his name on it.

The kitchen door creaked open right then, perfectly timed, and Sarah Rogers stepped in with a soft smile and an envelope in her hand.

“Steve, sweetheart,” she said gently. “This one’s for you.”

Steve’s face lit up instantly as he took it. Bucky recognized the handwriting before Steve even said your name.

“Oh! It’s from Y/n.”

Something sharp twisted in Bucky’s chest as Steve slid his finger under the seal, completely unaware of the way Bucky’s jaw tightened.

So you were writing.

Just not to him.

“What did she say? Is she okay?” Bucky asked, the words tumbling out too fast, too urgent, his hand almost snatching the letter from Steve’s before he could stop himself.

Steve shot him a look but didn’t comment. He just unfolded the paper and began to read, his expression softening with every line.

You wrote about your summer.

How the mornings smelled like grass and warm earth.

Steve smiled at that part.

Then he kept reading.

You mentioned Stanley, casually, almost innocently. That he was nice. That he walked you home. That he listened when you talked, really listened, like your words mattered. That he laughed at your jokes and never made you feel silly for rambling.

Bucky’s chest tightened with every sentence.

The kitchen felt smaller. Too quiet.

Steve finished the letter and folded it back up, unaware.

Or maybe painfully aware.

“She sounds happy,” Steve said simply.

Bucky nodded once, jaw clenched.

You sounded happy.

And somehow, that hurt worse than if you hadn’t been.

“Bucky, what’s wrong?” Steve asked, finally setting the plate down and turning fully toward him.

Bucky scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “Who’s this guy? Stanley?” His voice was sharp, defensive. “You’re not worried?”

Steve blinked. “No…Should I be?”

“She’s far away,” Bucky insisted, pacing now, unable to stay still. “And she’s alone. Without m-me-” he stumbled over the word, then corrected himself quickly, “-without us. And what if he hurts her?”

Steve stared at him for a long second, then crossed his arms.

“Bucky,” he said carefully, “you don’t get to act like this.”

“Like what?” Bucky snapped, though there was panic under it.

“Like you have a claim on her,” Steve replied. “You wanted her to move on. You walked away from her.”

Bucky stopped pacing.

“That’s not-” he started, then faltered. His shoulders sagged just a little. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But it is what you did,” Steve said gently now. “And she did move on. At least…She’s trying.”

The word trying hit harder than anything else.

Bucky swallowed. “He walks her home,” he muttered. “She doesn’t let just anyone do that.”

Steve sighed. “You know her better than anyone. Do you really think she’d let someone near her if she didn’t feel safe?”

Silence.

Bucky looked down at the kitchen floor, jaw tight, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“No,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t.”

“Then maybe,” Steve said, softer now, “this isn’t about Stanley.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

You were panicking.

Your heart hammered so loudly you were sure Bucky could hear it from the street. You snapped your attention back to the window and lifted your hand, palm out, motioning for him to wait.

Just a minute. Please.

Your room suddenly felt too small.

Your mind raced, tripping over itself. Fix your hair. No, hide the things on the bed. Change your clothes. God, the room was a mess. Why was everything always a mess when it mattered?

You spun in place, hands hovering uselessly in the air, breath coming too fast.

The box.

That was the most logical choice.

You lunged for the bed, scooping everything up with shaking hands. The teddy bear was shoved in first, followed by the ribbon, the rock, the ticket stubs, the folded notes. The torn diary pages came last, crumpled slightly as you forced them into the box like they weren’t pieces of your heart.

You slammed the lid shut.

For a second, you just stared at it, chest heaving, like it might burst open again on its own.

Then you shoved it under the bed, pushing it as far back as it would go until it disappeared into the shadows, hidden but not gone.

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to tame it quickly, heart still racing as if you’d just run a mile. Your fingers trembled as you reached for the window again, breath caught somewhere between fear and anticipation.

You opened it just enough to look down.

Bucky was still there.

Waiting.

You hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then you lifted your hand and made the smallest gesture, curling your fingers toward yourself, a silent invitation you’d made a hundred times before and never thought you’d make again.

Bucky’s eyes widened.

For half a heartbeat, he didn’t move, like he was afraid you’d change your mind.

He glanced around once, just to be sure no one was watching, then moved toward the old oak tree growing dangerously close to the side of your house. Its branches had been there forever, thick and low, the kind neighborhood kids used for climbing long before anyone thought to stop them.

Bucky grabbed the lowest branch with practiced ease and hoisted himself up, boots scraping softly against the bark. The tree creaked quietly as he climbed higher, moving from branch to branch like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Because he had.

You remembered him sneaking in this way when you were younger, whispering apologies when leaves brushed against the window too loudly. Your brother had never once thought to suspect the tree.

The roof sloped gently, and he crouched instinctively, moving on his hands and feet to keep his balance and avoid making any noise.

Every movement was deliberate.

Bucky inched his way across the roof, pausing whenever the wood creaked too loudly beneath him. He held his breath, waited, then continued, careful not to dislodge a single tile. The night felt unbearably quiet, every small sound amplified.

Only when he reached the spot just beneath your window did he straighten slightly, placing one hand against the wall to steady himself.

For a moment, you just stared at each other.

Then he climbed through the window, ducking slightly as he landed inside your room with a soft thud, leaves still caught in his jacket.

He straightened slowly.

The silence felt fragile.

Bucky Barnes was in your room again, climbing in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Doll…” he whispered, eyes drifting slowly around your room.

Your heart clenched at the way his expression shifted when he noticed how empty it looked. Bare shelves. Your suitcases lined neatly near the door like a promise already kept.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”

You let out a short, humorless laugh through your nose.

“As if you’d care,” you said. It came out harsher than you meant, but it was honest. It was how you felt.

“Is that what you think?” he took a step forward, urgency flickering in his eyes. “That I don’t care?”

You stepped back, instinctively, until the edge of your bed pressed against the back of your knees.

“Why are you here, James?”

The name landed heavily between you.

James.

You never called him that. Not once. He’d always been Bucky to you. Always softer. Always yours.

He flinched.

“Steve mentioned you were traveling tomorrow,” he admitted, gaze dropping to the floor like he couldn’t quite face you. “Three months away, doll?”

You nodded, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, not trusting your voice to stay steady if you spoke.

“You weren’t planning on saying goodbye?” he looked up at you then, and the hurt in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Would it have changed anything?” you shot back. “You already act like I’m not here.”

The words surprised even you.

Maybe it was the weeks of swallowing disappointment. Maybe it was the exhaustion of pretending you were fine. Whatever it was, it finally spilled out.

“Come on, doll,” he said, softer now, reaching for reason. “You know that’s not true. I’ve just been busy with-”

“Beatrice,” you interrupted sharply.

“Betty,” he corrected quietly. “And I didn’t disappear completely. I still hung out with you and Steve-”

“Once,” you cut in, pointing a finger at his chest. “We went out once this whole month, and you wouldn’t shut up about your girlfriend.”

His mouth opened, then closed.

“You didn’t even notice Steve was upset,” you continued, voice trembling now, anger bleeding into something more fragile. “Because all you could talk about was you.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Bucky stood there, hands flexing uselessly at his sides, eyes dark with something like realization. Like the picture you’d been living with for weeks had finally, painfully, come into focus.

“Steve was upset?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” you replied. “The same guys at school saying he’ll never be able to serve in the army.”

You walked to the bed and sat down slowly, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. A moment later, Bucky turned toward you, his expression wounded but still gentle, like he was afraid one wrong word might shatter what little steadiness remained.

You met his gaze.

“What happened to us?” Your voice cracked on the last word.

“I don’t know, doll,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, close but not touching, hands braced on either side of his knees like he needed the grounding.

And then it clicked.

The thought had crossed your mind before, late at night when sleep wouldn’t come, but you’d always pushed it away. You never really believed Bucky Barnes could be that good of an actor.

But now you knew.

“You know,” you said quietly, eyes dropping to the floor. Embarrassment burned hot in your chest.

“Yes.”

The single word landed gently, but it still knocked the breath from your lungs.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to embarrass you,” he admitted, fingers absently toying with the edge of your bedsheet. “I didn’t want to make it worse.”

“So you thought pushing me away was better than being honest,” you said, not accusing, just tired.

He huffed out a small, regretful breath.

“Sounds like a terrible plan now.”

You couldn’t help it. A quiet, almost humorless laugh slipped out of you.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “It’s a very Bucky Barnes plan.”

He smiled faintly at that, then it faded just as quickly.

The silence returned, stretching but not uncomfortable this time. It felt fragile. Like something waiting to be handled carefully.

“Can we talk about it?” he asked at last. “Please.”

His voice sounded smaller than you’d ever heard it.

And despite everything, despite the hurt and the distance and the weeks of pretending you were fine, you realized something else, just as terrifying as it was comforting.

You’d always wanted him to ask.

“Yes…” your voice came out weak as you shifted on the bed, making space without quite realizing you were doing it.

“I’m sor-”

“I’m sor-”

You both stopped at the same time.

For a second, you just stared at each other, surprised. Then a small laugh escaped you, light and fragile, like it might disappear if you held it too tightly. Bucky smiled too, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.

God, you’d missed this.

You’d missed the way conversations with him never quite went the way either of you planned. Missed the shared timing, the accidental synchronicity, the way laughter slipped in even when things hurt.

You looked at him then, really looked at him, sitting on the edge of your bed like he’d done a hundred times before. He looked familiar and distant all at once, like someone you knew by heart but hadn’t been allowed to touch for too long.

“I missed you.” you admitted quietly, the words trembling as they left your mouth.

Bucky swallowed, his jaw tightening.

“I missed you too, doll.” he said just as softly. “Every day.”

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.

Bucky’s eyes drifted around your room, slow and familiar, like he was mapping a place he thought he still knew. His gaze softened when it instinctively landed on your bed, searching for something that had always been there.

He smiled.

The teddy bear wasn’t there.

He assumed it was already packed away, tucked carefully into one of your suitcases. He imagined you pulling it out at night, somewhere far from Brooklyn, holding it close just to remember him.

The thought warmed his chest.

“Hey,” he asked casually, almost fondly, “where’s Alpine?”

He waited.

He expected a smile. Maybe a roll of your eyes. Something teasing. Something soft.

Instead, you shrugged.

“Oh…I took it out of my room.”

The words were simple. Too simple.

Your heart pounded, loud and traitorous, because you knew exactly where Alpine was. Under the bed. Hidden. Buried with everything else that still hurt too much to look at.

Bucky’s smile faltered.

Just a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

“Oh.” he said quietly.

He nodded once, slowly, like he was filing the information away where it couldn’t hurt him yet. But his eyes lingered on the empty space where the bear used to sit, like he could still see its outline burned into the room.

He swallowed.

“Right,” he murmured, forcing a lighter tone that didn’t quite stick. “Guess that makes sense.”

But it didn’t.

Not to him.

Because Alpine had never just been a toy. It was proof. Comfort. Something permanent in a world that kept shifting beneath his feet.

And now it was gone.

For the first time, Bucky Barnes truly understood what it meant to be forgotten.

Not dramatically.

Not cruelly.

Just…Quietly.

And somehow, that hurt the most.

“When did this start?” he asked gently.

You shook your head, a weak, helpless motion. “I don’t know the exact moment…I think it was natural,” you admitted. Your eyes burned, glossy with tears you refused to let fall. Saying it out loud was harder than you’d imagined. “When did you find out?”

Bucky inhaled slowly. Deep. Like he needed the extra air to steady himself. For a second, it looked like he might say something, something real, but instead, he looked away.

“When I told you I was going on a date with Betty,” he said quietly. “At first, I thought it was just that you didn’t like her. But you’re…Kind of obvious when you get jealous.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

“And then?” you pressed, barely above a whisper.

Bucky hesitated.

For a heartbeat, he almost told you the truth.

Almost told you that he’d said yes to Betty because it felt safer. Because if he chose someone else, maybe you’d stop looking at him like that, like he was something fragile and sacred and yours. Almost told you that he thought distance would fix it. That it would make things easier.

Almost told you he’d been trying to protect you.

Instead, he swallowed.

“And then I knew,” he finished simply.

His fingers tightened against the edge of the mattress. His jaw clenched, betraying the thoughts he wouldn’t say out loud.

Because the truth was messier.

Because somewhere deep down, somewhere he didn’t like to look, he’d liked it. Liked the way your eyes followed him. Liked that no matter who he stood next to, you still saw him.

It was selfish.

And it was human.

He finally looked back at you, his expression softer now, heavier.

“I should’ve talked to you,” he said, voice low. “I should’ve said something before it got this bad.”

The space between you felt unbearable.

“I didn’t mean to lose you,” he added quietly.

And that was the most honest thing he’d said all night.

You stare at each other for a long moment before the light creeping through the window finally gives it away, the sun rising, pale and unforgiving.

“I don’t want you to go,” Bucky confesses, lowering his head with a tired sigh. “You’re my best friend.”

Your chest tightens. “I don’t want to go either,” you admit, your voice barely holding. “Not now. Not like this.” You pause, forcing yourself to breathe. “But I have to…It’ll be good for both of us.”

He nods slowly, even if he doesn’t really believe it.

“I should leave,” he says after a beat, already pushing himself up. “Wouldn’t be great for your reputation if the neighbors saw a guy sneaking out of your bedroom.”

A small laugh escapes you, soft, a little broken, but real. You nod, standing up as well, the moment stretching thin as morning settles in around you.

Neither of you rushes.

Because leaving doesn’t mean letting go.

Not yet.

“Goodbye, Bucky…” You’re not entirely sure what you’re supposed to do now.

A hug would make sense.

Wouldn’t it?

But it feels awkward, fragile, now that he knows. Now that everything is out in the open.

“Goodby, doll…” he murmurs, and before you can overthink it, he pulls you into him.

His arms wrap around your waist like muscle memory, firm and familiar. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in without trying to hide it, like he’s afraid the scent of you might slip away if he doesn’t hold onto it long enough.

You freeze, heart hammering, unsure how to react.

“Hold me back,” he whispers, voice rough and low. “Please. I need this right now.”

That’s all it takes.

Steve Rogers was losing his mind.

He couldn’t take it anymore, being pulled apart between his two best friends like a rope about to snap. He was tired of choosing who to spend the afternoon with, tired of the silence, the half-truths, the way everything felt fractured and wrong.

So Steve did what Steve always did when things got unbearable.

He acted.

He cornered Bucky.

They were walking toward the diner, the neon sign already buzzing in the distance, the smell of grease and coffee hanging thick in the air. Steve stopped so suddenly that Bucky almost walked straight into him.

“What’s going on?” Steve asked abruptly.

“Mm? What? Nothing’s going on. Everything’s…Great,” Bucky said, but his voice faltered at the end, thin and unconvincing, like even he didn’t believe it.

“Really?” Steve crossed his arms, feet planted firmly on the sidewalk. “Then why isn’t Y/n here?”

Bucky stiffened immediately at the sound of your name. His jaw tightened, shoulders going rigid like he’d braced for a hit.

“Her choice,” he muttered, shrugging like it didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t lodged itself somewhere deep in his chest.

“Bucky,” Steve said again, sharper this time. “Why are you avoiding her?”

“I’m not!” Bucky snapped, running a hand through his hair in frustration. A few people nearby glanced over, curiosity sparked by the raised voice. He took a breath, forcing himself to calm down, and murmured a quick apology to the strangers silently judging them.

“You are,” Steve insisted, pointing a finger at Bucky’s chest. “You barely talk to her since you started seeing Betty. She’s wrecking our group and you’re letting it happen.”

“She’s not-”

“Be honest with me, Buck,” Steve cut in. “Why did you stop talking to Y/n?”

Bucky sighed, long and heavy, like the truth weighed more than he wanted to carry.

“Betty was jealous of her,” he admitted quietly.

“And?” Steve shot back. “So you trade our best friend for a new girl?”

“It’s not just that, Steve-”

“Then explain it to me, because right now it looks exactly like that.”

Bucky looked away, jaw flexing, eyes fixed on a crack in the sidewalk.

“You think I don’t know how she feels?” he said finally. “You think I never noticed the way she looks at me? Or…Or how she stutters when I get too close?”

Steve froze.

He knew?

It was obvious, sure, but Bucky had always acted oblivious. Like he didn’t see it. Like he couldn’t.

“I pulled away because she needs to get over it, alright?” Bucky continued, voice rougher now. “She deserves someone her age. I did it because I care about her. I don’t want her getting hurt over some stupid crush on me.”

“You don’t feel anything for her?” Steve asked after a few seconds of heavy silence.

“What? No, man,” Bucky laughed nervously, nudging Steve’s shoulder like it was a joke gone too far. “She’s a kid to me. No way.”

Steve narrowed his eyes.

“You didn’t have a crush on her when we were kids?”

“Well, yeah,” Bucky admitted, exhaling through his nose. “But we were kids. Now I’m almost heading into the army, and she still has a collection of teddy bears and writes in her diary.”

Steve looked away, jaw tight.

“Whatever, man,” he muttered. “I just don’t want her getting hurt more than she already is.”

Bucky nodded, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Trust me,” he said confidently. “In a month, she’ll have forgotten me completely.”

The words settled between them, heavy and final.

Steve didn’t respond.

Because deep down, he already knew Bucky was wrong.

A month passed, and Bucky’s plan had worked.

He wanted you to forget your crush on him, and that was exactly what happened.

There were no lingering looks when he passed you in the hallway. No pout forming on your lips whenever he mentioned Betty in conversation with you and Steve. No more asking him to walk you home with that soft, hopeful look in your eyes.

The plan had worked.

You forgot Bucky.

So why did his chest hurt?

At first, he told himself it was pride. Habit. He was used to your devotion, used to being the center of your attention without ever having to ask for it. Used to the way you’d always find him in a crowd, the way your laughter came easier when he was around.

But then he realized something worse.

You hadn’t just moved on from a silly little crush.

You’d moved on from him.

And that hurt.

Bucky found himself showing up at Steve’s place more often again, lingering on the steps longer than necessary, glancing down the street like he expected to see you coming around the corner. Every visit carried the quiet hope that you’d be there, curled up on the couch with a book, feet tucked beneath you like you always did.

You never were.

Even Sarah Rogers noticed.

She commented one afternoon, stirring something on the stove, that Bucky had seemed distant lately. Quieter. Like something was missing.

Bucky didn’t know how to explain that the thing missing was you.

Or that he was the one who had pushed you away.

“Hey, Steve…Have you been talking to Y/n?” Bucky asked quietly, trying and failing to sound casual.

“Of course. Every day,” Steve replied easily. “Why?”

“Nothing,” Bucky muttered, irritation and something dangerously close to jealousy tightening his jaw. The fact that Steve still had you, that he still knew your days and your plans, sat bitter on his tongue. “Is she…Is she okay?”

“Yeah. She’s spending the holidays at her grandfather’s place,” Steve said, glancing out the window toward your house across the street. “She’s leaving tomorrow morning.”

Bucky’s head snapped up.

“She’s going to her grandfather’s?” he repeated. “The one who lives really far away?”

“Uh-huh,” Steve nodded. “It’s gonna suck not having her around all summer, but if she’s happy, then I’m happy.” He shrugged, trying to sound lighter than he felt.

Bucky stopped walking.

“Steve,” he said, voice low and sharp, “that’s three months.”

Three months without you on the stoop.

Three months without your laughter drifting through open windows.

Three months of knowing you were somewhere else, living a life he wasn’t part of.

Steve looked at him then, really looked, and something like understanding flickered behind his eyes.

The next day, Bucky didn’t wait for the sun to rise.

He was standing at your front door while the sky was still dark blue, the city quiet in a way it never stayed for long. The street smelled like cold concrete and yesterday’s rain.

Steve hadn’t told him what time you were leaving.

And Bucky hadn’t asked.

He was too proud to admit, even to himself, that he missed you.

Instead of knocking, he lifted his gaze to the second-floor window, the one he knew by heart. Your room. The curtains were drawn, the lights off. You were probably still asleep, curled beneath your blankets, unaware that he was standing outside like a ghost from a life you’d already left behind.

His chest tightened.

Bucky bent down and picked up a small pebble from the ground, weighing it between his fingers. The motion was instinctive, muscle memory taking over. He aimed carefully and tossed it upward.

The soft tap against the glass felt painfully familiar.

Nostalgic, even.

He’d climbed into your room more times than he could count. When things at home got too loud, too sharp, and he didn’t want to be there. When he knew you’d be scared after sneaking into the cinema with him and Steve to watch some ridiculous horror picture, only to regret it halfway through. When you needed him.

He always came through the window.

Your older brother had been fiercely protective, the kind of jealous that bordered on threatening. If he ever suspected something improper, Bucky was sure he’d be dead. He still remembered the way your brother had lost his mind when he found out his little sister was friends with “Skinny Steve Rogers” and “that Barnes idiot.”

Your brother was a jerk.

The memory pulled a small, unexpected smile from Bucky’s lips.

He remembered the first time he’d said it out loud, back when you were seven, pointing a wooden sword at him with fire in your eyes. He remembered how fiercely you’d defended your brother, how you’d chased him around the Rogers’ yard like you meant to kill him.

God.

You’d always been like that. All heart. All fire.

Bucky looked back up at the dark window, waiting.

For movement.

For light.

For you.

The light in your bedroom flickered on.

A few quiet minutes passed before the curtain shifted, and you pulled it aside, still half-asleep, eyes heavy as you squinted into the dark street below.

Then you saw him.

Your vision sharpened instantly, sleep fleeing your body like it had never belonged there in the first place. Bucky Barnes stood beneath your window, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on you like he wasn’t sure you were real.

Your heart leapt painfully against your ribs.

You had never gotten over Bucky Barnes.

Only you and your diary knew that truth. You had played your part perfectly, avoided him with practiced ease, trained your eyes not to follow him, your smile not to soften when he was near. You’d convinced everyone else. Even him.

But seeing him here, now, waiting beneath your window like nothing had changed?

That was different.

That was dangerous.

Your fingers tightened around the curtain, breath catching in your throat as memories crashed into you all at once. Late-night whispers. Shared laughter. His silhouette framed against your window, always there when you needed him.

The night stretched between you, thick with unspoken things.

Seeing him like this hurt.

And yet, it was terrifyingly, devastatingly familiar.

Devoutly so.

Because no matter how hard you’d tried to forget, no matter how carefully you’d buried it all, one look at Bucky Barnes standing outside your window was enough to remind you of the truth.

You were still in love with him.

Your gaze dropped to your bed.

The box was open.

The stupid, doomed box you’d labeled in your head as “Forgetting James Barnes” sat there, its contents spilled like a confession you’d never meant to make. Of course you’d never thrown any of it away. Of course you’d only hidden it. Of course you opened it every single night, like a ritual you pretended you didn’t need.

The teddy bear lay on its side, one button eye staring back at you. The heart-shaped rock rested in your palm where you must have left it earlier. Old cinema ticket stubs were scattered across your sheets, corners soft and worn from being unfolded too many times. A ribbon. A folded note. Too many pieces of him. Too much proof.

Your chest tightened. Again.

The torn pages of your diary were there too.

Not just one or two. All of them.

You’d tried to remove him from your diary once, sitting on this very bed with shaking hands and the foolish hope that you could just…Erase him. You told yourself you’d rip out the pages where you mentioned his name.

You hadn’t realized that meant every page.

Every entry had Bucky in it. In the margins. Between the lines. In jokes you wrote only for yourself. In complaints. In hopes. In small, mundane details like “Bucky walked me home today” or “Bucky laughed at my dress” or “Bucky didn’t look at me today.”

So you’d torn them all out.

Page after page, until your diary felt lighter in your hands and unbearably heavier in your chest.

Outside your window, Bucky waited.

Inside your room was proof that you had never stopped loving him.

Not for a month.

Not for a moment.

You pressed your lips together, heart pounding, torn between the safety of pretending and the terrifying truth standing right outside your window, looking up at you like he still belonged there.

And maybe, against all logic and self-preservation

Bucky Barnes ... 🎀

series:

You Are My Destiny 🕯️🧸🦢💋 ( in progress )

summary: you and Bucky growing up together, based on the song "You Are my Destiny" by Paul Anka. (friends to lovers, slowburn, childhood friends)

one-shots:

I Never Meant to Hurt You 🦢🧸

You met Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes when you were seven years old. Back then, the neighborhood still smelled like coal smoke and fresh bread in the mornings.

You were Steve’s neighbor, the kind of neighbor who shared fences and borrowed sugar, and by consequence you became Bucky’s too, because Bucky Barnes practically lived in the Rogers’ front yard.

Almost every day, he was there, boots scuffing the dirt, a wooden sword clutched tightly in his hand as if it were something sacred. Steve stood across from him with a shield made out of a dented trash can lid, the metal scratched and bent but held proudly against his thin chest. To them, it wasn’t junk. It was armor.

They were two years older than you, which at that age felt like an entire lifetime of difference. Older enough to think they knew better.

That was until Sarah Rogers, Steve's mother, noticed you watching from the steps of your house, knees pulled to your chest, eyes following every dramatic swing of the wooden sword and every heroic block of the makeshift shield.

She wiped her hands on her apron, squinting slightly in the sunlight, and called out, voice warm but firm. After that, Steve didn’t really have a choice. His mother gently, but unmistakably, forced him to invite you to play.

At first, it was painfully awkward.

The two boys stood there, shifting their weight from foot to foot, suddenly unsure of what to do with their hands. You could almost see the gears turning in their heads, struggling with the unfamiliar concept of a girl in their sacred battlefield.

You broke the silence first, telling them you could play the same game they always did.

“We’re not playing fight games with a girl!” Bucky grumbled, crossing his arms in a dramatic display of childish defiance.

“We protect women, we don’t attack them…” Steve added, hands planted on his hips in a pose that looked almost heroic, even then.

You rolled your eyes, unimpressed.

“Please! I always play this with my older brother,” you shot back, pointing your index finger toward your house, as if that alone proved your qualifications.

“Your brother’s a jerk.”

“Bucky!” Steve scolded him instantly, his ears turning red.

“What? I’m just saying.”

You bent down, grabbed the wooden sword from the ground, and pointed it directly at Bucky, your grip surprisingly firm for someone so small. “What did you say about my brother? Take it back, Barnes!”

“No. Your brother’s a jerk,” he shrugged again, clearly underestimating you.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Take it back,” you said, stepping closer.

Bucky took two steps back without even thinking, his confidence wavering as he caught the look on your face.

“No! Your brother-” he started, but you were already moving.

You ran.

Or rather, you chased, and Bucky fled.

“Hey! Stop-!” he yelped, running around the Rogers’ yard, dirt flying beneath his shoes.

You chased him in tight circles around the front lawn, skirts swishing, heart pounding with the thrill of it. In truth, you were fast. Faster than he expected.

“Stop! Steve, help me!” Bucky yelled, panic creeping into his voice.

Steve was no help at all. He was doubled over with laughter, wheezing so hard he looked like he might trigger one of his asthma attacks.

When you finally caught Bucky, you tackled him without hesitation. The two of you tumbled into the grass, limbs tangled, rolling until you ended up straddling him. He stared up at you like a startled deer, eyes wide, breath knocked right out of him.

You dropped the wooden sword beside you and raised your fist, hovering it near his face, just enough to make the threat feel very real.

“WAIT!” he shouted, hands flying up to shield his face on instinct. “I take it back! I take it back! You win! You can play with us!”

That was all you needed.

You stood up, victorious, brushing the dirt from your dress with practiced dignity, chin held high like you’d just won a war.

“Well,” you said, smoothing the fabric one last time, “I want to be a warrior in the game.”

That was five years ago.

Now you were twelve, and the boys were fourteen, which somehow felt like an even bigger difference than before. Although Steve remained almost the same, Bucky was taller. Both were more restless, louder, while you hovered somewhere between childhood and something unnamed that made your heart feel strange at inconvenient times.

You, Bucky, and Steve had been inseparable ever since the day you threatened Bucky Barnes with a wooden sword.

The neighborhood had watched the three of you grow like a matched set. Everyone knew you belonged together. You walked to school side by side, shared stolen apples and comic books with torn pages, and spent long afternoons perched on stoops while radios hummed softly through open windows, carrying swing music and war news in equal measure.

You adored the boys. Truly adored them. You loved them with your whole heart, the uncomplicated, all-consuming love that only existed when you were young enough to believe people could never leave.

They were your best friends. Your safest place.

Steve was the first to notice something shifting.

At the time, not even you understood it. You didn’t have the language for it yet, didn’t know how to name the tight feeling in your stomach or the way your mood seemed to orbit entirely around Bucky Barnes.

It was a warm afternoon when it happened, the kind where the pavement shimmered and your skin stuck to itself. The three of you were sprawled on the steps outside the Rogers’ house, Steve fiddling with a broken pencil, you swinging your legs, and Bucky standing a few feet away with a stupid grin on his face.

He had spent his very last coin on a ridiculous lollipop for a ridiculous girl from down the street. A girl with curled hair and a laugh that made Bucky straighten his shoulders and puff out his chest like he had something to prove.

You watched it happen, your chest tightening in a way that felt unfair.

When Bucky came back, empty-handed and pleased with himself, you crossed your arms and stuck out your lower lip before you could stop yourself. It was childish, you knew that, but the feeling was too big to swallow.

“That idiot should stop wasting money on a girl who doesn’t even like him,” you muttered, kicking at a crack in the concrete. “He should buy something for himself.”

Steve snorted softly beside you, biting back a smile.

He already knew.

God, it was obvious. Painfully obvious, in the way only feelings you were trying not to have could be. The way your eyes followed Bucky without permission. The way your voice sharpened whenever another girl laughed too close to him.

Even Sarah Rogers had noticed.

More than once, she’d leaned down to Steve in the kitchen, smiling knowingly while stirring a pot, and said that you and Bucky would get married someday. Every single time, both of you reacted the same way.

“Ew!”

Steve would wrinkle his nose.

You’d groan dramatically, face burning.

Bucky, if he overheard, would scoff and call his mother crazy. Respectfully, of course.

None of you believed it.

Not really.

But Steve, watching you from the corner of his eye while you pretended not to care, knew the truth long before any of you were ready to say it out loud.

Things changed when you were fifteen.

Bucky and Steve were seventeen years old, Bucky got taller and taller, his shoulders were wider and he had begun to develop some muscles. Everything seemed fine until...

Bucky Barnes introduced his first girlfriend.

It broke your heart into so many pieces you didn’t even know where to start counting.

Bucky had always flirted. He smiled too easily, leaned too close, made girls laugh without trying. That was normal. That was Bucky. But dating someone, actually calling a girl his girlfriend, was new.

It felt serious.

Too serious.

Beatrice. Beverly. You never really learned her name, not properly. You made no effort to. You had no interest in knowing the girl who had stolen Bucky’s heart, the girl who now occupied the space that had always felt like yours.

One afternoon, you stormed into the Rogers’ house, again, irritation sharp and buzzing beneath your skin. You dropped yourself onto Steve’s couch like you belonged there, which you did.

“Hey, Steve…Where’s Bucky?” you complained, kicking off your shoes. “He said he’d take me to that new bookstore that opened.”

Steve hesitated.

You noticed immediately.

“Hm…” he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly fascinated by a loose thread on his sleeve. “He’s with Betty.”

Your body went still.

Something tight and painful twisted in your throat, making it hard to breathe properly.

“Oh.”

That was all you managed.

As if it wasn’t already enough seeing them together in the school hallways, Bucky’s arm always a little too close around her waist, now he was forgetting plans with you to be with her.

That hurt more than anything else had so far.

By then, you, your diary, and Steve all knew the truth about your feelings for Bucky Barnes. There was no pretending anymore, not even with yourself.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said quietly, guilt settling heavy in his chest even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. “I can take you to the bookstore, if you want.”

You smiled at the effort, small and strained, then stood up from the couch, smoothing your skirt as if that could also smooth out the ache in your chest.

“No. Thanks, Steve. It’s fine,” you said softly. “I didn’t really want to go anyway...”

That wasn’t true.

After that day, things with Bucky only seemed to get worse.

You couldn’t understand it. He wasn’t cruel, wasn’t outright avoiding you. He still laughed with Steve, still showed up, still acted like himself around everyone else.

Just not with you.

It wasn’t distance exactly. It was absence in a room where he still stood.

“He’s fine,” Steve insisted later, after your fourth complaint of the day. “He’s just…Well, he’s just Bucky, you know? He’s in love, and he’s kind of a blind punk.”

“I don’t understand, Steve,” you snapped back, exhaustion bleeding into your voice. “If he doesn’t want to be my friend anymore, he should just say it to my face.”

You wanted your other best friend back. You loved Steve, you truly did, but it had always been the three of you. Always.

“Don’t say that,” Steve replied quickly. “You know Bucky loves you-”

You lifted your hand, stopping him mid-sentence.

“Not the way I want him to.”

Steve swallowed.

“Not the way you want him to,” he repeated quietly.

That day, you decided that for your own good, you would distance yourself from Bucky.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no speech, no confrontation, no final look exchanged across the street. It was a quiet decision, made with tired eyes and a heart that had finally realized it couldn’t keep breaking like this and still survive.

When you got home, you didn’t even take off your shoes.

You walked straight to the dresser and grabbed the first picture frame you saw, the one with Bucky’s face smiling back at you, careless and familiar. Your hand moved before your mind could catch up, and you threw it to the floor.

The sound was sharp. Final.

Regret hit instantly, hot and suffocating.

You crouched down, hands trembling as you picked it up, only to freeze when you saw the glass. A crack ran straight through the photograph, clean and merciless, splitting the image perfectly in two.

You on one side.

Bucky on the other.

It felt cruel. Too precise to be an accident.

For a moment, you thought about fixing it. About replacing the glass, smoothing everything back into place like nothing had happened.

Then Bucky’s face appeared in your mind again. Not smiling at you, but leaning close to Betty, laughing softly, choosing her.

Your chest tightened.

You pushed the frame aside and reached under your bed, pulling out an old box, the kind meant for shoes but repurposed for secrets. You lifted the lid and began filling it with everything that reminded you of him.

The teddy bear he’d given you one Christmas, its fur worn thin where you used to clutch it at night.

The stupid little rock he’d found on the sidewalk when you were ten, swearing it looked like a heart and pressing it into your palm like it was something precious.

An old movie ticket stub from a matinee you’d gone to together, the ink faded but still legible, folded carefully like it had once meant something important.

A handwritten note he’d passed you in school, the paper yellowed now, the joke barely funny anymore, but written in his unmistakable scrawl.

A ribbon from your hair he’d teased you for wearing too often.

You hesitated over each item, fingers lingering, chest aching, but you didn’t stop.

You closed the box.

You pushed it back under the bed, far enough that you couldn’t see it without trying.

That was it.

You were going to forget Bucky Barnes.

You didn’t know how long it would take. You didn’t know if it was even possible, but you knew one thing with absolute certainty.

You didn’t know exactly when or how things had escalated to this point. You only knew that now you were lying alone in a bed far too big, in the room you were supposed to share with your boyfriend, Bucky Barnes.

Bucky.

Just thinking about that name now made something tighten painfully in your chest, a dull, constant ache, as if your heart was tired of trying to understand.

He was what was missing there. He always had been. Normally, at this hour, you would be sitting on the bed with an open book in your hands, reading aloud while absentmindedly running your fingers through your boyfriend’s hair. Bucky would stay quiet, one arm wrapped around your waist, his face buried in your neck, breathing slowly. Sometimes, just to tease you, he’d press an unexpected kiss to your skin, making you stumble over your words and earning himself a satisfied smile.

That’s how it was supposed to be today.

If not for what had happened earlier.

You had been tidying up the apartment when you found a small red notebook forgotten in one of the drawers. Judging by its size and plain appearance, you assumed it belonged to Bucky. You thought about putting it away without opening it, respecting his privacy, but as you went to place it back, something slipped out.

A small, old photograph fell to the floor.

It was a picture of him and Steve, back in the days of the war. You had seen that image before at the Captain America museum, but it felt different seeing it there, in your hands. Bucky was smiling in that rare, open, almost carefree way. So young. So human. Your heart gave a small, painful leap in your chest.

Without realizing what you were doing, you bent down, picked up the photo, and opened the notebook to slide it back between the pages.

That was when something caught your attention.

An entire page filled with names. Names you didn’t recognize.

You were so absorbed, trying to understand what it meant, that you didn’t hear the sound of the front door unlocking.

“Baby,” he murmured.

The tone of his voice made your stomach drop. There was something there—something dark, restrained.

You looked up quickly, just in time to see Bucky, your Bucky, walking toward you with an expression you had never seen before. His face was closed off, his eyes hard, almost frightening.

You shrank back. Not out of fear. But out of shame.

He noticed. And hesitated. Just for a second. Then he snatched the small notebook from your hands.

“I-I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to look,” you tried to explain, the words spilling out rushed and tangled.

Bucky stopped you with just a look.

“Why were you going through my things?” he asked. His tone wasn’t just angry. There was hurt there, raw and exposed.

“I wasn’t trying to look! I was cleaning up and-”

“Never do that again.”

“Bucky, I’m sorry…” you stammered, unable to meet his eyes.

“I trusted you!” he shouted, throwing the notebook onto the couch. “I never should have agreed to live with you! This-This whole damn thing was a mistake. You clearly don’t trust me!”

You had never heard Bucky speak like that. Not to you. Never to you.

“What do you mean…?”

He didn’t answer. He only shot you a sad, heavy look, as if saying too much without words. Then he turned and headed for the door.

“Bucky-! Bucky, w-wait!”

The sound of the door slamming echoed through the apartment, making you flinch. Your eyes burned from holding back tears.

You looked at the notebook lying on the couch, knowing it had been the cause of all this. And then you understood.

The names.

The people he had hurt. The people he had harmed while he was the Winter Soldier under HYDRA.

Your stomach twisted. You felt sick with guilt.

Now, hours later, you stared at the bedroom ceiling. Sometimes your eyes drifted to the clock on the nightstand, watching the minutes crawl by. Bucky still hadn’t come back.

Sometimes he needed space. After a mission, he would isolate himself from the world. But never from you. With you, he stayed. It had always been that way.

Until today.

After hours of waiting and silently crying, exhaustion finally won. You fell asleep against your will, even though you wanted to stay awake, even though you wanted to be there when your boyfriend came home.

When you woke up, you felt something warm and heavy pressing against your stomach.

Still groggy, you opened your eyes and realized the room was still dark. You looked down and saw Bucky curled against you. His shirt was damp with tears. His large, muscular body trembled as he held you too tightly, as if he was afraid to let go. His hands clutched the fabric of your shirt like it was the only thing anchoring him.

“Hey, baby…?” you whispered, careful not to startle him, gently running your fingers through his hair.

Bucky stiffened before slowly lifting his head. His eyes were red and swollen, betraying how much he had cried.

“Hey…” he murmured, his voice rough.

“Hey…”

You stared at each other in silence, both of you aware of how physically and emotionally exhausted you looked.

“Can we…Can we talk?” he asked, his expression tired but sincere. He didn’t move from where he was, as if he needed the closeness after the fight.

“God, yes. Please…” you sighed, relief trembling in your voice.

Bucky took a shaky breath, his gaze drifting away before returning to yours. He shifted to sit up, leaning back against the headboard.

“I…I didn’t mean what I said,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was just upset and…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Scared.”

“Scared?” you asked softly. Bucky looked away again.

He bit the inside of his cheek before speaking, as if weighing every word. “Scared you’d realize I’m a monster who isn’t worth it…”

“Bucky, you’re not-”

“Let me finish…” he said quietly, almost in a whisper. “The things I did in the past… you wouldn’t forgive me if you heard the version from the people I hurt.” He gestured toward his metal arm. “When I saw you holding the notebook…I panicked.”

“I’m sorry…” you said, your voice trembling. “I shouldn’t have read it.”

“No, sweetheart… I’m the one who needs to apologize. In that moment, I assumed you were going to leave me, and so… I left. I thought it would hurt less that way. It didn’t.”

“W-Where did you go?”

“I went to Sam’s for a bit. He chewed me out and knocked some sense into me…” He swallowed hard, looking away again. “I’m sorry for what I said. I’ll understand if you want to break up with me after reading that notebook.”

"Break up with you?!" your eyes widened. "No, Bucky. I will never leave you!"

"Well, Steve said that and-" he started, but you interrupted him by holding his face, forcing him to look at you.

“I’m not Steve.”

“I-I know…” he said, his arm wrapping around your waist almost instinctively, needing the physical contact.

“I love you…” Your gaze dropped to his lips. Bucky noticed. His eyes followed yours, his breathing hitching slightly when he realized where you were looking.

So close, with moonlight spilling through the window, the space between you felt magnetic, like you were being pulled together by something invisible.

His hand on your waist slid gently beneath your shirt, his thumb tracing small circles against your hip. He watched you closely, his gaze warm.

Bucky leaned in, his breath hot against your skin. He was so close now, his nose barely brushing yours. His eyes dropped to your lips, his own parting slightly in anticipation.

“Can I…?” he whispered, his voice low and unsteady. He was asking for permission, silently seeking your consent.

“Always.”

With your soft agreement, the last of his restraint melted away. Bucky closed the remaining distance, his lips brushing against yours.

The kiss was surprisingly tender, almost hesitant at first. Like he was afraid of breaking the fragile moment you were in. But when he felt you respond, a low hum of satisfaction escaped his throat, and he deepened the kiss.

His hand on your hip pulled you closer, fingers spreading possessively over your skin. He tilted his head, his tongue brushing your lower lip, asking for entry.

Bucky wasn’t big on affection, you knew that. You’d seen how he avoided hugs at first, how he tensed in crowds. But with you, he softened. Even simple things like leaning against you or resting his head in your lap were proof of how comfortable he felt.