Skittle's Sanctuary

“Call me at six on the dot.”

The text from Bucky arrives at 5:17 p.m.

No apology. No acknowledgement of the fight that left both of you bleeding the night before.

You stare at your phone for almost forty minutes. You shouldn’t call. You know you shouldn’t.

Bucky had walked out after saying maybe you were asking for something he couldn’t give.

A future.

A family.

A forever.

The words still feel lodged in your chest, but six o’clock comes.

And despite every ounce of self-respect screaming at you not to—

You call.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then a woman answers.

You freeze.

“Hello?”

Not Bucky. Definitely not Bucky.

Your stomach drops.

“I—I think I have the wrong number.”

“No,” she says quietly.

The voice sounds surprised, almost guilty.

“This is his phone.”

His phone.

Your heart starts pounding.

You grip the edge of the kitchen counter.

“Who is this?”

The woman exhales a long breath and says your name.

Every nerve in your body goes cold.

“How do you know my name?”

Silence.

Too much silence.

And suddenly you already know. You know before she says it. You know before the knife goes in.

“Because he’s been seeing me.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m sorry.”

You can’t breathe. You hear her speaking again. Words blurring together.

“I thought you two were broken up.”

“He said… he told me…”

You don’t hear the rest. Your ears are ringing. All you can think about is Bucky standing in your apartment yesterday, looking wounded as he said he couldn’t give you forever.

And all along, there was someone else.

A choked laugh escapes you. The kind that sounds nothing like laughter.

The woman repeats your name.

You swallow hard, “How long?”

“Four months.”

Four months.

Four months of kisses.

Four months of promises.

Four months of sharing a bed with a man who came home smelling like someone else’s future.

Your vision blurs. Another voice suddenly appears in the background. Too familiar.

“Who is that?”

Bucky.

The woman doesn’t answer. You hear movement and then his voice again.

“What—”

Silence.

And then Bucky says your name.

The sound of your name on his lips nearly destroys you. Yesterday you would have crossed oceans for that voice.

Today it makes you sick. Your eyes close, tears slipping free. When you finally speak, your voice is heartbreakingly calm.

“I called at six on the dot.”

The silence on the other end is immediate.

“Doll, wait—”

You hang up.

At 6:01 p.m., the love of your life becomes a stranger.

NOTES: Challenges: @star-and-shield-monthly February 2026: Tipsy and In love.

A piece of fluffy romance with Steve and an autistic female Reader (no description of appearance). Her diagnosis isn't really discussed in the fic but she's written as such by an autistic woman, and she has some accommodations and her autistic work habits are referenced. But obviously, one short fic could never cover all sides of what is a big spectrum. <3

If you can spare the time, please let me know your thoughts. Comments mean the world to me and provide the Muse with proverbial caffeine and chocolate. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

Reader specific: She/her. Female. Autistic. Adult. Mentioned to be liking & wearing dresses, no other description of appearance.

Alternate Universe: The Avengers Initiative (AVIN) continued SHIELD's work after its collapse to corruption. The Avengers are living together in the Tower & Compound - Bucky has healed, and Civil War never happened because Tony and Steve worked through their differences like adults.

I do not own anything Marvel-related. This is an unofficial fan work. No copyright infringement intended. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1: Mission Preparation

As you heard the door open, you stopped rubbing your tired eyes and straightened up from where you’d been leaning your elbows on the desk. There wouldn’t have been any need to do so: if FRIDAY had let someone through the door without getting a confirmation from you, then the visitor could only be someone who had seen you in much less put-together states. But it was still considered polite, and honestly, right now, a break was a welcome thing.

A very welcome thing, you thought as you spun your chair to face the door of your lab — although you were never certain if it should be called a lab for all the high-tech computers or a library for all the shelves chock-full of books. Your space in the Avengers Compound.

“Captain Rogers,” you smiled.

Regardless of how tired you were feeling, his presence always seemed to pull an expression of genuine joy onto your face. And this time was no exception, especially since he had arrived carrying a holder that had two cardboard cups of what you presumed to be coffee, and was holding a brown paper bag in his other hand. You didn’t bother shutting down the floating hologram screens in front of you, showing various astronomical charts and data related to them. Any information there, he’d be privy to.

“I’ve told you, Doctor,” he smiled back. “Please call me Steve.”

“I do call you Steve,” you pointed out. “When we’re off duty. Is this not about the mission?”

Your brow furrowed, and you could swear that he changed the way he carried his weight, leaning more on his left leg instead of on the right. His appearance did not give you any clue about the context of his visit — he was in the usual blue button-down and charcoal grey dress pants, which he seemed to consider his uniform when he wasn’t suited up or at the gym. He cleared his throat and straightened up, impossibly appearing even taller and mightier than he already had.

“Am I bothering you?” he asked softly. “Interrupting?”

You knew from the bottom of your heart that if you told him that he was, he would apologize and turn around and leave, no questions asked, no hard feelings. He understood, among other things, how certain things required uninterrupted focus and concentration to pull off, and as much as you liked having him around, sometimes the moment just wasn’t good.

Although, more and more often, you were finding that the moment was very good, regardless of what you had been working on. There was just something about Steve’s presence that made you feel like you were floating. Appreciated. Seen. Accepted. And perhaps he’d sensed the fact that he was welcome, since he’d started stopping by at least once every day.

“You are not,” you replied, ensuring that there was a smile on your face. “I could use a break.”

He relaxed and stepped forward.

“I thought you might.”

The smile on his face made your heart beat louder, even as you weren’t certain of the physical origins of that reaction. He set the coffees and the bag on the desk after a quick look to confirm there wasn’t anything in the way, and started to unpack the paper bag, chatting away with a slightly hushed tone:

“I just wanted to check in on you. You’ve been in here for quite a while. Wanted to make sure you’d get something to drink and eat while you’re working.”

You pulled a clock up onto your hologram workstation, frowning at the numbers that had no right to have gotten away from you like this. The data on your desk had been invigorating, and you were fairly certain that you would have found yourself riding the flow of hyperfocus even without the adrenaline that came from knowing that you could do your part in saving the world.

“I was focusing,” you replied. “I actually only came back to it a moment ago. Great timing.”

He set two biodegradable-plastic cafeteria containers in front of you: your favorite salad with a little cup of dressing, and a slice of French Chocolate Silk pie that looked absolutely divine. Finally, a water bottle and a set of utensils wrapped in napkins emerged from the bag before he set it down on the floor.

“I’ve noticed this interval seems to be fairly common,” he said, reaching for his own coffee. “For you to return to the realm of us mere mortals.”

He was certainly selling himself far too short if he was calling himself a mere mortal, but from the warmth of his voice, it was obvious that you weren’t the butt of the joke. You tilted your head, looking at his profile with a question he could probably sense in your eyes, and he froze mid-movement. He cleared his throat again, and you could swear there was a little pink on his cheeks. What for, you didn’t have enough data to understand.

“I didn’t realize you have paid attention to my typical focus patterns,” you asked as you were peeling the salad container open.

“I… It’s important for me to be aware of the working patterns of my team,” he said, as if choking the words out. “Looking out for everyone’s needs so they can do their best work.”

Yes. Of course. That was all it was. You resisted the urge to shake your head to drive the small but very persistent hope out. You and Steve were colleagues. Teammates. Friends, even — definitely. It was true that he had been incredibly kind and caring towards you, but then again, he was Steve Rogers. It was physically impossible for him to be anything but. You’d just watched too many cheesy romantic movies.

And even if it hadn’t been for the fact that you worked together, and how any awkwardness between you and Steve would no doubt affect others in the team — such was human behavior after all — you were better off anyway without considering such things. It was better to stay in the realm of numbers and data, things you understood and could make sense of. While the thought of a romance wasn’t unpleasant, especially with Steve — someone like Steve — it came with far too many unknown variables. Your sorry track of attempts at online dating definitely wasn’t in any type or form encouraging. It was better, safer here, in the realm of predictable things and platonic attachment, where you could still enjoy the occasional romantic daydream in the form of a book or a film.

So you wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t read anything from Steve’s behavior. You wouldn’t embarrass him by taking his kindness and twisting it into something it was not.

It made sense. It was entirely logical.

Then why was having a perfectly logical course of action failing to soothe you like it usually did?

In the end, the world had been saved.

Again.

And according to Tony Stark, this obviously called for a celebration.

You had to admit, it wasn’t a bad idea. The operation hadn’t been anything like the Battle of New York; it had been a months-long, exhausting ordeal, full of all sorts of covert missions and digging for intelligence, and finally a crackdown at the Hydra cell headquarters. After it was finally done, all of you had been left with a vague sort of emptiness, the what now feeling that always followed the completion of a big project.

But by gods, Tony had made sure that you would take a moment to revel in your victory. In his books, that meant a very exclusive, high-end nightclub and bottles of champagne, the price tags of which you did not want to know.

“Of course you’ll come too, Mastermind,” he had said when you’d been hesitant about whether the invitation also concerned you. “This is as much your victory as ours. We’ll accommodate you.”

He had said it like it was self-evident, and you had to admit, the entire time you had been working for the Avengers Initiative, taking your specific needs into account had never been an issue. And while nightclubs, with loud music and bright lights and drunk people, weren’t really your comfort zone, you’d decided to tag along.

Nat had assisted you in gearing up, so to speak: she’d done your makeup — complete with sharply lined eyes, long lashes, and a red, red lip — and helped you choose an outfit. She’d casually chatted about things as you’d pulled the dress on and slipped your mission earbuds into your ears. They’d filter out a lot of the noise while allowing you to hear the conversation and participate in it.

“That’s pretty Breakfast at Tiffany’s of you,” Nat smirked from where she was lounging in an armchair in your Tower room, looking at your black fit-and-flare dress. “You look great.”

“Thank you,” you said as you ran a hand over the fluffy skirt. “Are you sure it’s a good club dress?”

“Of course,” she replied, her expression softening. “Why would it not be?”

You sighed and shrugged.

“I don’t know? But it feels like in the images I’ve seen from clubs, people usually wear more form-fitting clothes. I don’t want to stick out in a bad way. Like I can’t dress for the occasion.”

You weren’t even sure where your nerves were coming from. Granted, any human gathering came with a ton of hidden trapdoors and conflicting rules, but it wasn’t like the people you were going out with didn’t know how you liked to dress. And you were looking to spend time with them, and not make any new acquaintances. There was enough going out of your comfort zone involved without any nerve-wracking new humans.

“You won’t. You look lovely. It might be a bit different than what many wear but more in the sense of people having different personal styles and preferences,” she reassured.

It wasn’t like she was wrong. She herself was wearing a dress you associated with clubs, a skin-tight black number that looked not only amazing but her, and the same could be said about your dress. But still. Something felt like it was off, a bothersome buzzing in your brain.

Nat let the silence sit for a bit as you were still scrutinizing your expression and finally continued, very softly:

“Are you sure this is about the dress?”

You blew out a breath, doing one more spin in front of the mirror.

“I… You know things can be a bit difficult with me. That I don’t work as normal people do. I just don’t want to ruin everyone’s celebration.”

Nat snorted a laugh, and you raised your brow in question to her. She got up from her chair, shaking her head with a one-sided smirk.

“Honey, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you don’t exactly work with normal people. Now come on, let’s go,” she said, wrapping her arm around your shoulders in a friendly manner and gently nudging you to move. “You’re not going to ruin anything for anyone, it’s your celebration too, and the limo’s waiting.”

“Botany powers?”

You met Barnes’ doubt-filled eyes, refusing to waver despite him towering over you and the team staring.

“Yup.”

“You sure you can keep up with us?”

He probably wasn’t trying to be a dick, but he sure as hell sounded like one.

Pursing your lips together, you moved your hand just slightly. The potted Monstera plant on the edge of the hall sprung to life, shooting out as long vines.

Bucky barely had time to yelp before they wrapped around his ankles and yanked him face-first onto the floor.

“Yeah, I think I’ll keep up just fine, Sarge.”

Bucky backs you up against the wall right there in the entryway, the cool metal of his left hand sliding up your ribs while his warm right hand cups your jaw. His body is solid heat and muscle pressing into you.

Bucky’s fingers trace the expensive lace over your tits, thumb brushing your already hard nipple through the sheer fabric. His hand slides down, finding the crotchless opening immediately. He groans when his fingers meet your soaked pussy. “Fuck… already this wet for me?”

You whimper as he circles your clit slow and firm. “I don’t want anybody else.”

He drops to his knees right there in the hallway, pushing your thighs apart.

“Fuck, doll… she’s even prettier in person,” he murmurs. He drags two fingers slowly through your folds, spreading you open while he looks up at you like you’re his new religion. “Look how she’s glistening for me already.”

The first slow drag of his warm tongue through your folds makes your knees buckle. He eats you like a man who’s been dreaming about it for weeks — messy, hungry, one hand gripping your ass while the other holds one of your thighs over his shoulder.

You’re moaning loud, fingers in his hair, hips rolling against his face. “Bucky— oh my god, yes… just like that.”

You cry out, one hand fisting his hair, the other gripping his shoulder as he eats you like a starving man.

Bucky pulls back just enough to slide two thick fingers inside you, curling them perfectly against that spot that makes your eyes roll. Your eyes meet his as you look down. The sight is almost your undoing - Bucky’s got a filthy grin, lips shiny from your juices.

“So tight around my fingers, doll. Greedy little thing.”

He stands up suddenly, lifting you like you weigh nothing and carries you straight to the bedroom. The second your back hits the mattress he’s on you, yanking the bralette down so your tits spill out. He sucks one nipple into his mouth hard while he keeps fingering you, wet squelching sounds filling the room.

You’re writhing under him, moaning loud. “Need your cock, Bucky.”

Bucky lets out a wrecked laugh and sits back, stripping his henley off in one move. His cock springs free: thick, heavy, and leaking at the tip. He strokes himself slowly, eyes locked on your spread thighs and that soaked, pulsing pussy.

“Look at her twitching,” he groans. “She’s so fucking pretty when she’s desperate. You gonna be a good girl and let me wreck her tonight, doll?”

FIN.

Steve won't, can't look at Bucky. He remembers their tiny room, the single bed, the bathtub in the kitchen.

Eyes on Bucky? He won't have a choice. Nowhere to hide now.

Winnie ruffles Bucky's hair up; he scowls and smooths it down. "You'll both come home for dinner every Friday night."

"Yes, ma'am," says Steve, as if the thought of sharing a room, a bed, a life with Bucky doesn't scare Steve joyous.

But Bucky doesn't know.

And Steve will never tell him.

*

Steve doesn't know.

"A fine idea," says Ma.

But Pop hides behind his newspaper, silent. Bucky's stomach is in knots, waiting for certain disapproval.

The idea of Steve, alone in Hell's Kitchen, churns Bucky's stomach more. Or worse—sharing that rat-trap with any other guy.

"Home for dinner, every Friday," adds Ma.

Bucky's stare could set the paper on fire by the time George turns the page and speaks. "Stop mothering them, Win. They'll be fine."

Bucky stares in disbelief… and hope.

If George can accept this new normal, maybe…

But Steve doesn't know.

And Bucky will never tell him.

*

George doesn't know.

"It's a fine idea," says Winnie. "You can keep an eye on each other."

Not that Bucky nor Steve look at each other now; Winnie could laugh or knock their heads together. She settles with ruffling Bucky's hair; he scowls and keeps his anxious gaze on George.

They're grown, they need freedom, Winnie had said earlier. Don't disapprove just because you don't like it.

"Stop mothering them," says George. Winnie smiles, satisfied.

Alone, together, maybe Bucky and Steve will see what she has.

They don't know she knows.

And Winnie won't be the one to tell them.

“I’m Bucky,” he says, and he shows them pearly whites.

You tell him your name. The idea of being next door to an Avenger puts any anxieties of living on your own to ease. Over time, you see it all:

Bucky helps old ladies carry groceries. He fixes the war veteran’s radiator for free. He mows the lawn for the single mom who works at the hospital. The cops like him. Hell, the whole neighborhood melts for him.

Then little things go missing: A hair tie. Your pink lacy panties. The silver ring you swore you left beside the sink.

You tell yourself you’re being paranoid. You literally live next door to a superhero.

But you’ve also seen the way his eyes linger. And it’s curious how he seems to know your schedule better than you do.

Tuesday yoga. Thursday laundry. Midnight tea when you can’t sleep.

You never told him that last one… right?

One rainy night, your power cuts out. Your phone flashlight shakes in your hand as you fumble through the kitchen.

A staccato knock at your door causes you to nearly scream.

“It’s just me,” Bucky calls out. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Relief immediately washes over you as you unlock the door. He steps inside dripping rainwater and concern.

You follow his line of vision as it drifts slowly across your living room to the mug sitting beside the sink to the tiny rip in your couch cushion to the framed photo of you and your best friend.

Details nobody should know unless they’ve already been inside.

Your blood runs cold.

Because Bucky smiles softly and says, “You moved the furniture around.”

You’re in the kitchen preparing dinner with Bucky. Alpine is winding around his ankles as the record player hums softly in the background. The front door opens and your daughter calls out for the two of you. There is something in the tone of her voice that makes both of you look up immediately.

“Everything okay, doll?”

“Maybe?”

You and Bucky exchange a look. She drops her backpack by the table. “So, we started learning about the sixties today,” she replies as she pulls out her history textbook and flips through chunks of pages.

You see the page before Bucky does. There’s a grainy black-and-white photo of the Winter Soldier. Underneath, reads:

JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES — Soviet operative linked to numerous assassinations during the Cold War, including the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.

Your daughter’s gaze bounces between the two of you. Bucky closes his eyes and you swear that you see his soul exit his body.

“Dad, you assassinated JFK?!”

“Well,” Bucky says slowly, “that’s one hell of a way to start dinner.” After a beat, he continues, “Honey, remember that my mind was controlled by Hydra at the time.”

Your daughter, your sweet, Barnes child, walks to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“She really walked us through the chapter like normal, Dad,” she mutters into his shirt. “I’m just sitting there trying to survive third period and BAM! There’s your government-issued murder glamour shot.”

You let out a snort.

“Everyone started asking me things about daddy, Uncle Steve, Sam. You may get a call from the school.”

Bucky lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Can I cite daddy as a primary source in my essay?”

Simultaneously you and Bucky shout, “No!”

“I can’t promise I won’t do that.”

The cold, gray rain was gusting against the window of your Brooklyn apartment. You’re tucked against Bucky on the couch, wearing nothing but his oversized hoodie, legs tangled in his lap. You are both reading, enjoying each other's company.

Bucky’s metal fingers trace patterns up your thigh, stopping just short of where you want them.

You tilt your head, listening to the low song drifting from the speaker. “I never understood a single word he said,” you quietly sing along.

“What year did that song come out?” Bucky asks, his eyes locking onto yours.

“1970.”

Bucky hums as his gaze drops. Instantly his mood has shifted.

“What’s up babe?” you asked, closing your book.

“I missed so much,” Bucky sighs. “I don’t know if I was being used then, or in cryo… still sorting out memories.”

Your heart breaks. “Bad people took choices away from you for a long time. When something terrible happens, sometimes the most important thing isn’t pretending it never happened.”

Bucky’s eyes flick briefly towards you.

“It’s deciding what kind of person you’re gonna be afterward. And you,” you remark as you climb onto his lap, “are a good man.”

You press a small kiss to his lips as you settle over him.

Bucky’s eyes lock on yours, his hands at your waist, keeping you in place. He leans in, lips brushing against yours as your fingers curl into his shirt. You shift, pressing closer, feeling him hard beneath you. The ache, the desire is thick and building.

“Tell me what you’re thinking right now,” you murmur, lips brushing his jaw.

“I would’ve been 52 in 1970.”

“Well it’s a good thing I’ve always had a penchant for older men,” you tease as his metal hand slides up your back under the hoodie, warm and possessive.

Bucky was standing near the window. It was something he did often. Staring out into the darkness. The staring got worse when something was bothering him. So did the brooding. The book in your lap no longer had your attention as you were reading him instead. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his shoulders tense, eyes dark and stormy.

You knew him well enough, read him often enough to know what his body was saying. Everything he wasn't.

You closed the book on your lap with firmness of resolve.

"Bucky," you said softly.

He hummed in response without turning around.

You waited. Patiently, in your opinion. You tried so hard to be patient with him. Even though the words that came out of your mouth may have betrayed the fraying edges.

"You gonna tell me what’s going on with you?"

There was a pause. Not very long. Definitely not dramatically. You could at least give him the chance to answer. He deserved that much.

But the silence went on long enough to make something in your chest tighten.

"There’s nothing going on," he mumbled.

A laugh threatened to burst out of your lips. Not because it was funny, but because it was depressingly familiar.

"Cause you’ve been staring out that window for ten minutes," you answered with a small shrug, keeping your tone as even as possible. "That’s not nothing."

Finally he turned, leaning against the wall with the vibranium between him and the plaster board. He wore a look which was trying to be casual but was failing abysmally.

"I'm just thinking."

"About?"

He shrugged.

And there it was. The small dismissive gesture that indicated the conversation was over on his end.

The spark of irritation that had ignited in your chest flared, but it was being fueled by something deeper. Something older. You put down the book on the coffee table and crossed the room, blanket still wrapped over your shoulders.

"You’ve been doing that a lot lately."

"Doing what?"

"That," you gestured vaguely, feeling the pang of frustration creeping in. "Thinking… shutting down… brushing things off."

"I’m not shutting down," he replied, a slight edge in his voice.

You stopped in a foot away from him, your arms folding instinctively around your waist.

"You kinda are," you said. "You get… all quiet, you go somewhere else, and the worst part is you act like I’m imagining it."

"I didn’t say you were imagining anything," Bucky snapped.

"You didn’t have to."

The air between you shifted with the coldness in your tone and the anger in his. Subtle, but unmistakable. He straightened up, expression tightening. Always a soldier.

"I just don’t think everything needs to be a conversation," he muttered.

You blinked in surprise. "Seriously?"

"I mean it," he continued. "Sometimes I just… need a minute."

"And that minute turns into hours,” you grumbled. "Days, sometimes."

"That’s not fair."

"Why not?" you persisted. "It feels like you just disappear on me, Buck. Not physically, but… it's like you just… check out."

"I’m right here." He looked at you with a hint of exasperation.

"It’s not the same thing and you know it."

The silence between you was heavy, pressing in around you. Suffocating.

Bucky shook his head, running a hand through his hair before exhaling sharply through his teeth. "I don’t know what you want me to say."

"I want you to let me in," you said, your words coming out softly, earnest but intense.

You could see the falter in his gaze. "You are in," he insisted.

You shook your head. "No. I'm… on the outside looking in." You hesitated, looking for the least confrontational approach. "It's like you let me in when things are good, easy. But the second something's off, you pull back. Shut the door."

"That’s not—"

"It is," you cut in, quietly but firmly. "That's how it feels, and I’m tired of pretending it isn’t."

This time when he looked at you, he really looked. There was something different in his eyes now. Not anger. They looked conflicted.

"I’m trying not to drag you into my mess," he said.

The words were uttered softly, but they hit you harder than expected and for a second, you couldn't respond. Because there it was— the metaphorical line. Drawn in the figurative sand of the beach that represented your relationship. He said it with such conviction, framing the intention in a protective way. Careful, selfless event. But despite all of this, you still managed to hit the wall.

"I’m already in it, Bucky," you said, your voice quieter and all the sharper for it. "You just act like I'm not."

You could see all the muscles in his jaw clench.

"That’s not fair," he repeated, but it sounded less certain this time.

"Why not?" you asked. "You decide what I can handle… what I should know… what I don’t need to worry about. It's like I don’t get any say in it."

"I’m just tryna protect you."

"I didn’t ask for that, Buck."

The words slipped out. They landed before you had the chance to soften them and the implication hung between you in a tense silence. You watched the way his body stilled, another soldier's response.

The shift in his expression came seconds later, subtle but unmistakable.

"Right," he muttered.

Just the one word. Said without anger. No change in volume. Just one word that felt like another door slammed in your face.

You felt the change instantly, and instinctive flicker rippled through you. Had you gone too far? But pride— or maybe frustration— kept you from taking it back.

"I mean it," you added, even though your chest was starting to chest tighter and tighter. "I don’t need you deciding what's best for me."

"I’m not deciding anything," he said, his voice had becomes increasingly flatter now. "I’m just… handling my own stuff."

"And shutting me out in the process."

"I’m not shutting you out."

"Then why does it feel like you are?"

This time the silence between you stretched out for much longer. Felt much colder. He was the first to look away and that's when you knew you knew the truth. Not because he admitted it. Because he never admitted it.

"Okay," you said quietly. Resigned. Just as flat as his words had been.

"Okay?" He glanced back at you, his brows pulling together slightly.

"Yeah," you nodded, even though nothing about the conversation felt okay at all to you. "If that’s how you want to handle things."

"That’s not..."

"Not… what you’re doing?"

He didn't answer, exhaling slowly after a short pause, as if he was not choosing his words carefully.

"I just—" he started, voice measured, "maybe not everything needs to be shared straight away."

You stared at him. "Or at all."

Bucky scowled.

"Maybe that’s how people end up alone," you added. Flat. Quiet.

Neither of you spoke. The walls felt like they were closing in around you. Suffocating.

"I don’t want to fight about this," he said finally.

You felt guilty at his words. You didn't want to fight either, but you couldn't stay silent any longer.

"Then don’t shut me out," you answered with a plea.

"So don’t push me when I’m not ready," he countered.

There it was. The line drawn. Final. Solid. Impenetrable.

You swallowed down the surge of disappointment that threatened to overwhelm you.

"Fine," you said flatly.

One word. Not shouted. But carried more weight than anything else you’d said so far.

He nodded. Just once.

"Fine," he echoed.

And just like that, it was over. No resolution. No apology. Just… a line in the sand.

The next morning was no different from any other morning. But the shift between you was immediately palpable. Not dramatic… just different. The two of you move around each other carefully.

"Morning," you rasped through your morning grogginess.

"Morning," he replied softly, already climbing out of bed.

The exchange was simple. Totally neutral.

Coffee was already brewing when you made it to the kitchen and your hands brushed accidentally when you both reached for the same mug. Both of you pulled back a fraction too quickly.

"Sorry," you murmured.

"Yeah," he answered, the same detached tone he had used last night.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

By the third day, things between you seemed to have settled into their new pattern. Conversations purely functional. The care between you hadn't vanished, but the intimacy was strangely absent.

"Did you eat?"

"Yeah."

"You heading out?"

"In a minute."

"Drive safe."

Neither of you lingered. There was no intimacy or lingering touches. You had stopped reaching for him without even realizing it at first. No hand on his arm when you passed. No leaning into his space when you were both in the kitchen. No absent-minded touches that used to happen without thought.

It wasn't a conscious decision. It just… happened.

For the first few days, you considered it, but every time you looked at the sullen expression on his face and a flicker of hesitation passed through you.

What if he pulled away?

So you didn’t risk it. You couldn't. Not if you wanted to avoid aggravating the issue.

He noticed. Bucky always did. He noticed everything.

The way you sat a little further away on the couch. The way you didn't look at him for quite as long. The way you tempered your responses, measuring your every word before saying it. He told himself you needed space. That pushing you into closeness would make things worse. That you were just upset. Understandably so.

So he decided to give you space. He held back, even when every single one of his instincts screamed at him to close the distance.

By the end of the week, the silence in the apartment had spawned a life of its own. It seeped through the apartment like a poisonous mist, settling into every nook and cranny of your little world. You could both feel it— affecting the way you moved around each other, just slightly out of sync, like you were orbiting the same space but never quite aligning.

You got home late that night. Another awful day at work where one of your colleagues just got under your skin. Bucky was already home.

"Hey," he greeted you quietly.

"Hi," you offered a tired response, dropping your bag by the door and toed off your shoes.

There was a brief moment where you made eye contact and all you wanted to do was to collapse into his arms. To let him hold you until the storm inside you calmed. And just when you were ready to walk toward him, his eyes flicked away. Back down to the book he had been reading when you walked in.

You sighed quietly and shuffled into the bathroom to wash away the day's troubles instead.

The night was the worst. You still shared a bed, but somehow the space between you felt like the Grand Canyon. You lay facing your side, away from Bucky and he did the same, facing the opposite direction. There was no discussion, no argument… just a quiet, non-verbal agreement you had entered unwillingly.

You fell into a fitful sleep, plagued by dreams of work that bothered your subconscious. It was enough to make you shift in your sleep until your hand brushed his arm. You surfaced from sleep just enough to register the implication and for a second, you didn't move.

A part of you wanted to stay, to keep your hand where it was. To close the gap, even just a little. But slowly you pulled back. Carefully. You didn't want to give away too much of yourself. Not when you might not get anything back.

What you didn't know was, on the other side of the bed, a set of metal fingers curled into the sheets. Bucky was awake too. Staring at the dark wall in front of him.

The following week was rough for you. A combination of the distance between you and Bucky plus the added stress at work.

Several of your colleagues had quit suddenly and none of them would speak to you about why. It meant that a portion of their workload was reallocated to you. You groaned softly and rubbed your temples as yet another email notification flashed up on your screen.

That's when you felt a presence behind you. He leaned over your shoulder to stare at your screen. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him in your personal space. Close enough to make your shoulders tighten instinctively. Too close.

"You missed a line here," he drawled, pointing at your screen.

His tone was no different than normal. Almost friendly compared to some of your previous interactions with the man. He wasn't your direct supervisor, so you didn't usually have much to do with him, which had always been a relief since he had the reputation of being a womanizer.

You nodded, offering a terse smile and shifting slightly in your chair. "Thanks."

He didn’t move right away. Instead choosing to linger for a second longer than necessary. Then he stepped back, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

You exhaled slowly, barely noticing you were holding your breath. It’s fine, you told yourself. He’s just… like that. It didn't mean anything.

You didn't think to mention it at home, as much as it unsettled you. How could you? Not with the way things were with Bucky. You were in the kitchen scrolling through your emails when Bucky came in. He walked passed you and straight to the fridge to grab a bottle of cold water.

"Hey, want one?" he asked, holding a bottle out to you.

You stared at it for a second before accepting it with a soft thanks. Your chest tightened as he grabbed another bottle for himself and went to sit on the couch. Slowly you followed, sitting in the smaller armchair rather than beside him on the couch.

For a moment, you thought about telling him. You really did. It was such a simple statement. There's a guy at work who gives me the creeps. You stole a glance at him over the rim of the water bottle. He was sitting with his feet up on the coffee table, head dropped onto the back of the couch and his eyes were closed. He looked tired. Distant. Closed off in that quiet way you’d come to recognize.

The words formed in your throat.

Hey Bucky, can I—

You stopped mid-thought. Because another cut it off.

You’re not okay.

And another crowded in.

If you go to him now, it’ll look like you just want his attention.

Your grip on your phone tightened and you looked away. Your mind continued it's monologue.

If he cared, he’d notice.

The voice in your head was sharp. A little unfair, maybe. But the thought settled in uninvited. So you changed track. You wouldn't burden him with your problems. You would protect him from that.

"You want me to order dinner from the Thai place you like?" you asked, holding up your phone with the virtual menu.

"Sounds good." He smiled with a nod. Small but there.

You looked back down at your phone to place the food order, not catching the way his gaze lingered on you. He could tell there was something off. Something more than just the way the two of you had left things.

He saw the tenseness in your shoulders, noticed how you were quieter than usual. He thought about saying something. Almost did. Almost. But then the memory of that conversation came back to him. Remembered how you had pulled back. Remember the way you had said you didn't need him to decide things for you.

Don’t push me when I’m not ready. Those were his words. Ones he had carelessly thrown at you. What gave him the right to push you for honesty when he wasn't couldn't provide the same. He exhaled slowly, looking away.

She doesn’t want me right now, the small voice in his head spoke up.

Across the room, you stared at your phone a second longer, before locking the screen and setting it down. You picked up the television remote and flicked it on, staring absently at the screen lost in your own thoughts.

And just like that… both of you stayed silence. Not because neither of you cared. Not because the love between you had gone. But because somewhere along the way, both of you had started believing the same lie— that reaching out would only make things worse.

It had been a few days. Bucky had watched you from afar. He watched the way you had withdrawn. He knew you had a thick protective shell when he had started dating you. It was similar to his. But you had opened it and let him in. But now it felt like you'd closed the door and he was somehow on the outside.

He hadn't planned on coming in. But when he saw your lunch lying on the counter, it felt like he had been left the perfect olive branch on a platter. The opportunity was too good to pass up. He picked it up without overthinking his actions, already half way out of the door before the idea had time to settle.

It wasn't exactly a grand gesture. That's not who you were. Your love language was acts of service. You showed him that a thousand times over during the time he had known you. This had to be the right way to try and bridge the gap that had formed between you.

He didn't bother texting you. He figured that if you were busy, he would just drop it off and go.

The second he stepped into your office, it felt like he was in a different world. He had never really understood what you did. You had described it as data analysis, but the second you went into detail, he had to fight to stop his eyes glazing over. He thought of the way you smiled, not minding his ignorance. He sighed, you were always so patient with him.

He looked around, everything was so much busier than he expected. Phones rang incessantly, there was a low hum of conversation in the background, the buzz surrounded him as he stepped forward.

He scanned the space as he walked down the central passage way, pulling down his sleeve to cover his left hand. He didn't want to draw attention to himself in your place of work unless it was absolutely necessary.

He got to the end and scanned the open area. He spotted you almost immediately. You were at your desk, dressed exactly as he remembered when you said goodbye that morning. But something was different. It wasn't your clothes and he couldn't see your face.

His eyes shifted to the left and he took in the man standing beside you. Not just standing… leaning. Too close.

The thought landed fast. Instinctive. Ugly.

Bucky had been about to take a step forward, but his momentum slowed as something tightened low in his chest as he gaze became fixed on the man leaning into your space. He acted like he belonged there. Like it was natural. Familiar.

His teeth pressed together, jaw set at a sullen angle. Of course.

The thought came uninvited. Bitter. Because he was the one who had created the space. Added to it every time he shut down. Every time he turned away instead of letting you in. You said it yourself, you felt like you were on the outside looking in.

Maybe you’d just… stopped looking.

His mind moved quicker than his better judgment could catch up. The last few days you'd come back exhausted. Never closing the distance. Pulling back without so much as a fight. No more pushing. No more questions. Just a quiet acceptance of the space between you.

Had it been acceptance?

Or had you found something else to fill the space he left behind? Someone else.

His grip tightened slightly around the cooler bag in his hand, the plastic crinkling under the pressure of his grip. You deserved better than half-answers. Better than silence. Better than someone who disappeared on you when things got hard.

He knew that. Maybe you’d finally realized it too.

His gaze sharpened, tracking the way the man leaned in closer, his hand on your back, head dipping toward yours like he had the right. Something dark and gnarled flared in his chest. Not quite anger. Not that. It was something heavier. Colder. Too familiar.

You pushed her away, a voice in his head said, quiet and precise. What did you think was gonna happen?

Bucky took a step forward, already feeling the tension coiling through his body. He could walk away. He definitely should. Give you space, just like he’d decided. Like you deserved. Just like he kept telling himself was the right thing to do.

But his feet kept moving anyway. Like they had a mind of their own. Because if this was what he thought it was… he needed to see it up close. He needed to know.

Every subsequent step Bucky took was measured, controlled. Moving in the exact opposite way his thoughts were flowing— fast, chaotic and going in every direction he didn't care to follow. Nevertheless, his eyes stayed fixed on you and he finally started noticing something else.

The man leaned in again, speaking with his mouth close to your ear. Even with his super soldier hearing, Bucky couldn't make out his words over the low hum of the office. His fists clenched as he carefully tracked the movements of the man's hand, shifting against your back. It wasn't enough to draw attention, but enough to indicate a form of intimacy Bucky didn't want to accept.

The next step, however, changed the path of the narrative in his brain. It was your posture which gave it away. The angle of your shoulders, the way your spine was just a little too straight to say you were sitting comfortably. You weren't relaxed, you were enduring.

The man's hand moved again, to your shoulder and Bucky's jaw tightened. He was close, close enough to catch the tail end of your response to him.

"— I've got it, Brandon. Thanks."

Polite. Short. Dismissive.

But the man— Brandon— didn't move. And something cold settled deep in Bucky's chest.

Up close, what he was seeing was worse than all the things he had imagined. Not because of what things looked like on the surface, but because of everything he couldn't see, couldn't hear.

Your smile was there… technically. But it wasn't the one he knew. Even in the last week, you never smiled at him like this— thin, terse, professional. Nothing in your expression showed your usual softness and your tone was the kind you used when you were trying to end an interaction without any kind of escalation.

He was watching a stalemate. Neither you or Brandon had moved. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard and Bucky could have sworn there was a slight tremor in them.

You waited.

So did Brandon.

Your shoulders shifted subtly as you tried to create space without making it obvious. A movement most people would miss. He didn't.

It was like a switch flipped in his brain and a voice inside his brain was screaming at him: This isn't mutual. This isn't what you want.

The implications of the voice hit him hard. Sharp enough to slice through the lingering vestige of jealousy and leave something else in its wake.

Guilt.

Because he recognized that look. All too well. He knew exactly what it felt like to feel trapped in a moment. Not wanting to make it any bigger than it already was. He knew exactly what it looked like when you were trying to handle something alone. When it felt easier than asking for help.

The realization of it made him slow. Stop in his tracks entirely as a different question formed in the forefront of his mind.

Why didn’t she tell me?

His mind answered this almost immediately.

Because you haven't been telling each other anything lately.

Brandon spoke again, dipping his face lower this time. Too close. There was an ease in his actions that made Bucky's blood boil. This man clearly was too comfortable occupying a space that he hadn't been invited into.

This was the thought that made Bucky move forward. It didn't appear rushed, or aggressive. Just purposeful.

He stepped into your line of sight, your name warm and gentle as it left his lips.

Your head snapped up at the sound of his voice. He could see the flicker of emotions, one by one as they crossed your face; surprise, confusion, a brief softness which melted quickly into relief.

Then you smoothed it all away, forcing your face into something more neutral. It happened within a single heart beat. So fast that if you blinked, you would have missed it. But Bucky hadn't missed it.

He always saw you.

"Bucky?" you breathed, pushing your chair back, jumping out of your seat as you turned toward him.

Brandon straightened, his attention also shifting to Bucky's presence. His eyes flitted back and forth between the two of you, pausing to reassess, reevaluate his next move.

Bucky didn't look at him, haze focused on you entirely.

"I think you forgot this," he said, lifting the slightly crumpled lunch bag in his fist.

Your eyes dropped to the brown paper bag as recognition settled on your face.

"My lunch—" you sighed, your palm coming up to rest on your forehead. "I didn't even realize—"

"You left it on the counter. Guess you've been pretty busy and got distracted," he said quietly.

His words were simple, sounding neutral, but there was something unsaid simmering beneath them. Something that sounded suspiciously like I’ve been paying attention.

You nodded, with a small huffed out laugh, a soft flush tinging your cheeks. "Yeah. That's… one way to put it."

There was a beat of silence where Bucky noticed you didn't reach out to take your lunch from him and he wondered whether you were still worried about him or you just wanted to prolong the interaction.

In answer to his question, you glanced side ways.

"Oh— uh— this is—"

"Brandon," the man supplied easily, stepping forward toward you with a small, practiced smile. "We work together."

Bucky turned to face the man standing beside you and looked. Really looked. There was nothing overly hostile in his expression that Bucky could detect. Nothing that would draw attention to him or cause a scene. But there was something sinister in the smile plastered over his face. Something nefarious.

"Bucky," he replied, holding out his hand for Brandon to take. "We live together."

Brandon complied, his gaze briefly flicking to the bag in his hand and then back to Bucky's face. Something unreadable passed through his expression. Calculation, maybe. There was something in the way Brandon gripped his hand— a challenge. One which Bucky met easily. He squeezed back with only a fraction of his strength, but it was enough to convey his intended message. I see you.

"Well," Brandon said, pulling his hand back. Bucky didn't miss the way Brandon wiggled this fingertips behind his back to shake off the pressure of the handshake. After a moment he looked at you, tone still light, "good thing you’ve got someone looking out for you."

Brandon's words were casual, but they carried an undercurrent of a threat and Bucky pushed away the urge to rise to it. Instead, he shifted his attention back to you.

"You got everything you need?" he asked softly.

It was simple question, but it carried all the weight of the last week. Your eyes met his and for a moment, everything in the room faded way into the background. And it was just the two of you. Like it had always been. Nothing between you.

Then your breath hitched in hesitation. Just slightly. And the wall he had built felt taller than it ever had.

You nodded, answering quietly. "Yeah. I’m— I’m good."

He held your gaze a second longer. Checking. Making sure. Before he gave a small nod of his own.

"Alright."

Another pause. An opening. He could tell you felt it too. An opportunity for one of you to say more. The softness in your eyes gave him hope.

A thank you that meant more than just the lunch bag.

A question that wasn't about work.

He would take anything that bridged the space that had been sitting between you for what felt like an eternity. You glanced down first and he could tell you still needed time. You might be thankful for the interruption, but you weren't ready to step all the way back to him.

"Thanks for bringing it," you said quietly, shy even.

"Yeah," he answered. "Of course."

He let another beat of silence pass before stepping back. Not far, but just enough to give you space.

"I’ll let you get back to it?" He posed it as a question. An offer of escape should you need it.

This time when you looked at him and nodded, you gave him one of those smiles. A real one. The one he had fallen in love with. Not the ones you'd been offering in the last week. "Yeah. I— I’ll see you later."

"Later," Bucky agreed, even more gently than you, taking a step back.

As he turned to leave, he glanced at Brandon. The look was brief, but cold, measured. Not quite a challenge, more of warning. But it was enough. Because as he walked away, he noticed that Brandon didn't step back into your space, didn't lean in, didn't linger.

He looked over his shoulder at the end of the corridor, watching as you sat back down in your chair. This time there was a careful distance between you and Brandon, a noticeable shift. Subtle— but deliberate.

This time Bucky kept walking. Without looking back. He didn't need to. He had seen what he had needed to see. But things still sat heavily in his chest.

Not jealousy. Not anger. It was something more complicated than that. Because the problem was never that someone else stepped into the space between you. The problem was— he was the one who left it there in the first place.

Bucky had driven half way home before he realized that he was gripping the steering wheel so hard that he'd left a dent.

Not because of Brandon… well not only because of Brandon. But because of how you had looked.

The image wouldn't leave his head— the relief on your face when you heard his voice, saw his face. The tiny flicker of happiness that you promptly buried beneath politeness and distance. He'd spent the last week and a half convincing himself that you needed space from him. That maintaining that gap was the right thing to do.

But that wasn't what he had seen today.

What he saw today was you handling something uncomfortable. Alone. Because somewhere along the line, both of you had stopped believing that you could reach for each other. No matter what.

The realization sat like an anchor in his chest. And by the time he had reached the apartment, he felt surrounded by a new kind of silence.

Bucky dropped his keys into the bowl on a table by the door, toed off his boots and sat down at the kitchen counter, staring blankly out of the window. His hands were resting on the same spot where your lunch had been sitting only ninety minutes earlier. The same place where the two of you used to have breakfast together, where your fingers used to brush his absentmindedly. Where you would lean over and steal bites from his plate while claiming you weren't hungry.

It felt different now. Everything did. He buried his face in his hands as he let out a sharp exhale. He was tired of this. Tired of standing in the same apartment as you and feeling miles away. Tired of thinking too much and saying too little. Tired of convincing himself distance was kindness.

Because maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was plain cowardice.

The realization washed over him leaving him with a sinking feeling.

For the last ten days, he'd told himself that the reason for your disagreement was because he was protecting you. From his moods, his memories, his mess. But standing beside you in your office today, watching as you shrank into yourself while some asshole invaded your space…

You hadn't been protected. You had been alone. And he hated that. Hated that he had been the reason for that.

The front door opened just after 4pm. Bucky looked up from the couch instinctively at the first sound of your key in the latch. You stepped inside looking exhausted— shoulders slumped over from the weight of the day. You let you bag slip from your shoulder and drop onto the table with a dull thud

"Hey," you said softly.

Not cold or distant. Just tired.

"Hey," he breathed.

Silence settled between you again, but not with the same awkwardness that had been between you. Not sharp or hostile. Just fragile. Like something was just waiting on the edge to be cracked open. You knelt down to undo your boots, wincing slightly as you straightened up.

Bucky noticed immediately.

"Long day?"

A humorless laugh escaped you. "You have no idea," you said, shuffling towards the kitchen. But something stopped you. You turned to see that Bucky was still watching you. You could see the notch in his throat bob up and down, like he had something to say.

Say something. For once, don’t let her walk away. The words ran through his brain over and over.

"Did that guy bother you again?"

You stopped dead and Bucky watched your shoulders tense instantly. Slowly you turned around to face him.

"What?"

"The guy at work," he clarified quietly. "Brandon."

Your expression shifted almost imperceptibly. A hint of surprised that morphed into something more cautious.

"He’s just…" You trailed off, searching for the right word. "Annoying."

Bucky held your gaze.

"That didn’t look like annoying to me."

He watched you for a response, but silence stretched between you again and you looked away first. And that hurt more than if you’d snapped at him.

And that was when it came to him. You genuinely weren't sure if you could trust him with this anymore. And it devastated him. He watched as you folded your arms over your chest in a protective way.

"It's not a big deal."

It would have been easy for him to give up. To drop it. It's what he would have done a few days ago. Instead he said what he saw.

"You were uncomfortable."

"I can manage."

"That's not the same thing."

Your eyes flicked back to him, narrowing with suspicion. "Why does it matter now?"

Your question landed perfectly and Bucky absorbed the full weight of it. Because you were right. And because neither of you were talking about Brandon anymore.

You were talking about the last several weeks. About every moment he saw something was wrong and stayed silent anyway. About every time you needed him and he convinced himself distance was better.

You looked exhausted suddenly. Not angry. Just worn out.

"It's just been such small things. Talking to HR just seemed like an overreaction," you admitted quietly after a moment. "Then it was just one thing after another…" you shrugged helplessly, finally admitting what you were thinking. "I didn't want to make trouble for anyone."

Bucky stared at you. Of course you didn’t. You had spent the last week folding in on yourself, making yourself smaller to avoid being a burden. The exact same thing he had been doing. The realization would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so miserable.

"You should’ve told me," he said before he could stop himself.

Your expression cracked slightly.

A sad smile touched your mouth. "You stopped… feeling like a safe place to land, Buck."

There was nothing venomous in your words, no spite. You were gentle with him— as you'd always been. And that somehow made them all the more devastating. Bucky looked down immediately, metal fingers flexing against his thigh. He nodded once.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "I know."

The honesty of his acceptance startled you… it startled him too. There was no hint of defensiveness, he didn't shut down. Just truth.

You swallowed hard, your posture loosening slightly as you tried to come to terms with his response— like you didn't quite know what to do with his agreement.

Bucky leaned forward slowly, his forearms braced against his knees.

"I thought… if I kept my head down and held things together on my own," he admitted quietly, staring at the floor, "then I wouldn’t drag you down with me." A humorless breath escaped him. "Guess I just ended up dragging you away instead."

The way your eyes softened at his words nearly undid him. Because even now— even after everything that had happened, even with the distance between you— you still looked at him gently, with love.

"I never needed you to be perfect," you whispered.

"I know."

"I just needed you there."

The way you said it almost broke him.

Silence fell in the apartment once more, but not the same as before. This time it wasn't avoidance, it was the feeling of long awaited honesty settling into the room for the first time in weeks. Bucky rubbed a hand across his jaw slowly before looking at you properly.

"When I saw him near you today…" His voice roughened. "For a second I thought maybe you’d found somebody else."

Your eyes widened instantly. "What?"

 "I know," he muttered, already shaking his head at himself. "It was stupid."

"No, Buck—"

"I pushed you away for weeks," he interrupted softly. "You stopped reaching for me. Stopped talking to me. And I kept telling myself it was because you needed space but…" He swallowed. "I think part of me was scared you were realizing you deserved better."

The confession hung heavily between you. You stared at him like you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

"Bucky—" you said quietly, taking an unconscious step toward him. "I don't want somebody… better."

Bucky lifted his gaze to meet yours. Tender. Unwavering.

"I want you," you said. "I just… I need you with me. Not standing ten feet away trying to protect me from yourself."

Bucky felt his face change, his feelings flowing more freely. Not fixed. Nowhere near healed. But more open. For the first time in weeks— months even— he felt hopeful. For the future. For himself.

You took another hesitant step forward.

Up close, you could see the exhaustion etched into his features. The tension in his shoulders that he carried wordlessly every single day. And you wondered how long he’d been drowning quietly while trying to make it look like swimming.

Carefully, cautiously, you reached for his hand. The metal one.

You half expected him to tense… flinch. Instead his fingers curled around yours instantly. Like a reflex. And tight enough to feel desperate.

The breath you had been holding finally made its way out of your lungs. Bucky closed his eyes, letting his forehead dip slightly, like he was more relieved than he knew how to say.

"I missed you," you admitted softly.

His thumb brushed across your knuckles.

"Missed you too, doll."

The endearment nearly made you cry.

Another thing that had been missing in the last days.

Your body was acting before you had a chance to think too hard about everything. You stepped between his knees, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. There was a split second of hesitation— a lingering fear that maybe too much distance had settled between you to bridge this easily— one then Bucky pulled you against him with both arms like he’d been holding himself back for weeks.

Maybe he had.

But then you buried your face against his neck as his hand spread across your back, warm and grounding and familiar enough to ache. You chased away the fears he has been clutching too tightly.

Neither of you spoke for a while, just holding on. Right in the middle of the living room.

Bucky released a slow shaky exhale against your shoulder.

"I’m sorry."

You closed your eyes. "I know," you murmured back.

"No," he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. "I need you to hear me say it." His jaw tightened slightly. "You were right. I did shut you out. And then I kept doing it because I didn’t know how to stop."

Your hands slid up to cradle his face gently, your thumbs stroking his cheek bones.

"You don’t have to do everything alone."

"Yeah." A sad smile tugged at his mouth. "Starting to figure that out."

You huffed out a watery laugh. "Bit slow for a super soldier."

"Careful," he warned softly, the faintest hint of warmth returning to his voice. "I’m emotionally vulnerable right now."

That actually pulled a real laugh from you. And the sound visibly wrecked him. Because he hadn’t heard it in weeks. Bucky rested his forehead against yours afterward, eyes closing again briefly.

"We’re okay?" he asked quietly.

You thought about it honestly. Not fixed. Not magically healed. There were still bruises between you. Still habits to unlearn. Conversations still waiting to happen. But for the first time in weeks, neither of you were walking away from them. You brushed your nose lightly against his.

"We will be."