#flowstatefics

The first sound that you register that morning is the kettle warming on the stove. Not the whistle that tells you that it’s hot and ready, but the gentle click of it as it heats, the steam hissing in a barely-there exhale. 

The sun isn’t fully up yet, the light that comes in through the slats of the blinds still a dark blue hue as the sun lifts into the sky slowly. 

In the kitchen, the lights under the cabinet are on, spilling a warm hue across the backsplash tiles in soft gold, painting long shadows as Bob moves around the counter. He moves quietly, as if he’s prepping for a stealth mission; every movement calculated and methodical. 

As the kettle starts to squeal, he flips the heat off, and reaches for two mugs. In a moment of hesitation, he pauses. His hand hovers above the cabinet shelf for a second longer than necessary before he grabs one mug, and sets it down quietly on the counter. 

His shoulders are tense, his jaw is set, and his brow is furrowed. He grabs a second mug anyway.

He doesn’t know if you’ll want any tea, because you haven’t, the past few mornings that he’s woken up in your bed. He’ll wake up, your back to him, your body on the very edge of the bed, as if you can’t stand to be close to him. 

He’ll wait, watching and listening in case your breathing changes in a way that tells him that you’ve woken up. But you don’t, so he gets up; like clockwork, every other day for the past three weeks. 

It’s not just that, but you’ve also been sleeping later, or at the very least, pretending to. He hasn’t asked, not directly, but he’s noticed the shift; and the change in your demeanor is enough to make his heart feel heavy. 

He doesn’t know what he’s done, to earn the cold shoulder, but he still makes your tea the way you like it, every morning. Despite the fact that you usually dump it out as soon as you walk into the kitchen, he still leaves it on the counter, just in case.

Behind him, the apartment is still. The reverence that seems to follow the slow ascent of the sun every morning seeping into every corner of the space. The only discernible movement is the shift of sunlight on the floor, slowly changing from a deep blue to a thick gold as the minutes tick by. 

As he watches the shift, his thoughts are already spiraling; too many what if’s, too early in the morning. 

She’s pulling away.

It had started as small changes. First, a heavy hesitation before you spoke; then a few seconds too long replying to a text; the typing bubbles lifting, then disappearing. Reappearing, and disappearing, no less than three times, only to result in something noncommittal. 

Ok. 

Then it was the death of your laughter at dinner, the increase of your silence when he reached for you, the way you shifted away from him, leaning away from his touch.

He’d tried to tell himself it was in his head, that he was tired, that he was stressed, that he was projecting his own insecurities onto your actions, but then he’d catch you looking at him like you were memorizing him. 

The numbness in your gaze, as if you were trying to tuck pieces of him away, to save for later. The light dimming in your eyes when you looked at him. The drawn expressions that you gave him, when you used to look at him like he’d hung the moon in the sky, just for you to look at. 

Despite his best efforts to explain it all away, it still felt like you were slowly boxing up your feelings, and preparing to say goodbye.

He stares at the tea in the mugs, still swirling from the spoon he’s stirred them with, and brings them to the table, sitting down in the half-light.

His gaze is locked on the wall, but his vision is blurry and unfocused; he’s staring at nothing. His mind is spiraling, thinking of everything he’s ever done that might upset you. 

Any clues that he might have missed by being in his own world when he was tired after a particularly long day of flight routines, any cues that you may have given that he just missed in the past few months; but he doesn’t find any. 

His fingers curl around the warmth of the ceramic as the tea stares back up at him. The warmth and coziness of an early morning should feel comforting. Unfortunately, it doesn’t.

-----------------------------

You wake up the second time to the smell of tea. Your favorite tea, brewed precisely the way that you like it, no doubt waiting on the table for you, perfectly sweetened with just the right amount of cream. 

You knew that Bob would be sitting in the kitchen, or on the couch, nursing a cup of tea and reading; the sight familiar, comfortable, and almost dangerous. 

The sight of him relaxed always made your knees weak, his sleepy eyes darting across a page as he read, his brows gently furrowed; one hand gripping a mug like a lifeline while the other held his book open.

You lie in bed for a moment longer, eyes still closed, heart already aching; knowing that he was being sweet again.

He had been sweet for the past few weeks, his touches softer than usual; he was bringing you small gifts, just because they made him think of you; holding you longer when he hugged you, offering to pick up your favorite snacks without you even asking. 

Just last night, he had kissed your forehead, just lingering there, nose buried in your hair and arms wrapped tightly around you, as if he was memorizing the way that you were in that exact moment. You had pressed your face into his chest and tried not to cry. 

Partially because you’d just wanted him to hold you, and partially because you knew exactly what it was that he was doing, exactly what he’d been doing for weeks; he’s been trying to make the end easier. 

You buried your face in your pillow, squeezing your eyes tightly, the scent of his shampoo still lingering on the pillowcase.

You tried to commit it to memory, the way that he smelled, the way that his body felt when it was pressed against yours, his puffs of breath as he exhaled rushing across the back of your neck. 

You’ve seen this kind of ending before, not with Bob, but with others. When they get quiet, and kind, and when the sudden tenderness is just a way to soften the landing; it’s just a goodbye that doesn’t sound like goodbye.

You swallow the lump in your throat, pushing the dread away, tucking it tightly into the little box where you stored all of your big feelings; and push yourself up onto your elbows, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. 

You pulled on a hoodie that was laying across the bottom of the bed – one of his hoodies – and stood up to walk into the kitchen; preparing yourself for the feeling that will build in your chest as you smile at him like nothing is wrong.

When you make it into the kitchen, you find Bob, seated at the table; his shoulders are hunched over, his head is hanging low. You notice how tightly his hands are wrapped around his mug, as if that’s the only stable, steady thing in the room; and if he lets it go he’ll spin out of control. 

You pause at the other end of the kitchen, hands resting on the island countertop, taking a breath to steady yourself. 

“Morning,” you murmur, your voice stiff; partially from the lump in your throat, making your voice unsteady, partially scratchy with the remnants of sleep. He seems to snap out of whatever thoughts he was lost in when he hears your voice, and his eyes lift to meet yours. 

“Hey,” he responds, his voice scratchy too, almost as if he hadn’t thought he’d speak at all; all day.

“I made tea.” He mentioned the tea in a way that felt like an afterthought, as if he needed to fill the silence. 

“I see that,” you respond, moving your gaze to the mug that was placed on the table, at the seat next to him. Your stomach twists, and you don’t tell him thank you. You can’t. Your throat is closing up at the resignation that’s written all over his face, the defeat in his posture. 

You can’t bring yourself to move your feet to get any closer to him, so you don’t kiss his cheek, and you don’t sit in his lap like you used to in the mornings.

He doesn’t say anything to you about it, but he notices.

You grip your mug of tea, lifting it to your face to sip it, moving to sit opposite him; and pretend not to feel the way his eyes follow your every move. 

It feels as if he’s afraid he’s going to forget how you look in the mornings, hair still a mess, face still puffy with sleep, holding your mug as if it will tell you all of the answers to your problems that morning. 

Neither of you says anything else, quietly sitting on opposite ends of the table, avoiding eye contact with each other, tense without knowing how to fix it.

-----------------------------

The rest of the day passes in that same fragile rhythm, stolen glances where you can feel the tension and falling apart when the other isn’t looking. 

You clean the apartment, swallowing the lump in your throat every time you catch him looking at you; scrubbing every corner that you’ve overlooked since you moved in. Bob goes outside and fixes the lawnmower that sits in the garage, untouched since last summer, mumbling something about making sure it’s ready for the summer. 

You cook dinner, silently while holding your tongue and hoping that he doesn’t say anything that requires a thoughtful response. He washes dishes while you sit in the living room and scroll through Pinterest on your phone, trying to ignore the way that he looks at you when he dares to peek over his shoulder. 

Everything is careful. Everything is gentle. Both of you are distant.

You tell yourself to be what he wants; be soft, quiet, and gentle; try not to give him a reason to walk away. Because maybe if you’re perfect enough, he’ll stay a little while longer. Maybe if you’re able to be what he wants you to be, he won’t feel the need to go.

So when he comes back inside from a second session in the garage with the lawnmower, you put on music, and you smile when you hand him a beer. You swallow your heartache and sit next to him on the couch, leaning your head on his shoulder; and when his arm comes around you, you steel yourself and force yourself not to flinch. 

Not because you don’t want him to, but because you do want him to, too much. And you don’t trust yourself not to beg him to stay when you can already feel the space growing between you.

-----------------------------

Bob’s heart breaks a little bit more with each smile that he sees you faking. 

He can see it now, how tired your eyes look, how your voice catches sometimes before you speak; how you haven’t even bothered to say I love you in days. He had thought that maybe you were just stressed, that work, or maybe something else, was bothering you. But now, as you sit next to him, tense as he has his arms wrapped around you, he’s sure that it’s him, that he’s done something wrong; something too boring. 

That he’s too quiet, or that he’s not enough.

He doesn’t know who it is, that’s caught your attention, drawing the light of your gaze away from him; and he doesn’t even want to imagine. But he can’t continue pretending that he hasn’t seen the way your phone lights up and you smile at the screen in a way that you don’t smile at him anymore. 

He notices the way that you take longer to respond to him than you used to. There’s no proof, but it doesn’t take proof to feel it. So he’s just… trying, in the only way that he knows how. He’s trying to make you remember the reasons why you chose him in the first place, trying to be softer, more attentive; kinder. 

Not because he thinks that it’ll fix it, but because he wants to leave you with good memories, if he’s right. If this is the end. If this is the part where you say that you’ve outgrown him.

“I could run you a bath?” he offers, quietly, grasping at straws; trying to make you feel better, more secure, more solid with him, and you just blink at him. “Just thought it might help,” he stammers when you don’t reply, “you seem…” 

Distant. Angry. Upset. Like you’re about to break my heart. 

“...tired.”

You hesitate, not sure how to respond, and he sees it, watching you weigh the offer; what it means, what it might cost you, what it might entail. He watched you intently, waiting for you to decline the offer, choosing to go to bed instead, give him the cold shoulder again, sleep through the night as far away from him on the bed as possible. Instead, you nod.

“Yeah,” you say finally. 

“That would be nice.” 

You leave the room without another word, and Bob watches you walk down the hall, his throat tight with words he can’t say.

-----------------------------

The bath is quiet, calm, and lavender scented. The water hugs your body, warm and soft, but you can’t relax. The tension in your shoulders won’t dissipate. You keep thinking of the way that Bob had looked at you when you’d said yes; as if you’d just thrown him a lifeline. 

Like the smallest, simplest acceptance of care meant the world to him.

He’s scared, you realize. 

And not because he doesn’t love you. But because he does, and he’s already halfway out the door, just waiting for the courage to say it.

You think of the softness in his voice. The tea. The flowers last Thursday. The way his hand brushed your back when he thought you were asleep. You press your hands to your face and try not to cry.

Don’t make this harder for him. Just give him something to remember.

-----------------------------

When you finally climb out of the bath and make your way to the bedroom to crawl into bed, he’s already there. All of the lights are off. His shoulders tense when you walk up to the bed, as  if he’s bracing for impact. His back is to you.

“Hey,” you say softly, unsure if he’s awake, not wanting to wake him, if he’s asleep.

“Mmhmm.” His response is less of a hum and more of a strangled whimper. You pause, wondering whether to say anything at all. 

“Thanks… for the bath.”

He nods, shoulders still tense; refusing to turn to you. You climb into the bed, reaching for him beneath the covers. You almost pull away, but push forward until your hand rests on his back. 

You try not to notice the way that he flinches when your skin brushes his. There’s a short pause, and he takes in a shaking breath. He turns slowly, allowing you to curl against him, his arms coming around you almost on instinct.

Neither of you says anything. His heart is hammering so loud, you can feel it against your cheek. You almost whisper I love you, but bite it back. 

Because if he says it too, it might sound like goodbye.

Bob lies awake, late into the night, long after your breathing evens out and he knows that you’re asleep.

He’s holding you, finally, but it feels like the end. It feels like you’re already halfway gone, that you’re trying to make this easier for him now. 

As if you’re being sweet because you think he can’t handle the truth.

He buries his face in your hair, gripping you tighter, pulling you closer to him as you sleep. One more night, like this. One more night where he gets to pretend that everything might be okay. 

One more night where he can pretend that you’re still his, that you still want him, that he’s enough for you.

He wants to ask you every question that’s been spinning through his head for the past several weeks. 

Do you still love me? 

Are you planning on leaving? 

Is there somebody else that can give you everything that I can’t? 

Have I done something wrong?

But he doesn’t ask. Because part of him already thinks he knows the answers. And if you say it out loud, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to take it.

-----------------------------

It’s Saturday morning.

Bob’s already awake and ready for the day when you shuffle into the kitchen in his oversized t-shirt. He has a pen in one hand, a grocery pad in the other, and two half-made lists laid out on the counter like he’s preparing for a strategy briefing. You rub your eyes. 

“You’re up early.” He freezes in front of you, shoulders lifting, as if you’d struck him. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” He murmurs, his voice is quiet to keep from shaking, his posture tight, as if he’s bracing for a blow. You glance at the lists. 

“You making battle plans?” Please joke with me. He just shrugs, noncommittal. “Just groceries.” His voice is clipped. Short. Like he doesn’t trust himself to say anything more.

You peek over his shoulder. One list is things you need. The other is things that you like. The distinction makes your stomach twist.

“Do you want anything else?” he asks, voice still strained, not turning around. Your mind reels with all of the things that you want to say. 

I want you to look at me like you used to. 

I want to stop pretending we’re okay. 

Instead, you shake your head. 

“No. That’s fine.”

Bob picks up his keys a minute later, not looking at you once. Avoiding your gaze like it would burn him, forcing a curt nod, instead. 

“I’ll be back in a bit.” You force a smile, not wanting to upset him. 

“Drive safe.”

He pauses like he wants to say more. But then he just nods and leaves.The door clicks closed behind him, and the silence that follows is deafening.

Bob walks down the frozen foods aisle like a man carrying invisible weights. His shoulders droop, his face is mournful, slackjawed as he moves. 

He grabs your favorite yogurt. The cereal that you like to eat when you’re sad. The dark chocolate that you turn your nose up at and pretend that you don’t like, even though he’s caught you sneaking it from the cabinet more than once. He’s not sure if you’ll even eat any of it.

He’s starting to think this is what people do before the end. Small kindnesses. Last comforts. Make the leaving hurt less. He closes his eyes for a moment, standing there in front of the freezer door, wishing that he knew what to do to keep you with him.

I’d do anything if I knew how to make her stay.

The groceries are already unpacked by the time you come into the kitchen again. You hadn’t bothered coming out of your room when you’d heard him come in. Bob already has everything put away, almost neurotic in his precision.

You thank him, voice barely audible. He nods, still not looking at you. “No problem.”

You both eat a lunch of leftovers at the counter, in deafening silence. The clink of your forks against the plates screech in the too-quiet space. The tension is palpable. Neither of you are even willing to look at the other.

“I was thinking that maybe we could watch something tonight,” Bob offers carefully, tensing subtly as he waits for your response. Your eyes flick up, landing on him briefly before moving quickly back to your plate. 

“Okay.”

His shoulders drop, almost imperceptively. He nods gently, closing his eyes for a second before opening them again and looking down to his plate. 

“What are you in the mood for?”

You shrug. 

“Whatever you want.” 

He hesitates, his fork screeching on the plate. 

“Are you sure?” His tone is careful, as if he doesn’t want to press you too hard; doesn’t want to rock the boat, doesn’t want to make you upset.

You look at him, finally. Really look. And something in your face breaks his heart, because it’s the face of someone who’s already bracing for impact.

-----------------------------

It’s evening now. You stand stiff, folding laundry next to the bed. Bob is across the room, fiddling with a drawer on your dresser that won’t close all the way. You hold up one of his shirts. 

“This one’s got a hole in the sleeve.” An observation. An invitation for a conversation. Anything to break the silence. 

“I know,” he says, voice quiet. He doesn’t look at you, but he’s frozen where he sits by the dresser. “It’s fine.”

“I can patch it.” you offer, wishing he would turn his head to look at you. He shrugs. He still doesn’t look up. 

“Don’t bother.” You pause, the shirt still in your hands. 

“You love this one.”

He finally turns toward you. His face is tired. Sad. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

You set the shirt aside. Neither of you says anything else.

-----------------------------

Bob cooks dinner that night. The silence between you hasn’t eased. If anything, it’s gotten even sharper. It’s a good meal, he’d made your favorite. He brings it to you gently, almost cautious as he offers it with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

You sit beside him on the couch, plates on your laps, a movie playing low in the background. You both eat quietly, no conversation. It tastes like comfort food. It tastes like grief.

Halfway through, you set your fork down and whisper, 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” You try not to notice the way that Bob flinches. You don’t look at him. 

“You’ve been… extra sweet lately. Doing all these little things.”

When he finally responds, his voice is low; almost guarded. 

“You don’t want me to?” 

“No, I do. It’s just…” You swallow. 

“Are you trying to tell me something?” 

The silence between you is razor-thin. He turns off the TV. Sets his plate down, opening his mouth to speak. 

“I thought you were the one trying to tell me something.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t move toward you, doesn’t reach for your hand. 

“You’ve been different,” he says quietly. 

“And I thought maybe… I don’t know. That I was losing you.” His voice is rough and slow, as if it would crack if he spoke any louder; as if he would break if he said it too quickly.

You laugh. It’s not joyful. It’s broken. 

“I thought you were getting ready to leave.” 

He blinks like you just punched him in the chest. 

“What?” You look down at your lap. 

“You’ve been treating me like something fragile. Like you’re trying to let me down easy.” He opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks stunned. Shaken. 

“I thought if I just… stayed soft enough, sweet enough, you wouldn’t walk away,” you add.

Bob sinks into the couch beside you. His hands are shaking. 

“I thought if I just held on a little tighter,” he says, “you wouldn’t let go.”

The silence that follows isn’t peaceful. It’s stunned. Shattered. You both sit in it, breathing the same air, but feeling miles apart.

-----------------------------

The bedroom is dark.

Too dark, somehow, even with the soft light from the hallway seeping in under the door. It casts a faint glow across the ceiling, pale and flickering, like the ghost of something warm that used to live here.

You lie on your side, facing the wall. Eyes open. Bob lies behind you, close—but not touching. His breath is steady. Controlled. Neither of you have spoken since dinner. You can still hear the echo of it in your head. 

I thought if I held on tighter, you wouldn’t let go. 

I thought if I was sweet enough, you wouldn’t walk away.

You should say something. You both should. But the air feels fragile. Like if you speak too loudly, the whole thing might shatter. So you stay still, breathing slowly; trying not to let your chest shake too much when your throat tightens again.

Bob stares at the back of your neck. He wants to reach for you. Wants to press his mouth to your shoulder and whisper I’m scared too.

But he doesn’t. Because the last time he got close, he saw the way your eyes went glassy. 

Like it hurt to be loved by him. 

So he lies there. Motionless. Listening to the silence as it stretches thin between you.

Your hands curl under the pillow. You squeeze your eyes shut and wonder if you’ll ever feel safe enough to sleep beside him again.

-----------------------------

Bob’s hands are covered in grease. His head is under the nose of a jet. But his mind hasn’t been there all day. Phoenix crouches beside him, sipping from a metal water bottle. She watches him for a while before speaking. 

“You keep forgetting steps,” she says lightly. “You almost left a torque wrench in the nacelle.” Bob doesn’t respond.

“You’re never this sloppy,” she adds, trying to get a reaction. Finally, a sigh. 

“I’m just tired.”

“You haven’t slept,” she counters, pointing out the obvious as if that would make him talk. Still no answer. Phoenix leans her arms onto her knees. 

“Want to talk about it?” 

Bob exhales slowly. “It’s not… I don’t know if there’s anything to talk about.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That bad?” 

He wipes his hands on a rag. “I think she’s leaving.” Phoenix’s face softens, and she waits. 

“I don’t have proof,” he continues. “She hasn’t said it. But I can feel it. She’s different. She looks at me like she’s already somewhere else.”

“Maybe she’s scared,” Phoenix offers gently. 

Bob shakes his head. “No. She’s being sweet. Like she’s trying to spare me. That’s worse.” 

Phoenix hesitates. “Have you asked her?” Bob lets out a bitter laugh. 

“No. Because if I do and I’m right… I don’t think I can handle hearing it out loud.”

He looks up at her finally. His eyes are tired. Raw. 

“I don’t want to let her go,” he says. “But I don’t want to make her stay if she doesn’t want to.” Phoenix doesn’t give advice. She just leans forward, sets a hand on his shoulder. 

“Then you better figure out which it is before you both start packing without even saying it.”

-----------------------------

The bar is closed. Sunlight pours through the blinds, casting slatted shadows across the wood floors. You sit at the counter with your fingers wrapped around a lukewarm cup of coffee. Penny moves behind the bar, sorting glasses. 

“You okay?”

You nod. Lie. 

“Yeah.” She gives you a look, pointed enough to say, I know that you’re lying to me. You shake your head, opening your mouth. 

“I’m fine, just…” you trail off. “It’s Bob.” She doesn’t say I thought so, but it’s in her eyes.

“I think he’s going to leave,” you whisper. Penny pauses. 

“Did he say that?” you shake your head, looking down into your coffee. 

“No. But he doesn’t have to. I can feel it.”

She leans on the counter. 

“Tell me.”

You hesitate, weighing your words. 

“He’s been… kind. Too kind. Like he’s trying to make the goodbye less painful. He makes tea. Buys flowers. Cooks my favorite food. But it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like… guilt.”

“Have you asked him?” She asks, slowly continuing her task of wiping down the glasses behind the counter. You look away. 

“I’m scared of the answer.” She hums quietly, wiping the same glass twice.

 “Sometimes when people love each other too much, they start trying to protect each other from the truth—and end up drowning in silence instead.”

You nod slowly. “I keep trying to be perfect. Hoping if I’m easy enough to love, he’ll stay.”

“And maybe,” Penny says carefully, “he’s doing the exact same thing.” You look up at her. 

And for the first time, the thought crosses your mind, what if this whole time… he’s been scared too?

-----------------------------

It’s late. You’re both at your apartment. The dishes are done, the laundry’s folded, the house is silent. You’re cold, and without thinking, you pull one of Bob’s hoodies from the back of the couch. It still smells like him—soap, skin, a hint of jet fuel. You pull it on, and your eyes prick with tears.

You used to wear this all the time. He used to tease you for stealing his clothes. Used to tug you into his lap when he caught you in them. Now he just watches from the doorway of the bedroom, eyes dark and unreadable. 

“You cold?” he asks. You freeze, looking away. 

“Yeah.”

He nods. Doesn’t offer to warm you. Doesn’t come closer. You sit down on the couch, hands tucked into the sleeves, and he disappears into the kitchen. A minute later, you hear the low thud of the dryer opening, then closing.

He comes back with a blanket, carefully setting it on the couch beside you. He tenses for a moment, as if he’s trying to decide if he should sit down, then goes to the other chair.

You cover yourself with the blanket and pretend you didn’t notice the way his hands shook when he set it down.

-----------------------------

Bob leaves early the next morning. You don’t hear him get ready, or feel him kiss your forehead goodbye, if he even had. When you finally stumble into the kitchen, there’s a note stuck to the fridge in his handwriting.

Early flight rotation. Back late. Don’t wait up for me if you’re tired. There’s leftovers in the fridge. I put the garlic bread in foil for you. Love you.

You stare at the words for a long time. The love you at the end feels like a footnote. Like a whisper thrown over the shoulder.

You set the note down and walk away.

That night, you call him around 8:30. It rings. No answer. You text. Hey, just checking if you’re okay.

No reply. Your mind spirals; fast. 

Maybe he’s ignoring you. 

Maybe he’s not coming home at all. 

Maybe he’s with someone else and can’t pick up. 

When the door finally clicks open after 10, you’re curled up on the couch, eyes raw, phone still in your hand.

Bob steps in, looking exhausted. He pauses when he sees you. 

“You didn’t answer,” you say quietly. He blinks. 

“I didn’t hear it.” 

You nod. Bob steps closer, slow, cautious. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You nod again.

He stands there like he wants to say more. Like he wants to fall to his knees and tell you he’s not going anywhere. But all he says is, “did you eat?” You shake your head. He exhales, slowly, and disappears into the kitchen.

You hear the microwave beep, the quiet clink of silverware. He brings you a plate. You eat without tasting it. He watches without eating at all.

-----------------------------

It starts with a name. A text, face-down on the counter. You weren’t trying to snoop—but the screen lights up just as you’re setting your mug down.

Marley – 5:02 p.m.

I meant what I said. Please don’t ghost me again.

You freeze. Your stomach drops so hard that it knocks the breath out of you. You stare at the name, at the message, at the punctuation that feels too familiar. You don’t know who Marley is. You don’t know why they’d be begging him not to ghost them. And you sure as hell don’t know why your heart feels like it’s cracking in two.

Bob walks into the room moments later, tugging his sweatshirt over his head. His hair’s damp from a shower. 

“Hey,” he says, and then pauses when he sees your face, and that you’re holding his phone. You don’t say anything. You just hand it to him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. You open your mouth. Close it. 

“You got a text,” you say, voice paper-thin. His face shifts. 

“From who?” You chuckle, shaking your head and looking away. 

“Marley.” 

He freezes.

You see it—the flicker of guilt. Or maybe just surprise. But it’s enough. 

“Forget it,” you say, brushing past him. “Doesn’t matter.” 

Panic rises in his throat as he reaches his and out to you and you step out of his reach. “Wait,” he says quietly, chest tightening as you move further from him. 

“I’m tired,” you say. “I’m going to bed.”

He doesn’t follow.

-----------------------------

You don’t sleep. You lie in bed with your back to the door, fists clenched under the blanket, eyes burning. The door creaks open around 1:00 a.m., and Bob steps in. His voice is low. 

“You want to talk?” You don’t answer.

He sighs. Sits on the edge of the bed. 

“It’s not what you think,” he whispers. That makes you turn to face him. 

“What am I supposed to think?” You snap, voice coming out more harshly than you’d intended. He looks wrecked. 

“She’s an old friend. We dated in college. She reached out. I didn’t answer her the first time. That message was about that.”

“You didn’t tell me about her.”

“There was nothing to tell.”

You sit up, anger starting to eclipse the ache. 

“Someone begging you not to ghost them doesn’t sound like nothing.” 

He flinches. “I didn’t reply.”

“But you saw her message. You read it. And you didn’t say anything.” Bob’s mouth opens. Closes. 

“I didn’t think it mattered.” 

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. 

“Right. Just like you didn’t think it mattered that I’ve been falling apart in front of you and you haven’t said a damn word.” 

His voice cracks. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to try,” you snap. “I want you to fight for this. For me.”

“I have been trying,” he says, louder now, “I’ve been trying for weeks and it feels like I’m screaming into a void.” You blink, stunned. 

“I’ve been loving you so hard I forgot how to breathe,” Bob continues, voice shaking. “And every time I look at you, I think… this is it. This is the last time. This is the last night I get to hold her. The last time she says my name.”

Your throat closes up. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re gone,” he says, broken. 

“You’ve been gone for weeks and you’re still sleeping in my bed.” 

You both fall silent. Breathing hard. Staring at each other like strangers. Finally, you say it. 

“I thought you were going to leave me.” 

Bob swallows hard, shaking his head. “I thought you already had.”

-----------------------------

The house is quiet the next morning. Not the comforting kind of quiet, but the kind that feels like an empty stage after the actors have left. You sit at the kitchen table with your hands around a mug of tea that you still haven’t touched. 

Bob stands across from you, arms crossed, shoulders hunched like he’s still bracing for impact. Neither of you slept. His eyes are red. Yours are swollen. Finally, you say, 

“I’m not leaving.” His jaw tightens. He nods, slow. 

“Okay.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I don’t want you to either.”

Another silence. This one feels sharper than the last. 

“I’m sorry,” you add, voice cracking. “About the phone. About thinking—”

“No,” he cuts in gently. “You had every right. I should’ve said something. I just…” He exhales. “I didn’t want to make it worse.” 

You look down. “It’s already worse.” 

He walks around the table. Hesitates. Then sits beside you. 

He doesn’t touch you. But he’s close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that when he finally does reach for your hand, you don’t pull away. Your fingers curl into his automatically. It’s the smallest, saddest peace treaty.

Two days later, you’re driving together to a small event on base. One of the guys is getting promoted. Bob had offered to drive, and you’d said yes. Now you regret it.

The car is silent. Not a word since you pulled out of the driveway. You watch the road. He watches the mirrors. Everything feels tight. Measured. You should say something. Make a joke. Put music on.

Instead, you stare out the window and wonder when you stopped knowing what to say to him. Beside you, Bob keeps adjusting the AC vent. Like it’s something he can control. Like it’ll fix the fact that neither of you is speaking.

People are laughing, clinking glasses. Someone plays guitar in the background. You and Bob stand side by side; close, but not touching. Phoenix greets you both, Hangman following close behind her. He gives Bob a once-over, like he’s trying to figure out why he looks so hollow around the edges.

“Did you two fight or something?” Jake murmurs when Bob steps away for a drink. You shake your head, too quickly for it to be genuine. 

“No. We’re fine.” He raises a brow. 

“You sure? Because you’re standing like you don’t know if he’s still yours.”

You open your mouth to answer—but you don’t. Because you don’t know the answer.

----------------------------------------------

You’re in the kitchen helping Penny sort through plates when you hear it. Marley’s name. Bob’s voice. You freeze behind the corner of the wall.

“—yeah, she messaged me again,” Bob says, hushed. “No, I didn’t reply. I shouldn’t have even opened it.” 

Your stomach twists. Penny says something you don’t catch. Then Bob’s voice comes through again, louder than Penny, more clearly. 

“I think she knows. I just don’t want to make things worse. Things are already fragile enough.”

You step away before you can hear the rest. Because the words rattle inside you like an echo chamber.  I think she knows.  I didn’t reply.  I shouldn’t have opened it. It hits like confirmation. The first time you’d thought maybe. Now you’re sure. He did have something to hide.

You don’t wait until you’re home, you don’t even wait until you’re alone. You find him outside, near the back patio. Laughing with someone. A drink in his hand. You walk up and say, quietly, “She messaged you again?” 

His whole face changes. “What—”

“Marley,” you snap, sharper now. “She messaged you again. And you didn’t tell me.” 

He sets the drink down too fast. “Can we not do this here—”

“Why not?” you ask. “You already had the conversation with everyone but me.” People nearby start to glance over. 

Bob lowers his voice. “I didn’t reply.”

Your heart races, face flushing as you ball your hands into fists. “That’s not the point.”

He sighs, eyes darting around, looking at all of the people that were now watching the spectacle of your argument unfold in front of them. “I was trying to protect you.”

“No,” you say, chest tight. “You were trying to keep me in the dark.” 

The tension snaps. 

“Do you think I’m cheating on you?” he asks, voice breaking. “Is that what you really think of me?”

“I don’t know what to think,” you fire back, “because you don’t tell me anything anymore.” Silence, people still watching, music playing somewhere inside. You let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh, and walk away first.

Bob doesn’t follow this time.

----------------------------------------------

It happens three days after the fight. Bob’s in the hangar, head deep in a maintenance log, when he hears someone behind him clear their throat. He turns, expecting Phoenix to be pointing out something that he’d forgotten again, and freezes.

“Hi,” she says, like no time has passed. Like she didn’t rip the bottom out of his relationship just by existing. 

“Marley,” he says flatly. 

She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up again.”

“I work here.” His voice is short, response clipped. 

She glances around. “I know. Thought I’d stop by. We never finished our conversation.”

“There was no conversation.” He’s trying to shut it down before it goes any further. Phoenix rounds the corner, and frowns when she sees them. She gives Bob a sharp look. He doesn’t respond. Just says to Marley, “You need to leave.” 

She tilts her head. “You really think she’s going to stick around? You looked miserable the last time I saw you.” 

He steps back like she slapped him. “Don’t talk about her.”

“I’m just saying, maybe this,” she gestures around, “isn’t where you’re supposed to be.” 

Phoenix steps between them before Bob even has the chance to say anything. “You heard him,” she says coldly. “Go.” 

Marley leaves. Not fast. Not quiet. Phoenix turns to Bob. 

“You okay?”

His shoulders drop. His head hangs low. His voice is little more than a whimper when he finally responds.

“No.”

----------------------------------------------

You sit on the floor of the shower with the water too hot and your knees pulled up to your chest. You’ve barely eaten all day. You didn’t answer Bob’s text. You couldn’t look at your phone without thinking about Marley. About the look on his face when you asked if he was cheating and he didn’t deny it right away.

You want to believe him. You do believe him. But belief doesn’t erase the hurt. It doesn’t fix the distance. He could’ve told you. He should’ve told you. Instead, he left you alone in your doubt, and now you’re not sure how to climb out of it.

You lie awake after the shower, staring at the ceiling, missing him so badly your chest aches. 

You keep thinking of the way his voice cracked when he said, Do you think I’m cheating on you? 

You keep thinking of the way he didn’t follow you home. 

You want to text him. But you don’t.

----------------------------------------------

Bob sits in his truck in the dark. The engine’s off. The radio’s off. The only light is the blinking green of the dash clock, counting minutes he doesn’t know how to fill. He’s parked outside your place. 

He’s been here for twenty minutes. He hasn’t gone to the door. He doesn’t know if he’s welcome. His fingers tap restlessly on the steering wheel.

He doesn’t know what hurts worse; being accused of something he didn’t do, or realizing that you didn’t trust him enough to ask first. He keeps replaying your voice, chest tightening with every instant-replay of your heart shattering on the concrete by his feet. 

You don’t tell me anything anymore.

He wants to scream that it was because he was scared. That if he opened his mouth, everything would fall apart. He wants to go to the door. 

But what if you don’t open it? 

What if you don’t want him anymore? 

What if this was the moment it all fell apart for good?

Finally, he drives away without knocking.

----------------------------------------------

The next day, you pick up your phone three separate times to text him.

I miss you.

I’m sorry.

Are we really doing this?

You type the words. Backspace them. Your fingers shake. You press the screen to your chest and lie on the couch with your eyes shut tight.

Bob, meanwhile, has had messages typed too.

I’m outside. 

I didn’t know if I should knock.

I didn’t tell you about Marley because I was scared I’d lose you. 

I think I lost you anyway.

He doesn’t send them. Neither of you do. You both carry your silence like a wound.

----------------------------------------------

It’s been five days. Not a week, not a lifetime; but somehow, it feels like both.

You haven’t spoken since the fight. No texts, no calls, no accidental run-ins. You still have his hoodie hanging on the chair. You still look at the space beside you in bed every night and wait for a door that never opens.

People are starting to notice. Phoenix didn’t ask questions the last time she saw you—just gave you a look that was soft and sad and understanding. You told Penny you were tired, but she didn’t believe you.

Bob, meanwhile, has been going through the motions like a ghost. 

Eat. 

Fly. 

Clean. 

Sleep. 

Repeat.

Phoenix asked him yesterday, “How long are you going to pretend you’re not in love with someone you think you’ve lost?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

----------------------------------------------

The bar is quiet again—mid-afternoon, warm light drifting through the windows. Penny wipes a glass clean for the third time as Phoenix leans on the counter, nursing a club soda.

“Have you seen them lately?” Phoenix asks, not looking up. Penny nods, cocking her head as if she’s not sure what to say. 

“She came in two nights ago. She wouldn’t drink, wouldn’t say anything real, just said that she didn’t feel like herself.” 

Phoenix’s mouth tightens. “Bob looks like hell.”

“They both do.”

Silence stretches between them. Penny glances at the clock. 

“They won’t talk to each other.”

“They’re both waiting for the other to move first,” Phoenix says, swirling the ice in her glass. “One of them’s going to break.” 

Penny arches a brow. “You sure it won’t be both?”

----------------------------------------------

You brush your teeth in the mirror, foam in your mouth, sleep in your eyes, and suddenly, you burst into tears. Because his toothbrush is still in the cup next to yours. Blue handle. A little worn. You stare at it like it might disappear if you blink too hard.

You haven’t touched it. You haven’t dared. It’s been five days and somehow the stupid toothbrush is what makes it real. Not the cold bed. Not the aching silence. Not the absence of his hand on your back when you curl into yourself in the middle of the night.

Just this little plastic thing. Just this tiny, normal reminder of how close he used to be.

----------------------------------------------

Bob hasn’t been late for a flight since he was twenty-two. He’s five minutes late today. Not enough for anyone to say anything out loud. But enough that people notice. When he gets to the tarmac, his helmet’s not buckled right. His boots aren’t laced.

Reuben mutters to Hangman, “Something’s off.” Hangman nods once. “It’s her.” Bob hears them. Doesn’t respond. He doesn’t say anything anymore unless someone asks directly.

He just flies. And waits for a reason to land.

----------------------------------------------

You go grocery shopping, finally. You see a couple holding hands in the cereal aisle, laughing over a box of Lucky Charms. You look away fast. At checkout, the cashier recognizes you. 

“Hey, where’s Bob?” she asks casually. “He always carries your bags.” 

You smile like your face doesn’t want to bend that way. 

“He’s busy.” 

She nods, not unkindly. “Hope he’s okay. You guys are cute.” 

You nod politely, pay quietly, and leave. 

When you get to the car, you cry, holding your purse to your chest as if holding something close to you can ease the ache. It can’t.

You sit on your couch that night with your phone in your lap and tears in your eyes. Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

Can we talk? I miss you.

You stare at it for five full minutes, and then delete it. Not because you don’t mean it, but because you’re not sure it would make a difference.

----------------------------------------------

Bob sees Phoenix in the locker room the next morning. She stops him with a hand on his arm.

“She loves you, you know.” 

He stiffens. “She doesn’t act like it.” 

A beat, long enough that Bob turns to look at her. 

“Neither do you.” He stares at the floor. Phoenix exhales, frustrated. “Do you even know what you’re waiting for?”

“Yes.” He looks up at her. Eyes red, voice steady. “I’m waiting for her to decide if I’m still something she wants.” 

Phoenix lets her hand drop. “You’re going to lose her, Bob.”

He swallows hard. “I already did.”

----------------------------------------------

It’s a Wednesday afternoon. You only stopped in to pick up a book you ordered a month ago. It’s raining lightly outside. Soft patter on the windows, the kind of weather that makes everything feel like a memory. You’re scanning the shelves near the register when you hear it. That voice. Soft. Familiar. Belonging to someone that used to be yours.

You don’t even mean to look up, but you do. Bob’s standing across the store. He sees you. And for a moment, just a moment, his whole face softens, like the tension holding him together slips. But you don’t smile, and neither does he.

You both stand there, not moving, not blinking, like the rest of the store has gone silent. Then he starts walking toward you, slowly, carefully. You brace yourself. 

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey.”

His hands are in his pockets. His hair’s damp from the rain. He looks tired, older, as if the last few weeks had carved something out of him, behind his eyes. You hold your book tight to your chest, almost as if it was a shield. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you whisper. 

He nods, glancing around the aisle. “I didn’t either. I just,” he trails off, trying to come up with something to say, “just needed some air.” 

You glance outside, brows raised. 

“The rain’s not really air.” He gives the faintest smile. It doesn’t last. The silence hangs heavy between you. You both look at each other like you want to say a thousand things and are terrified none of them will land the way they’re meant to.

Finally, he says, “You okay?” You nod. Lie. 

“Yeah. You?” He hesitates. 

“I miss you.” The words come out too raw. Too exposed. You swallow, hard. 

“Don’t.”

“I mean it,” he says, voice low. “I don’t even know how not to.” 

You blink fast. “You don’t get to say that like I walked away.”

“I didn’t walk either,” he says quietly. “I just froze. And I think we both did.” You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to fall into his arms and beg him to tell you he still loves you—but you don’t do any of those things. 

Instead, you say, “I should go.”

Bob’s face shutters. 

“Okay.” 

You turn to leave. take three steps, then stop. You don’t look back when you say it, your voice soft, trembling at the edges. 

“You didn’t fight for me.” Then you walk out, and Bob stands there, blinking fast, watching the door swing shut behind you like it’s the last time.

----------------------------------------------

It’s just after midnight. You’re in bed, but not sleeping; curled under a blanket that you’d once shared with him. The room is silent except for the low hum of your phone charging beside you. When it rings, it’s so unexpected you think for a moment it’s a mistake. But it’s not.

Bob.

You stare at the screen, your heart jumping, but then it sinks. You let it ring once. Twice. Three times. And then, because it’s him, you answer. 

“Hey.” His voice is quiet. Rough. Like he hasn’t spoken all day. 

“Hi.” 

You wait. So does he. Finally, you say, “Is everything okay?”

“No.” The answer is immediate, honest, unfiltered. You swallow. 

“What happened?”

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says. “This in-between. This silence.” Your eyes sting. 

“I keep waiting for it to get easier,” he continues, “and it’s not. It’s worse. Every day I don’t see you, I think—this is it. She’s gone. I lost her. And I didn’t even fight hard enough to stop it.” 

You sit up in bed, knees to your chest. “Bob…” 

He exhales, like your name hurts. “I miss you.” 

“I know.”

“I love you.”

That makes your breath catch, but it also makes something inside you close up. Because loving someone doesn’t always fix the damage. And right now, you’re too tired to believe it could. 

“You should’ve said that weeks ago,” you whisper. 

“I was scared,” he admits, quietly. You scoff. 

“So was I.” 

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know,” you hum, picking at the lint on your blanket. His voice is weak, when he asks, “Can I see you?”

You hesitate. And it’s the hesitation that breaks something in him.

“…Right,” he murmurs. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Bob—”

“No, it’s okay. You don’t have to explain. I get it.” 

You close your eyes, sighing. “I never wanted this.”

“I know.”

“I don’t even know when we stopped knowing how to love each other.” 

He doesn’t answer. And for the first time in a long time, neither of you is holding back. But it’s still not enough. Because it’s too late. Or maybe just not the right moment.

“I should go,” he says quietly. You nod, even though he can’t see it. 

“Okay.” 

He hangs up first. And you cry harder than you have in days.

----------------------------------------------

You say yes to a drink the next night. Not because you want to. But because you need something to change.

You meet him at a bar. He’s kind. Normal. Smiles a lot. His name’s Evan. Or maybe Ethan. You’re not even sure anymore. He talks about his job. His dog. His love of road trips.

You nod. Smile. Stir your drink. When he asks about you, you lie. You pretend you’re fine. You pretend you’re available. You don’t tell him that your heart’s still parked in a truck outside your apartment. That it still sleeps in a cold bed with the ghost of a man who never really left.

He laughs at something you say. Reaches across the table. Touches your hand. You flinch. And then you recover. Smile again. Let him pay the bill. You hug him goodbye. Say, “This was nice.” You don’t say I’ll see you again.

Because you won’t.

Because no matter how far you walk into this new space, you keep looking back. And Bob is always there.

----------------------------------------------

It’s two days after the phone call. Bob’s been quiet at work; focused, efficient, but glassy around the edges. It’s Phoenix who breaks the news. She doesn’t mean to. 

They’re in the hangar again, reviewing a checklist, when she says, offhandedly, “Saw her at The Wharf last night.”

Bob stiffens.

Phoenix doesn’t notice. “Didn’t realize she’d started going back out again. Seemed… calm, I guess.” 

Bob glances up. “She was out?” 

Phoenix looks at him. “You didn’t know?” 

He shakes his head, slow. 

“Oh,” she says. Then, softly, “She wasn’t alone.” 

His mouth goes dry. “Who?”

“I didn’t recognize him,” she says gently. “It didn’t look serious. Just a drink. But she laughed. First time I’ve seen her do that in weeks.” Bob doesn’t reply. Phoenix leans in, voice lowered. “Are you okay?” He nods once. Too fast.

 “Yeah. Thanks.” 

He walks away before she can say anything else.

His stomach churns. His head spins. He’d told himself he could handle this; if it was really over. If you were happy. But hearing it? Imagining it? It guts him.

----------------------------------------------

It’s late. You’re walking home from the grocery store, keys in one hand, bag slung over your shoulder. The street is dim. Quiet. You’re rounding the corner by your building when you see him.

Bob.

Leaning against his truck, as if he’s been there a while. Your heart lurches. He straightens when he sees you, eyes flicking to the grocery bag, then to your face. 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft. You nod. 

“Hey.” 

You walk closer. Slowly. Carefully. The air between you is heavier now—sharper, charged with something that feels like resentment wearing love’s face.

“I heard you went out,” he says, not quite looking at you. 

You pause. “Phoenix?”

“Yeah.”

You shift your weight. 

“It was just a drink.” He nods. Silence. You grip the strap of your bag tighter. “It didn’t mean anything.” He nods again. But the damage is already done.

“You said you missed me,” he says quietly. “And then you went out with someone else.” 

You swallow. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I didn’t know I had a deadline,” he whispers. 

You wince. “That’s not fair.” He shakes his head, holding up both hands, as if to surrender.

 “I’m not trying to be fair,” he says. “I’m trying to understand how we got here.”

“So am I,” you snap. He takes a breath.

 “Did you kiss him?” You stare at him. 

“No.” 

He nods once. 

“Okay.”

“Is that what matters now?” you ask, your voice almost shrill. He shrugs. 

“I don’t know what matters anymore.” 

You clench your jaw. “You waited until I walked away to say anything.” he looks up at you as if you've just slapped him.

 “I didn’t think I could lose you.”

“Well,” you whisper, “you did.” You step past him.

And this time, he doesn’t follow.

You drop the grocery bag in the kitchen and crumble into the chair. Your hands are shaking. You didn’t plan to say that. You did. You don’t even know if it’s true. You don’t know if you meant it. But you saw his face. You saw the way he looked at you like you were a stranger in a memory he couldn’t quite hold onto.

And it shattered something in you.

You press your palms to your eyes. You want him to fight for you. But you’re also scared that if he does, you’ll realize you’re already too far gone. And if he doesn’t? Then he never really meant to stay.

----------------------------------------------

Bob sits in his truck long after you’re gone. His fists are clenched in his lap. His chest aches. He keeps hearing your voice on loop. 

You did.

He wants to scream. Wants to get out and run down the block and yell after you that he didn’t mean to lose you. That he never stopped loving you, that he didn’t know how to stop the spiral. But he doesn’t move. He just stares through the windshield and thinks about how stupid it is that one person can become the center of your whole damn world. And how impossible it is to survive when that person isn’t standing next to you anymore.

He starts the truck. He doesn’t go home. He just drives, as though if he keeps moving, maybe the ache won’t catch up.

----------------------------------------------

Bob doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe it’s because he’s exhausted, maybe it’s because he saw your favorite mug still in the back of his cupboard and it gutted him, or maybe it’s because he knows if he doesn’t say it now, he never will.

He sits on the edge of his bed, phone in hand. It’s late. The kind of late where the world is too quiet and everything echoes. Your name lights up on his phone screen, but he doesn’t hit call. He hits record on a voice note.

And when the beep comes, he speaks.

“I know I said I wouldn’t bother you again. And I meant it—I didn’t want to make it worse. But I think maybe I made everything worse by not saying this sooner.”

“I didn’t cheat on you. I never even thought about it. Marley showing up was a mistake I didn’t ask for, and I handled it badly. But I never wanted anyone but you.”

“I thought you were pulling away. I thought I was losing you. So I got quiet. I thought if I just… loved you softer, maybe you’d stay.”

“I didn’t realize you thought I was going to leave you. That all this time, you were scared too.”

“I love you. I don’t even know if that still means anything to you, but it’s the only thing I’m sure of anymore.”

“I miss you. I miss us. But mostly, I miss the way we used to look at each other like we were on the same side of the world.”

”…I don’t know what you need from me now. But I’ll give it to you. Even if it’s space. Even if it’s goodbye.”

“Just… take care of yourself. Please.”

He ends the message. He hesitates, almost deciding not to send it; then sends it.

And drops the phone like it burns.

----------------------------------------------

You hear the message three hours later. You’re sitting on the bathroom floor, knees drawn up, an untouched cup of tea going cold beside you. Your phone buzzes. The voice message sits there, quiet and glowing, like a heartbeat in your palm.

You press play, and Bob’s voice fills the room. At first, you don’t react. You just listen. Your throat tightens. Your eyes burn. But then—

“I thought if I just loved you softer, maybe you’d stay.”

That’s the one that breaks you. You start to cry. Not the sharp, angry kind, but the soft, quiet kind. The kind that feels like a wound that never closed. You curl into yourself on the tile floor, pressing your face into your knees, and you sob. Because you didn’t want soft love. You didn’t want him to whisper goodbye through kindness. You wanted him to fight. And now you’re not even sure if you have anything left to give.

Across town, Bob sits in his truck again. Not driving, just parked. Your name is still lit up in his message thread. He keeps checking it. Hoping it’ll say “Typing…” or “Read.” 

It never does. So he breaks down. For the first time since the fight, he lets it all out. The fear. The grief. The guilt. He cries behind the wheel with his hands over his face and your voice during your last fight still echoing in his mind, burning in his ear.

----------------------------------------------

Phoenix is the one who cracks first. She shows up at your door that evening, no warning, no preamble, no text that says I’m coming over. You open the door with puffy eyes and a tired voice, barely above a whisper when you nod a greeting to her, forcing out a single, “Hey.” She walks in without a word and closes the door behind her. Then she hugs you, tight. You freeze for a second before crumbling into her arms. 

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. That’s enough of this.” You hiccup. “I can’t fix it.” She shakes her head, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Then let someone help. Let him help.” You shake your head. “It’s too late,” you whisper, lip trembling. “It’s not,” she says. “You think he’d be this wrecked if it was?” You stare at the floor.

Phoenix crouches in front of you, hands on your shoulders. “You both thought you were losing each other. And instead of turning toward each other, you turned away.” Your breath is quick, your heartrate stuttering. “I didn’t know how,” you whisper. “I know,” she says. “Neither did he.”

----------------------------------------------

Across town, Penny is at Bob’s apartment. She knocks once. He answers like a ghost. She doesn’t ask. She just steps in, pulls him into a gentle hug, and says softly, “She still loves you.” He closes his eyes. “Then why does it feel like I already lost her?” His fingers are trembling at his sides. She sighs, watching him hold himself together. “Because you’re grieving a version of her that never stopped loving you—but didn’t know how to say it.”

He sinks into the couch. Penny sits beside him. They don’t speak again for a long time.

----------------------------------------------

The voice message plays again in your head the next morning as you lay in bed, curtains still drawn, ignoring the mound of laundry that you’d washed and dried and thrown on the bed; avoiding touching it for days.

“I thought if I just loved you softer, maybe you’d stay.”

You’re not crying anymore, and you’re starting to think that you’ve run out of tears to cry. Because now, it’s not a sharp enough pain for it to produce tears; now it just hurts in that low, dull way that the ache of something broken hurts when it’s been broken for so long that it almost feels normal. You haven’t bothered replying to him, because you don’t know what to say. You keep holding your phone, staring at the screen as if it might tell you what the right thing to say is. Like it might write the words out into a message for you.

----------------------------------------------

Across town, Bob goes on his morning run and doesn’t remember a single step of it.

He barely sees the street, with the asphalt filled with potholes that he curses at everyday on his way to work. The cars, filled with people in a hurry to get wherever they’re going. The sky, pale blue with cotton candy clouds, pinks and purples streaking above him. You would have pointed them out, so he ignores the sky. He ignores the clouds, the smell of exhaust as he runs behind a car that’s past due for a service, the pothole that he nearly rolls his ankle into.

Despite his best efforts, he sees your face every time he closes his eyes, your face when you slept next to him, peaceful and soft, your face when you turned away from him. Your face before you turned away, your voice saying, You didn’t fight for me.

He did fight, in the only way that he knew how. He fought as hard as he could, he just didn’t fight it correctly. He didn’t fight it loudly, there was no yelling, no balled up fists, no explosive fights. There were no tears falling from the heartbreak that was laid out before him.

Instead, he’d fought quietly. Doing all of the little things that he thought made you fall in love with him in the first place. He did the things that he knew made you feel seen. The things that he was always proud of himself for remembering, even when everything else was pushing down on him.

The way you took your tea. The meal that made you happiest. The flowers that were your favorite. The snacks that you’d say you didn’t need, but you’d eat them anyway, making comments about how they were your favorite. 

So, no. He didn’t fight you on it. Not loudly. He fought to remind you that you loved him. Even though it seemed like it hadn’t worked.

When he gets home, he checks his phone before he even closes the door. He checks it again before he gets into the shower. Again when he gets out. He checks it while he’s making dinner - three times. He checks it while he scrolls through a streaming service, trying to find something to put on to drown out the silence. He checks it when he brushes his teeth. He checks it as he lies down to go to bed.

Anytime you cross his mind, he checks it. Even when he tells himself not to. Even when it’s hurting more than helping. 

He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, and thinks; maybe this is it. This is the final silence. The last time you both refuse to be the first one to say anything. The last time you both walk away.

In your own apartment, you lie in bed, wondering if his bed feels as cold and empty as yours does. You wonder if he’s using the weighted blanket that you’d gotten him for Christmas, or if he was sleeping in a sweater to make up for the loss of your body heat against him. 

Thinking about how he definitely spends a lot of time at the on-base optometrist, making sure that he can see for flights, and also spends lot of time getting the opticians to adjust his frames just right.

Thinking about how he always finds the time to flirt very respectfully and a little bit awkwardly with the optician that conveniently is always there whenever he happens to have time to go in.

Thinking about how he'd stutter over his words when she laughed at a particularly awful joke that he made. Four Eyes, "I see says the Blind Man", "I don't need glasses to see that you're pretty", etc.

He SHAMELESSLY flirts with her. His own secret crush. And since she's in customer service, she laughs along, at first. Giggles at his words, adjusting his frames for him that he SWEARS feel like they're crooked they're not crooked, they don't feel crooked, he just wants to see her.

He knows that he's in trouble when he starts to get jitters when he pulls into the parking lot. Like maybe this is going from a small crush that he flirts with, to something a whole lot deeper.

and she gets flustered when the door dings open and he's standing there, face flushed from the heat outside, already pulling off his glasses and walking towards her, trying to come up with some reason why he's here, again.

She plays it cool, but when she hands him his receipt for his new nosepads that he definitely didn't need, they were brand new, but he was flying by the seat of his pants and had to come up with something, he sees that she's written him a note, and her number.

He gets into his truck yes he drives a truck get out of my face and quickly saves her number and his heart is pounding in his chest

He gets back to the hangar after his very important errands and he's still blushing, causing everyone to tease him about his precious crush from the opticians office

It’s the way you smile now—tight, careful, like you're trying not to make it worse. The way your phone lights up and you turns it face down. The way you kiss him like you're memorizing it.

He keeps telling himself it’s nothing. That you still love him. That he hasn’t already lost you.

But every drawer you close feels like a door between the two of you. Every time you say “I’m just tired,” it sounds like a warning. Like the kind of tired you don’t come back from.

And maybe he’s making it worse—being quiet, being careful, being scared. Maybe you think he’s the one pulling away. Hell, maybe he is. Maybe you both are. Because the more he tries to hold on, the more he’s sure you're halfway gone.

And he’s not sure what hurts more: the fear that you're leaving, or the fact that he’s too scared to ask.

You know the look people get when they’re about to leave. Bob wears it every time he looks at you.

It’s in the way he lingers in doorways. The way his hands hover like he’s afraid to touch you. The way he calls you “darlin’” like it’s the last time, every time.

He’s pulling away—you can feel it in your bones. Folding his clothes too neatly, coming home later, smiling like he’s already sorry. Like he’s rehearsing the goodbye he won’t say yet.

And maybe it’s your fault. Maybe you should have asked. Said something. But the silence between you feels safer than the truth.

Because if you ask, he’ll say it out loud. And if he says it out loud, you won’t survive it.

You almost felt bad, now that you were in your room, door closed; music playing as you feigned getting ready for your “lunch date”. There was a knock at your door, and you sighed, sitting up on your bed as you debated whether to open it.

“It’s open,” you called finally, turning your music down. 

The door cracked, and Bucky poked his head in, earning a disgruntled sigh from you as you flopped back down on the bed. His hair looked perfect. He wore the red henley that you had told him years ago that you loved to see him in. No jacket, since it was midsummer and humid. His jeans a deep blue. 

“Came to see if you wanted me to walk you to your date,” he said softly, never crossing the threshold into the room. 

You shook your head, before giving him a soft, “no thank you.” 

He sighed, shaking his head. His perfectly styled hair flopped down as he looked to the ground. 

“You get ditched?” He asked, pushing the door slightly further, toes crossing over onto your carpet. You shook your head, eyes fixed on the screen of your phone. 

“Pushed it back, later this evening.” Another lie.

You didn’t have it in you to explain the situation to him. You weren’t even sure that you could have, if you wanted to. How do you explain a dating app to someone that was going on dates before every house even had a landline in it, let alone an anonymous dating app? 

He nodded, quietly. 

“Well, just remember that I’ll come rescue you, if you need me,” he offered, hair still flopped over, stubble still barely there, still enough to break the hearts of every woman within the tri-state area. 

You forced yourself to look back to your phone, away from him. 

“Thanks, Buck,” you mumbled, “but I’m good.” 

He sighed, looking up at you and shaking his head. 

“Can I-” he started, pausing, eyes flicking to the floor before looking back up, “can I come in?” 

You sighed, lifting your head, and propping yourself up on your elbow. 

“Sure,” you said finally, your tone non-committal, trying not to sound irritated, but also not succeeding. 

He came in slowly, just barely past the door, gently pushing it closed before leaning against it, as if he wasn’t allowed any further than that. You almost scoffed at the visual. 

Everything was different, now. Different than it had been, years ago. And you knew that you shouldn’t be comparing situations, even if they involved the same people, but you couldn’t help herself. 

Years ago, in an apartment in Bucharest, he didn’t even knock before coming into your room. Didn’t ask if he could come in, just marched in, sitting next to you and spouting off whatever was on his mind, immediately. 

There was no tension, there was laughter, there was a sense of ease that just… died, one day. The day that you disappeared. 

You blinked, hard, breaking yourself from your thoughts when he cleared his throat across the room. 

“So,” he started, arms crossed over his chest, brows raised high and tight, “you and Bob have gotten close.”

You nodded slowly, raising your brows to match his. 

“And?” you asked, dropping your phone onto your stomach, leaning your head back slightly. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“We,” he started again, shaking his head as if deciding whether he should say anything or not, “we used to be close,” he said finally, voice soft, “close like that.” 

You sighed through your nose, closing your eyes instead of rolling them. 

“Yeah, well,” you said, unable to hide the irritated tone to your voice, “that was then. This is now. We’re not close anymore.” 

He let out a harsh chuckle that sounded more like a bark, and shook his head, straightening his back off of the door. 

“Don’t act like you don’t know why,” he said curtly, eyes down, “don’t act like it wasn’t you that put that distance there. You’re the one that left.” 

You sat up now, staring daggers at him. You almost didn’t say anything, almost let the tension die out enough for him to walk out the door. 

There wouldn’t be any coming back from this fight, and you knew it. But you couldn’t sit through the apprehensive feeling every time he came in the room anymore. So you decided to push back.

“Don’t act like there wasn’t a reason for me to leave, Barnes. You don’t get to act like you’re blameless in that.” 

You paused, only to steady your voice, before continuing. 

“You know why I left. You practically forced me out of there.” 

Bucky’s shoulders were squared, as if he’d expected the blow, and his hands were balled into fists at his sides. 

“You think I wanted you to leave? To disappear on me, when my life was falling apart all over again?” His voice was strained, clipped, sharp.

“No, what I wanted was a friend. Someone that could see me. Instead I got to relive the Winter Soldier, go to prison, spend time on the run from I don’t even know how many countries, and then go back in the ice while they tried to figure out how to fix me.”

You scoffed, trying to blow off how much his words had stung, and shook your head. 

“If you think I wanted to go, you’re dead wrong. And look at you now, mister important. You’re a goddamn superhero. Revered by millions, swooned after by every woman you come across.” 

His jaw was set, like he was gritting his teeth. His eyes flashed before he looked away again, breathing deeply through his nose and holding it, like he could force down the tempest in his chest.

“I didn’t ask you to leave me there,” he whispered. 

“Yeah, well, I still came when you called. Like a well trained dog. Always following you around.” 

His eyes flashed up at you, gaze almost softening, before he hardened it again. Just like he always did. 

“So that’s what this is about,” he said, disbelief lacing every syllable. 

Rage boiled in your chest, and you sat up fully. 

“Excuse me, Sergeant, for trying to help you.” 

He shook his head. 

“I can’t do this, right now,” he muttered, eyes still on the floor. You barked out a laugh. 

“Yeah, you have a date, remember? Can’t go sleep around with real emotions bubbling up.”

He looked up at you like he’d been slapped, then shook his head a single time, eyes downtrodden.

“Okay,” he said, defeat pulling his shoulders down, not enough for anyone to notice unless they knew him. 

“Alright. Sorry for bothering you.” He turned to the door, gripping the handle. 

“For what it’s worth, I hope you have a great time tonight.” The door swung open. 

Penny in the air. You could take it all back. You could say what you’d wanted to say before you’d left. You could tell him everything. You shook your head. 

“You too, Barnes.” He walked out of the room, pulling the door closed. Penny dropped.

----------------------------------------------

He stood outside of your bedroom door for far longer than he should have, after that. Hand still on the knob he’d used to pull the door closed, eyes still on his shoes. 

He could still go back in there. 

He could turn around, open the door, walk in like he used to do in Romania, have the knock down, drag out brawl they would have had back then. 

But he didn’t. You weren’t his to fight. You hadn’t ever really been. If he’d been smarter in Romania, you wouldn’t have left before he’d had the chance to say all the things he wanted to say. 

He rolled his shoulders, letting go of the doorknob. A deep breath to steel himself. A harsh shake of his head. A pinch to his nose. 

He took the first step away, then the second. A hesitation, a heavy weight in his stomach. 

No. 

It wasn’t his place, it never was. 

It never would be. 

He walked the rest of the way down the hall, each step heavier than the rest. By the time he made it to the staircase to leave the tower, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

But he had places to be, and a lady to see, so he shook it off, pulling his phone from his pocket, typing out a message.

noattachments: Hi, sweetheart.  Hopefully your day is going better than mine. Been a rough morning.  See you soon. Can’t wait for that world class hug.

He didn’t hear the chime from your room. Or the soft chuckle that you let out before responding.

herghosts: Rough day here too. World class hugs are my specialty.  You bring an appetite, I’ll bring my listening ears.  See you soon.

He smiled at his phone before pocketing it and headed for the elevator. He had flowers to buy.

----------------------------------------------

You’d decided on jeans and an old faded t-shirt that you’d gotten in Bucharest. 

Lubitule, it said, and you chuckled.

Bucky had found it for you at a little store in one of the many neighborhoods you’d lived in, bringing it inside with a shit-eating grin, throwing it at you before moving into the kitchen to unload the groceries. 

‘It means my darling,’ he’d teased, ‘maybe then you’ll remember the right words to use when you’re flirting with people.’ you had laughed, chucking a shoe at him as he ducked behind the doorway.

You sighed, debating whether you should change before you left, but you were running out of time as it was, and you still had to pack a picnic basket. It would have to do. You straightened it one last time, checking your makeup in the mirror. 

“That’s as good as it’s gonna get,” you whispered to yourself, grabbing your wallet and phone and shoving them into the cargo-style Dickies pants that you’d put on, before darting out of your room. You made your way down the stairs, no shoes on your feet; since you always left them by the door, and walked into the kitchen. 

“Woah there,” John remarked, noting your outfit, hair, and makeup; giving you a thumbs up. “Very nice, you almost look harmless.” 

You rolled your eyes, crouching down to grab the picnic basket that was in the cabinet below the counter, pulling it out and setting it by the stove. 

“Very funny, Walker,” you teased, throwing a wink over your shoulder “I’m trying to make a good impression.” 

He nodded again, raising his brows. 

“It’s very cute-casual,” he said, glancing back to his book, “you’re gonna do great, kid.” 

You opened the fridge with a laugh, shaking your head. 

“If you say so.” 

You pulled out a pack of strawberries, some cut up cucumbers and bell peppers, a container of hummus, two sodas, and two waters, placing them in the basket carefully. 

“Hey, Walker,” you said, earning a quick look from John, “where should I go to get a good sandwich?” 

He laughed at you, shaking his head. 

“The bodega down on the corner. Tell him John sent you, and you need 2.” 

You grinned, closing the basket. 

“Thank you, dear,” you said softly, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his cheek. 

“Wish me luck,” you whispered, making your way towards your shoes and slipping them on, picnic basket swinging on your arm. 

“You don’t need it, Blitz,” he called back to you, earning another laugh. The elevator dinged, doors opening. You opened her phone, and sent your location to Bob, and to John. 

Just in case (: 

You typed out, before locking your phone and poking it back into your pocket.

You made it to the bodega just in time to see a crowd of people walking in, and froze. You took a breath before walking in just like the rest of them. 

“Hi,” a man said from behind the counter, “can I help you?” 

You smiled sweetly at him, balancing the picnic basket on your hip as you leaned closer to him. 

“John Walker sent me, he said to tell you I need 2 sandwiches.” 

The man grinned, nodding his head. 

“Coming right up, sweet cheeks.” 

You smiled in thanks, laughing when he threw you a wink. 

A few moments and $35 later, two sandwiches were nestled into the basket, along with a bag of chips and a pack of cookies. You thanked the man again, making your way out of the bodega and towards the park.

Your chest felt heavy, as if someone was sitting on it, and your stomach was in knots, but youput one foot in front of the other, marching towards the park. Your phone chimed, and you opened it to see a message.

noattachments: Hey sweetheart. I’m at the park. No sign of you yet.  I’m the grumpy looking guy in the red shirt.  Also the only guy here carrying flowers and a blanket, as it turns out. 

You smiled, pausing at the crosswalk to respond.

herghosts: On the way, darling. Stopped to get us sandwiches that come highly regarded by my roommate. About a block and a half away. I’ll be there in a flash!  I’m in a maroon tee, and lugging around a picnic basket. See you soon.

You turned after the crosswalk, making your way to the park. You saw an older man at a bench, watching his granddaughter play on the swingset; several people going for runs, a group of people doing yoga in the grass. 

Then you saw a man, standing next to a bench, flowers in hand, blanket tucked under his arm. Your blood ran cold. 

“Bucky?” you whispered, thankful that you were far enough away that he hadn’t seen you yet, and stopped where you stood; eyes burning, panic rising in your throat. You couldn’t do this. 

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. It had to be a hallucination, a figment of your imagination. You fought the hope that was rising in your chest, hoping that he wouldn’t shut you out once he realized why you were here. 

He probably would. He’d probably be embarrassed.

You shook your head, eyes on your shoes, and swallowed before picking your chin up to hold your head high. You weren’t going to back down, even though you wanted to.

His back was turned to you anyway, so you could pretend that you had no idea that it was him until you saw his face. Even though you could pick him out of crowd, in the middle of the night, with no light. You could find him in a hurricane, in the middle of a blizzard, on a mission in the middle of nowhere with no gps or comms.

You knew him more than you wanted to admit.

You’d play it off as if you were clueless, until he turned around.

“Excuse me,” you said as you walked up to him, voice soft and perky, “I’m supposed to meet someone here, and you match what he told me he’d be wearing.” 

He was turning around now, and your breath caught in your throat. His head turned, eyes still scanning the people within the park as if assessing for threats, and he spoke without looking, at first. 

“I know that this is out of the ordinar…y…” His eyes met yours, and his voice cracked. Panic flew across his face, and he took a step back, shaking his head. He turned around, looking at the ground. 

“Are you fucking kidding me,” he muttered, letting out a huff. You stood, stone-still, watching him process what exactly was happening. He was silent again, brooding, staring off into the skyline. You tried not to let yourself panic.

“She makes you laugh, huh?” you finally let out, forcing a light tease to your tone. He shook his head again, sighing and letting his head loll down. “Stole a piece of your heart and…what was it, again? Walked off with it?” 

He sighed, turning back towards you. 

“Don’t, please don’t,” he said, voice quiet. You felt your shoulders droop. 

“If it’s any consolation, I almost bolted, when I saw you standing there,” you admitted, eyes on the grass next to you. 

He chuckled, holding up the flowers. 

“Well, these are for…you, I guess,” he said, voice almost clipped, as if he was forcing it out. You gave him a tight lipped smile, opening the picnic basket and grabbing a sandwich. 

“And this is for you, I guess,” you said, a laugh bubbling up and out. He smiled then, shaking his head again, and moving towards the grass, rolling out the blanket. 

“Might as well eat, I guess, huh?” he asked, looking back to you. You nodded, setting the basket down next to the blanket and helping him smooth it out. You were both silent, neither one of you looking up, looking anywhere but each other; the tension building before Bucky finally broke the silence. 

“So you’re the girl I’ve been talking to for months, huh?” he asked, looking over to you. You shrugged.

“And you’re the guy I’ve been flirting with,” you added, reaching for the basket, “and, coincidentally, the one I’ve been complaining about.” 

He laughed, reaching for the sandwich that you now held out to him. 

“Complaining about me, to me, anonymously,” he chuckled, unwrapping the sandwich, “that’s one way to win a guy over, I guess.” 

You laughed now, pulling out the rest of the food. 

“I didn’t know that it was you, Buck,” you argued, handing him the soda that you’d just pulled from the basket. He took it, grinning at you. 

“Never thought we’d be on a date,” he said softly. You snorted, unwrapping your sandwich. 

You both sat on opposite ends of the blanket, close enough for an intimate conversation, close enough to hand things back and forth, but a safe enough distance away that you could pretend that it was just a friendly lunch, instead of a date.

“I say we tell everyone that we both got ditched, saw one another, decided to share the food, and that’s why we’re coming home at the same time, basically together.” 

You almost didn’t catch the way he deflated - only barely, before nodding. But you did, and started to backtrack. 

“I mean, unless you want to tell the entire tower that we’ve been flirting anonymously for almost a year, and then found out it was each other after planning an entire date.” You watched him while he weighed the pros and cons of both options. 

“Fuck it,” he said finally, “I’ll tell them if you will.” 

You snapped your gaze to his face, squinting at him. “Now is not the time to no balls me, Barnes.” 

He winked at you, grinning as he took a bite of the sandwich. 

“All I’m sayin, sweetheart,” he said, chewing as he spoke, “is that they would not see it coming. It would be hilarious to watch them scramble.” You leaned your head onto your shoulder, biting a strawberry. 

“Alright,” you said after a pause, “let’s blow some minds.” 

You locked eyes with him, almost daring him to back down. He just grinned at you, moving the flowers from behind him to be in between the two of you. Both of you knew that neither of you would say anything to anyone about it.

“Do you like them?” He asked, eyes darting down to the flowers before reaching your face again. You looked down at them. Yellow roses. A smile gently moved across your face, and you nodded gently. 

“You remembered,” you whispered, fingers gently running across the ribbon that held them tightly closed. He smiled up at you. 

“It’s the only flowers I ever get for anyone, anymore,” he admitted, “since you mentioned them in Romania.” You looked up at him, smiling despite your own shock that he had remembered. The mention of Romania made you tense up, after the argument that you’d had that morning. You sighed.

“Right,” you said, “Romania.” 

He bit his sandwich, watching your face. 

“What about it?” he asked, cocking his head to the right. You shrugged. 

“Romania is just,” you trailed off, “difficult, for me,” you finally admitted. He nodded, swallowing the bite of his sandwich that he’d been chewing.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “Romania is hard for me too, dollface.” 

His gaze was on the trees, instead of on you. He looked like there was more that he wanted to say, but couldn’t decide if it was the right thing to say, or if he should even bother. You watched him, silently, chewing on her sandwich. 

A lot had changed since Romania. You were softer now, but more direct. You’d stopped seeing everyone as an enemy or a potential threat, opting now for a silent assessment of them from afar, instead of intimidating them into confessing their darkest secrets in the checkout line at the grocery store. 

Your hair had changed colors half a dozen times, at least, and you’d admit to no one that you preferred to stay in, cozy on the couch with a hot tea and a book instead of tearing through cities blowing up buildings, anymore. But as you watched him, you realized that he had changed, too.

The Winter Soldier stiffness, as you’d coined it years ago, was softened, his posture less point-blank-scary and more generally-intimidating, but only when it needed to be. He had softened around the edges. His hair, while long again now, was at least clean, and well kept. His stubble had traces of grey. 

The lines on his face were less harsh and angry, and more subtle, as if he’d spent time in the sun, squinting and laughing. He had real laugh lines, now. His arm was new, and lighter weight. It didn’t hang off of his body, making him uncomfortable and giving him sore muscles and backaches. It didn’t lock up or get stuck, and was more of an extension of him. 

The only thing that never changed was the fierceness in his eyes, his own sense of justice, the way that he could see right through you. He was beautiful in Romania, there was no doubt in your mind. But now, in New York, no longer a hunted man; lounging on a blanket and eating a sandwich without a care in the world? He was more than beautiful. He was breathtaking.

“You’re staring,” he mumbled, wiping mustard from the corner of his mouth. You blinked, swallowing as you looked away. 

“Sorry,” you muttered, focusing on the bug that was on the tip of your shoe, “I was just…” you trailed off. 

He nodded, as if he was reading your mind, 

“Miles away?” he asked, “Romania, perhaps?” There was a slight tease to his tone, and you looked back up at him, brows furrowed. 

“How did you know?” you asked, leaning back onto your elbows. He shrugged.

“You’re wearing the shirt I got you in Romania, we almost had a knock-down, drag-out fight about it earlier, and you have that look on your face,” he listed off, “the same look that you always have when you’re thinking about it.” 

You felt your ears flush, and you shook your head. 

“Too observant, Barnes,” you groaned, looking away. “I just…” you trailed off, looking towards the birds that were flying in a flock above you, starting their trip south for the winter, formation tight. “I just wish we hadn’t drifted apart, sometimes,” you admitted, voice soft, still not looking at him. He snorted.

“Yeah,” he agreed again, “I wish we hadn’t, too. But we halfway had this argument this morning. We both know that the hurt’s too deep on both sides.” You sighed at his words, looking to him. 

“We don’t have to fight. It doesn’t have to hurt,” you offered, handing him the strawberries. He hummed in response.

“Doesn’t have to,” he repeated, “but it still does.” There was a pause. A beat. 

Penny in the air. 

You could talk it out. Have it out right here, right now, in the park. Decide what to do with the pieces in the aftermath, after you got back to the tower. 

He looked at you like he wanted to say everything he had held back in your room, but stayed quiet. It was your move. You shifted, moving to lay down on the blanket, and rested her head on her folded arm. A long, slow exhale. 

“Why did you leave?” you asked, finally. 

Penny dropped.

He sighed, matching your position on the other side of the blanket. 

“I could ask you the same thing, sweetheart.” 

You nodded. “You could. You’d hate the answer, though.” 

He chuckled. “You’d hate mine too.” 

You both laid there in silence for a few minutes; you, chewing your lip. Him, reliving the moment he decided to leave.

“I left because I didn’t know what else to do,” you said, finally breaking the silence, choosing your words carefully, “I’d been sitting on these complicated feelings for months, and I didn’t know what to do with them.” 

He was stone-still next to you, holding his breath, waiting for you to say what he’d always been afraid that you would have said, if you hadn’t left. 

“It was just so hard,” you continued, “because I knew you had things to accomplish. You needed to get him out of you, you had friends looking for you, there was a list of things that I knew that you needed to do.” 

“Still is,” he admitted softly, “the bucket list never gets shorter.” 

A joke, to ease the tension building in his chest. The build in his stomach that was threatening to bottom out once you said it. You shook your head. 

“You know what I mean,” you said softly, “I didn’t want to–” he sat up, interrupting you. 

“To see me get bad again,” he guessed, looking at the trees. 

“What?” you asked incredulously, sitting up next to him, “No, James,” your tone soft, timid. “I was never afraid of you. I just didn’t want to hold you back.” You leaned back as he looked back at you, fixing your eyes on the clouds that rolled overhead. 

“I’d been wrestling with it for months, Buck, these stupid, complicated feelings, and I didn’t even know if it was real.” 

He was still looking at you, refusing to feel hopeful; refusing to let himself think that maybe you’d thought of him as anything other than a damaged weapon. You could feel his eyes on you. 

“I left so that I could process it, you know? Figure it out.” You paused, eyes flitting to him before moving back skyward. “By the time I figured it out, you were gone. So I just picked up the pieces. Went back to work.” 

He ran his hand down his face, wondering how it was possible for you to say so much, without really saying anything at all. A vague admission of sorts, without any real substance. Relying on him to read between the lines, fill in the blanks that you couldn’t say to his face; not now. You looked to him, waiting for him to respond. He nodded, not knowing what to say. 

“I thought you’d left permanently,” He said finally, voice hoarse, trying to decide what he could say that would be enough without being too much for you to process. Trying to decipher what was a safe admission, and what would send you running again.

“So when Steve came back for me, and half of the law enforcement of Bucharest blew up the decoy apartment, I left a note for you, in case you came back. And I went back to the fight.” 

You stared at him. You were both offering half truths, waiting on the other to put the heavy thing between you into words. 

“I wish I hadn’t left,” you whispered, shrugging, “not in the way that I did. It wasn’t fair to you.”

He just nodded, lacing his flesh hand with his metal hand, letting out a sigh.

“I looked for you,” he admitted, after a pause, shaking his head and pushing his hair away from his face. “I spent two weeks scouring the city. Looking for some sign of life, some hint that you were okay, something tangible.” 

You sat quietly, listening to his words, watching his back tense as he quietly gave you more half-truths.

“And then I thought, oh, the plums are in season again, she loves those. I should get some, in case she comes back.” A rueful laugh escaped his lips, sharp and tense. You fought the urge to sit up and reach across to him, the urge to lay a hand on his shoulder.

“And that’s what got me caught,” he whispered, rolling his eyes, leaning back and looking over to you, “the stupid fucking plums.”

You nodded, unsure if he would say anything else. After a few seconds of silence, you decided that it must be your turn to speak.

“I shouldn’t have left,” you say softly, trying to bandage the wound that's been festering for years, “but it felt like I was bleeding out. It felt like I was constantly holding my breath, holding onto these tiny moments where I felt like you were right on the cusp of…” you trailed off, shaking your head.

“Anyway,” you said, laying your hands in your lap, changing the subject and averting your gaze, “there’s nothing that we can do about it now.” You reach for the wrappers from your sandwiches, starting to tidy the mess.

His chest aches at your resignation, but he nods, handing you the basket to put the trash in. A tenseness settled back into your bones.

“Time to head back?” you asked, forcing a thin smile across your face. You tried not to notice the way that his shoulders fell, or the way that he schooled his features into something unreadable, your heart sinking as he nodded, looking away.

“Yeah. I guess it is.”

----------------------------------------------

Back at the tower, the tension doesn’t dissipate. You answer questions about your date, vague enough that you don’t give anything away, while still giving enough details that no further questions were asked. 

“The date was fine,” you’d told Yelena, face blank.

“He was very respectful,” you’d told Bob, offering him a reassuring smile when he’d asked.

“No, he wasn’t ugly,” you’d told John, when he’d teased, lightly slapping him on the shoulder.

“He brought me flowers,” you’d told Alexei, showing him the flowers with a soft smile and wide eyes, before placing them into a vase and filling it with water from the tap.

Bucky had tried not to smile as you’d shown off the flowers.

“Are you going to see him again?” Yelena had asked, brows raised, trying to act as if she wasn’t curious and was only asking to seem polite.

You’d frozen, shoulders tensing before you’d turned back to her, brows drawn, mouth a thin line.

“I don’t know,” you’d murmured, “probably not.”

Bucky’s breath had caught in his throat, and he’d had to act quickly to recover to prevent eyes from looking to him. He’d turned quickly, moving towards the stairs, realizing he would have to pass you in the kitchen to get up to his room.

“Sorry he wasn’t what you thought he’d be,” he murmured, voice gruff as he passed by, making his way to the staircase and taking them two at a time, quickly slipping behind his bedroom door before his mask of indifference could fall.

He’d moved to the end of his bed, sitting down with practiced calm, running a hand down his face, shaking his head. Stupid to think that she’d say anything else, he’d thought, a sigh escaping his lips.

----------------------------------------------

It was dark. He’d left his air conditioner on high, causing a chill to fall over the room. He was underneath a sheet, laying on his side. His mind hadn’t stopped racing, and he hadn’t left his room since he’d come upstairs.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. 

Probably not.

Probably not.

Probably not.

He closed his eyes, sucking in a breath and holding it. 

Finally, he turned to his other side, reaching for his phone that was laying face down on his bedside table. He stared at the lockscreen, noting the time. 2:47am. He stared at the screen until it went to sleep, the black screen reflecting his face. He looked wrecked.

He sighed, tapping the screen again to wake it up, unlocking it quickly and opening his messaging app. He clicked on the chat with your name, staring at the cursor as it blinked slowly, waiting for him to type a message. His stomach twisted, and he closed out of it; thumb swiping back and forth while he chewed the inside of his cheek.

He continued swiping, moving back and forth between screens until his thumb finally hovered over the app. He stared at it for a moment, sucking in a breath, holding it until his lungs started to burn; tapping it to open it. The one chat that lived there stared back at him.

herghosts - last online: 8 hours ago.

He tapped on it, stomach twisting as he watched the cursor blink back at him. What would he even say? He stared at the screen until it started to dim; then tapped it again to wake it up, and started typing.

noattachments: Hey. I know it’s late. But I can’t sleep. I don’t expect a response. I don’t know why it feels easier to type here. I guess I Pavlov’ed myself. I really don’t know what to do. It just feels like I got my legs knocked out from underneath me. I can’t even think straight.

He stared at the message, debating on deleting it all, still chewing the inside of his cheek. He tapped send before he could think any further into it, locking it and dropping it to his chest. His throat felt tight with nerves, and not the kind that he’d had going into the date.

This was less like butterflies nerves and more like imminent-death-incoming nerves.

The phone buzzed on his chest, causing him to jump out of his skin, his breath catching in his throat. He froze, trying to catch his breath, calm his breathing, steady his heartrate. He took a deep breath and picked it up.

3 New Messages from: herghosts - 2m ago

He tapped the notification, opening the messages.

herghosts: Hey. I’m not sleeping either. Usually when I can’t sleep, I send you a message. Wasn’t sure if I still could. I didn’t expect it to be… you… It just feels more comfortable here. Almost like it’s still anonymous. Almost like I can convince myself that you’re still the anonymous guy that I was attached to. The guy that I had convinced myself had helped me to move on. I thought that I had actually found someone that I could build something with.

He stared at the screen, re-reading the messages. Trying to ignore the hollow pressure that was building in his chest. He blinked a few times. 

I thought that I had actually found someone that I could build something with.

I didn’t expect it to be you.

He locked his phone, tossing it down by his legs. He rubbed his hand across his chest, as if applying pressure would make it hurt less, before rolling over to his side. Should have expected that one, he thought.

As hard as he tried, he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t turn his brain off. He felt like he was drowning. He gripped his phone again; unlocking it. 3:58am.

Bucharest, 2016

The apartment was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that feels empty—but the kind that wraps around you like a secret. The kind that almost makes you believe that you might actually belong. The scent of simmering pasta sauce drifted through the room, mingling with the low hum of traffic from the street below. Your laugh cracked the stillness, soft and unguarded, as he smirked over a paperback romance he was reading aloud, every line more ridiculous than the last.

“You actually paid money for this?” Bucky teased, flipping a page with exaggerated judgment. His mouth twitched at the corner, amusement warming his voice. “These people say the dumbest things.”

You shrugged, trying not to smile too hard, attention fixed on the sauce. “Maybe I needed something ridiculous.”

He’d said nothing when you bought it. Just raised an eyebrow at the register while you tucked it behind a bag of pasta, pretending it didn’t mean anything. And maybe it didn’t. Maybe you wanted to believe you weren’t picking up some cheap daydream of the kind of love you’d never have.

Not with him.

He didn’t know.

Couldn’t know.

Your feelings were folded neatly into the cracks of quiet mornings and the space between his silences. Held tightly in every stolen glance, every half-swallowed laugh when he said something without realizing how much it meant to you. They were never his to carry. So you didn’t ask him to.

You just…loved him.

He made it so easy—on days like this. When his shoulders weren’t drawn up to his ears, when his voice wasn’t hollowed out by guilt or fear. When he let himself be, even if it was only for an hour. You clung to those scraps of softness like they might be enough to keep you here. But they never were.

“I don’t know,” you murmured absently as he read another absurd line. “The men I’ve been with weren’t exactly the romantic type. More…” You trailed off, braving a glance at him. “Rough around the edges.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, snorted. “Sounds like a nightmare.”

You smiled. It hurt. “Yeah.”

He didn’t see the way your fingers gripped the wooden spoon. Didn’t catch the way your voice trembled under the weight of restraint.

He never did.

He just turned away, tossing the book onto the coffee table as he moved toward the couch, mumbling to himself about twenty-first century dating, shaking his head like it was all just a joke.

But none of this was a joke to you.

Your chest ached. It always ached, especially on nights like this—when it felt like something was reaching for you, just beyond your grasp. When he was so close, so there, and yet still light-years away. You stared down at the pasta sauce—long done, long forgotten—pretending you weren’t falling apart inside.

Because you knew. Eventually, you’d have to go.

You couldn’t keep pretending. Couldn’t keep drowning yourself in this quiet ache, this illusion of safety that would never be yours in the way you needed it to be. Not when he didn’t look at you the way you looked at him. Not when he’d never asked you to stay.

You stirred the sauce again, for no reason at all, and swallowed the lump in your throat.

You were in love with a man who didn’t even know he was breaking your heart.

And soon—before it got worse—you’d have to leave.

Bucharest, 2016 Three Weeks Later

The apartment was too quiet.

It hadn’t always felt this way—sterile, echoing, hollow around the edges. But now, even with the sun bleeding through the windows, casting soft light across the floorboards, it felt like a room that had already been emptied of something important. Something invisible. Something like hope.

You sat on the edge of the bed, hands limp in your lap, eyes fixed on the cracks in the floorboards you’d memorized during too many sleepless nights. Your duffel bag sat half-packed beside you, gaping open, a silent dare.

He was gone. Out running errands, maybe. Or chasing shadows in alleys, following up on vague whispers of danger like he always did when the walls started closing in. He hadn’t told you where he was going. Not that he owed you that.

Not that he ever really said goodbye.

You stood slowly, your chest aching with the weight of the decision already made. It had been creeping in for days, weeks—this certainty that you couldn’t stay here. Not like this. Not loving him in silence, not waking up to the smell of his coffee and the sound of his soft breathing while knowing he would never look at you the way you looked at him.

You moved through the apartment like a ghost, pulling your things from drawers with practiced quiet. Shirts folded, toothbrush wrapped in a tissue, your favorite mug left untouched in the cabinet. You didn’t take much. Didn’t want to leave holes he might notice. You told yourself he wouldn’t notice anyway.

He’d think you needed air. A break. A walk to clear your head.

By the time he figured out you were really gone, you’d be far enough that he wouldn’t bother trying to find you.

And even if he did… he wouldn’t understand why.

There were no dramatic fights. No slammed doors or tearful confessions. Just a slow, aching absence of the thing you needed most. And how could you explain that? How could you say I loved you so quietly you never heard it?

You paused at the table. The one he used to read at, sprawled in his hoodie, socked feet propped up while he scoffed at the romance novel you’d left behind. It was still there, spine cracked open to the page he last mocked.

You didn’t leave a note.

What would you even write?

"You made me feel safe. You made me feel invisible." "I love you, but that isn't your fault." "Please don’t come after me."

No. Silence was cleaner.

You pulled your coat on slowly, fingers trembling just a little as you reached for the handle. You looked around one last time—not for anything you’d forgotten, but to commit it to memory. The worn couch cushion where he always sat. The crooked picture frame you never fixed. The warmth that no longer reached you.

Then, before you could change your mind, before your heart could betray you with hope— You left.

And you didn’t look back.

Bucharest, 2016 Later That Night

The door creaked open just after midnight.

Bucky stepped inside, boots scuffing against the worn floor as he shrugged off his jacket and dropped the bag of groceries onto the counter. His breath fogged slightly in the air, and he rubbed his metal hand absently against the back of his neck as he glanced around the apartment.

Quiet.

Not unusual. You were probably asleep, curled up in that ridiculous oversized sweatshirt he always pretended not to notice you stealing from his laundry pile. He usually found you that way after his long walks—book in your lap, a blanket kicked off halfway, face soft with dreams.

But something felt… off.

He moved through the kitchen, waiting for the usual signs—your mug in the sink, a light left on, the faint scent of whatever soap you used lingering in the air. But there was nothing. Just silence, so thick it felt unnatural.

“Hey,” he called out, voice low, careful. “You still up?”

No answer.

He crossed to your bedroom door—open. No light. The bed, made. Too neat. Not like you.

A flicker of discomfort pulled at his chest as he stepped inside. His eyes scanned the room, slow. The duffel bag you always kept under the bed—gone. The drawer where you kept your books—half empty. The hoodie you wore almost every night—missing.

He stood frozen for a moment, the air thinning around him. His brows furrowed as he turned back toward the kitchen, toward the coat rack.

Your coat. Your shoes.

Gone.

His heartbeat kicked up, slow and heavy. He pulled open a cabinet. Your mug—still there. But your favorite spoon was gone. He checked the bathroom. Toothbrush—missing. Shampoo—still here. He grabbed his phone, fingers unsteady.

No messages. No missed calls.

Nothing.

“Come on…” he whispered, rubbing his temple, pacing the living room now. He looked around as if he might find you sitting there, tucked into the corner of the couch, grinning at his confusion like this was some kind of joke.

But the apartment didn’t hum anymore.

It felt abandoned.

He sank onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of his mouth.

You left.

You really left.

And not even a note.

He let out a bitter breath, trying to keep the tremble from reaching his hands. Trying not to let his mind spin back through every moment—every time you smiled at him like he was worth something. Every quiet gesture he’d tucked away, unsure if they meant what he hoped they meant. Every almost-touch he pulled back from, afraid it would mean too much.

You’d sat two feet away from him for months, and he’d spent every goddamn day pretending he wasn’t in love with you.

Too dangerous, he told himself.

Too broken. Too far gone.

You deserved someone who could give you softness without flinching. And he didn’t trust himself to be that man—not without hurting you.

So he stayed silent.

And now, you were gone.

He sat there for a long time, staring at the place where your bag used to sit by the door. At the book you’d left on the table, spine cracked to the page he last mocked. He picked it up with careful fingers, holding it like it might still carry the warmth of your hands.

A soft, broken sound escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

“She loved this crap,” he murmured into the empty room. “Of course she did.”

He let the book fall to his lap, covering his eyes with a shaking hand. If he let himself say your name, he might not stop.

You’d left without a word.

And still, all he wanted to do was run after you.

Because what he never told you—what he never could tell you—was that every quiet moment you shared, every simple, stupid little domestic thing, was the closest he’d ever felt to peace.

And he’d loved you for it.

Silently.

Just like you’d loved him.

And now it was too late.

Bucharest, 2016 Two Months Later

The key still fit the lock.

You pushed the door open harder than necessary, the frame groaning in protest as you stepped into the apartment—if you could still call it that. It felt like a hollowed-out memory. Cold. Bare.

Empty.

He was gone.

You didn’t need to look around to know it, but you did anyway, fingers twitching at your sides as you scanned the room like you might catch a glimpse of him, like he might be lurking just out of sight, ready to pop up with one of those half-smiles and a smartass comment about the trashy romance novel still sitting on the shelf.

Except the shelf was empty.

Gone.

Of course.

You dropped your bag by the door with a dull thud, jaw tight as you stepped further in. No boots. No jacket. No faint smell of coffee and soap. It was like he’d never even lived here. Like you had never lived here.

Then you saw it.

On the kitchen table—bare except for a single piece of paper, folded cleanly in half.

Your stomach sank before you even picked it up.

I don’t know if you’ll ever be back, but just in case. The fight called me back to the States. —B

Your eyes scanned the note once. Twice. A scoff broke past your lips before you could stop it.

Just in case.

Like you’d swing by to pick up your book. Like you were a ghost passing through—some temporary fixture he hadn’t really expected to stick around.

You crumpled the note in your fist before unfolding it again, hating how your fingers trembled, how your eyes blurred at the edges. He was gone. Back to the States. Back to war, to danger, to being hunted again. At least here, he’d been hidden. Safe. With you.

But he left.

No goodbye. No warning. No explanation.

You clenched your jaw, throat burning, anger the only thing hot enough to fight the flood of worry rising beneath your ribs.

“Idiot,” you muttered. You weren’t even sure if you meant him or yourself.

You’d come back—not for closure, not for some cinematic reunion, but because something in you had fractured the day you left, and for weeks you’d been trying to pretend it hadn’t. You thought maybe seeing him again would help you stitch yourself back together.

Instead, you found a fucking note.

You shoved it into your coat pocket, heart pounding. You didn’t know where he’d gone exactly. You didn’t care. That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

He made his choice. You’d make yours.

You left the apartment an hour later, locking the door behind you without looking back. There were still jobs out there—contacts who didn’t ask questions, missions that paid just enough to keep you moving. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was familiar. It kept your hands busy, your mind distracted. That was all you needed.

You weren’t going to chase someone who didn’t ask you to stay. You weren’t going to wait for a ghost. If he wanted to disappear, so be it.

You could disappear too.

One Year Ago, BucharestThe phone rang once. Then twice.

You answered on the second ring.

“Yeah?”

There was a pause—just a beat too long—and in that breath of silence, something in your chest cracked open, a flood of memory rushing in before you even heard his voice.

“…Hey.” The voice made your chest tighten, and you forced a deep breath.

Bucky.

It had been years. No messages. No warning. Just a voice you hadn’t heard since you’d left that apartment, that you'd tried not to think about since you’d stood in a cracked hallway with his crumpled note in your hand and your heart in pieces.

You didn’t breathe. Not right away. You let the silence hang like a question, daring him to say more.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d still have the same number,” he said quietly.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Your voice came out sharper than you meant. “Burning the SIM wasn’t on my list of priorities.”

Another pause.

“I need your help.”

You sat back in the narrow kitchen chair of your latest safe house, one foot hooked around the leg of the table, your half-eaten meal forgotten. Your eyes scanned the small apartment instinctively, though you knew that no one was listening.

“Help,” you repeated, voice flat. “That’s rich. Last I checked, you had no problem leaving without it.”

“I know.” He didn’t argue. Didn’t defend himself. “But this isn’t just about me.”

That made you sit up straighter.

“I’m working with a group now. People like us. Different… but good. They need someone like you. Steady work. A place to stay. Long-term.”

You blinked. Let the words sink in. A place to stay. It sounded dangerously close to a home.

Your instinct was to laugh. But it didn’t come out.

“Bucky,” you said, leaning forward, your tone cooling. “I’m currently working for three different governments, cleaning up messes that would make the evening news bleed red for a week straight. I kill people for money. People who matter. The kind of people that don’t officially exist. You think I’m going to drop that and sign up for... what? Some little superhero collective?”

“I don’t care what you’ve done,” he said. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t,” he repeated. “It’s a clean start. If you want it.”

That silenced you again.

Because he wasn’t offering judgment. He wasn’t even offering forgiveness. He was offering you a door. A quiet place to stand still. And it terrified you.

But of course, all you said was, “When do you need me?”

“Soon as you can. We’re based out of New York.”

Your throat tightened. “You still in trouble?”

“No. Not anymore.”

You didn’t ask what that meant. Didn’t ask if he was safe, or if they were safe. You simply stood, crossed the room, and started packing your bag with the kind of practiced efficiency that never left.

“Okay,” you said, one hand gripping your passport. “I’ll be on the next flight.”

He hesitated again. “You sure?”

“I wouldn’t be doing this if I wasn’t.”

You ended the call before he could say anything else. Before your voice could break.

You kicked yourself for running back to him, still running when he called. You knew that it was. You were in love with him. Had been, even when you hated him. Even when you’d gone cold and bitter and sharp with the ache of being left behind.

You tossed your phone on the bed. A new message notification blinked from the anonymous dating app you’d kept quietly alive in the background of your life—just once in a while. Just for that one guy. No name. No pictures. Just long messages at night, filled with the kind of honesty you couldn’t afford in the real world.

You didn’t open it. Not now. Not when your past had just called you back across the ocean. And not when part of you already knew, deep down in the softest, stupidest part of your heart… You would always go when Bucky asked.

Henri Coandă International Airport Bucharest → New York Gate 4B | 11:26 PM

The terminal lights buzzed overhead—cold, fluorescent, too bright for the hour. You sat tucked into the corner row of chairs, hood up, boots stretched out in front of you, fingers fidgeting restlessly with the zipper of your bag.

You should’ve been sleeping. Or eating. Or thinking about the mission ahead.

Instead, you unlocked your phone and opened the one app you never should’ve kept.

The anonymous one.

The one with the messages that you tried not to reread, but never deleted, either. Just in case. A year’s worth of late-night honesty, half-lies, and carefully worded truths with a stranger who somehow understood you better than most people who’d seen your face.

You tapped into the thread.

herghosts: heading out. long flight. not a job exactly, but… Someone needed something. going to be gone a while.

The reply came quickly, as it always did. Short bursts. No pressure.

noattachments: big move?

You hesitated before responding, then chose your words like weapons. Blunt. Controlled.

herghosts: just helping an old friend. things got complicated, i guess. I wasn't planning on it. but they asked.

Typing bubbles blinked. Paused.

noattachments: must be someone important.

You stared at the screen for a second too long, then leaned back in your chair and typed:

herghosts: old history. don’t really know what i’m walking into. feels reckless. probably is.

Another pause. Then:

noattachments: sometimes the reckless things matter more than the safe ones. you trust them?

You blinked. Your stomach tightened.

herghosts: doesn’t matter. already said yes.

A moment passed.

noattachments: well. try not to get killed. that’d ruin my week.

You smirked. Barely.

herghosts: no promises. you ever go back to something you swore you’d buried?

noattachments: once. still digging.

You stared at that for a long time. Then:

herghosts: guess we’re both idiots.

noattachments: yeah. probably.

Gate 4B lit up. Boarding call echoing overhead.

You stood, slipping your phone into your pocket without replying.

No goodbyes to say. No names that were attached to you. Just a long flight ahead and a city waiting at the other end, where your past lived with a steel jaw and blue eyes and a voice that still haunted your sleep.

The plane would take you back to him. Back into the turmoil you’d been trying to outrun for the past eleven years. 

JFK International Airport New York City Arrivals | 4:12 AM

The baggage claim carousel groaned to life.

You stood back from the crowd, hands in the pockets of your jacket, watching the endless loop of strangers collecting their lives in pieces—suitcases, duffels, tired children draped over parents’ shoulders. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too clean. The air here smelled like coffee and bleach and jet fuel.

Your stomach was in knots. You hadn’t seen him in years. Not really. Not since Bucharest. Not since the silence and the note and the weight of everything unsaid. Now you were here. In his city. Answering his call.

You didn’t even know what you was doing.

Just that when he asked—you dropped everything. And ran to him. The irony left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Your phone buzzed in yourpocket.

You pulled it out, expecting a message from Bucky.

It wasn’t.

It was him. The anonymous one. The only one who’d made the nights bearable this past year. The one who never pushed. Who never pried.

noattachments: big shift happening at work. trying not to lose my mind over it. feels like i’m dragging the past into the present and pretending it’ll play nice.

You stared at the message, mouth dry as you tried to steady yourself enough to respond.

herghosts: same. currently in the middle of doing something i said i’d never do again.

The typing bubbles blinked. Then paused. Then blinked again.

noattachments: must be someone important.

You didn’t have the chance to answer. Because just then, you spotted him.

Standing off to the side of the crowd, hands in the pockets of his worn jacket, hair pulled back, jaw tight. He looked exactly the same and entirely different—like time had passed through him without asking permission. He hadn’t seen you yet.

You watched him for a moment longer than you should’ve, heart racing with the feelings that you’d spent the entire flight forcing down fighting to make an appearance, then typed one last message.

herghosts: i’ll let you know how it goes. the person who brought me out here… it’s complicated. might get messy.

You slipped your phone away, grabbed her bag off the carousel, and moved toward Bucky.

Across the Terminal

Bucky glanced down at his phone, waiting for her reply. The consistent figure he’d been messaging for the past year. The one that made his heart rate steady when he was on the brink of losing his grasp on himself.

He read the message twice, thumb hovering over the screen.

herghosts: might get messy.

His chest tightened, hoping that whatever she was up to would be easier than she was expecting. He didn’t know what to say, not with his mind racing the way that it was. So he slid his phone back into his jacket pocket and looked up.

And there you were. Walking toward him. Same eyes. Same gait. Same impossible pull.

“Hey,” he said, voice lower than he meant. You stopped just in front of him, bag slung over one shoulder. “Hey,” you echoed. The tension was eating at him, but he didn’t know what to do. It felt wrong to hug you, to say anything other than the short greeting he’d already said, so he just stood there, staring.

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

In the car, the city passed by in dark, wet smears of light and movement, the windshield streaked with rain that hadn’t quite made up its mind. Inside the car, it was too quiet. The only sounds were the low hum of the heater and the soft squeak of windshield wipers. Bucky drove with one hand on the wheel, eyes straight ahead, jaw set like stone.

You sat beside him, curled slightly toward the window, as if trying to disappear into the glass. The silence was suffocating. The kind that made everything feel louder—the shift of a jacket, the quiet creak of leather seats, the inhale held a second too long.

Your phone buzzed. You glanced at it quickly, tensing as your thumb hovered over the screen. A new message.

noattachments: landed? how’s the start of your new… “thing”? You said it was complicated, but complicated how? like “used to trust them” complicated? or “might be in love with them but don’t wanna admit it” complicated?

You exhaled softly. Tilted the phone away just slightly. Bucky hadn’t looked at you, still staring ahead, still driving, but something about the stillness in his shoulders made you feel like he’d noticed.

You typed carefully.

herghosts: weird. heavy. it’s like walking into a room where everyone already knows the ending, and you’re just waiting to realize what page you’re on. I don’t know how to describe the complication, other than… yes. All of the above, maybe? It’s just tense. And uncomfortable. Weirdest airport pickup of my life. can’t wait to fill you in later when i’m not actively avoiding eye contact and trying to decide if i want to fling myself out of a moving vehicle on a bridge and drown myself in the ocean.

You smiled, barely, both amused with yourself and glad that you could tell him anything, glad that he would be there when you were inevitably spiraling, later tonight. You locked your phone, tucking it inside your sleeve like it might burn you if you held it too long.

Another few seconds passed, the tension building to a peak, and you started actually contemplating flinging yourself out of the car.

“You texting someone?” Bucky’s voice broke the silence, low and casual—but something about the way he said it made your throat tighten even more.

You glanced at him sideways. His eyes were still on the road.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just… someone.” He didn’t say anything. Just gave a small nod. But after another beat, you added, “Old contact. Worked a few things together. He checks in.” You could feel the lie in your mouth, but it didn’t taste like one. Bucky let out a small breath, half-laugh. “What’s his name?”

You stared ahead.

“….Luca”

A pause. Just long enough for you to hate yourself a little. “Well,” Bucky said finally, “tell Luca that he picked a hell of a day to text you.” 

Your lips twitched. “Yeah. He has terrible timing.” Neither of you said anything else for the rest of the drive. You pulled out your phone after a few more minutes, typing out a quick message.

herghosts: death imminent. can’t take the awkwardness. avenge me.

You hit send, locking your phone again and turning to look out the window. Beside you, Bucky turned on his blinker. Said nothing. His phone buzzed quietly in his pocket. He didn’t check it. 

The rest of the drive passed in silence, save for the occasional blinker or low hum of a turn. You pulled up to the Tower just before 5:30, headlights catching on the polished glass and steel, city lights reflected in a hundred gleaming windows.

He parked in the underground garage and killed the engine. You didn’t move right away. Neither did he.

“This way,” he said eventually, voice rough with sleep or nerves. Maybe both. He grabbed your duffel before you could stop him and headed toward the elevator. You followed, arms crossed over your chest, jaw locked tight.

The ride up was quiet. Too quiet. The kind where you can hear every flicker of your own heartbeat. When the elevator dinged, he stepped out, motioning to the left.

“Top floor’s mostly us. You’ll have space. No one’s gonna bother you,” he said, leading you down the hallway, not quite looking at you. “This one’s yours.” He stopped in front of a door and keyed in the code.

The lock clicked.

He opened it and stepped aside so that you could go in. You paused at the threshold. Something about it, whether it was the soft overhead lighting, the fresh sheets, or the still, almost sterile air, felt foreign. Like someone else’s life.

“Everything you need should be in there. Closet’s stocked, too. I didn’t—” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I kept it simple.”

 You took the bag from his hand without looking at him. “Thanks.” Your tone was short. Clipped. The kind that made people take a step back. But Bucky didn’t move. 

“You okay?” he asked quietly. You stopped in the doorway, your back to him, Your grip tightening on the strap of your bag. “I’m tired.”

A pause.

“Right,” he said, stepping back. You walked inside, didn’t look at him as you reached out, pushing the door closed between them. Hard. The latch caught with a sharp, final click.

Inside the room, you dropped your bag on the bed and let out a slow, tight breath, chest heaving just once. The silence felt heavier here, like the walls knew the weight you were carrying. You sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on your knees, staring at the floor.

Your phone buzzed. You pulled it out without thinking.

noattachments: ouch.  sounds like a blast.still alive? if it gets too heavy, you can always tell me. even if i don’t know the details. i won’t ask. i’ll just listen. and stay if you need me.

You stared at the screen, pulse hammering, typing out a response.

herghosts: yeah. just got in. already hate it.

The reply came seconds later.

noattachments: want to disappear yet?

You smiled—small and bitter.

herghosts: always. but it’s fine. i’m fine. it’s just… him. it’s stupid. never ending tension. this will probably be over quickly.

Typing dots appeared. Paused. Then:

noattachments: say the word and we run. i’ll book two tickets to anywhere.

Your throat burned. You didn’t answer. Not yet.

Hiding out in Bucharest, two assassins on the run, you’d found comfort in the silence that stretched in between the jobs. But when you started to feel more than that; something that you couldn’t name, something too dangerous to acknowledge… you left.

Without a word.

You thought that you’d escaped him, that walking away meant leaving the pain behind…the unspoken words, the love that never had a chance. But years later, fate has a cruel way of circling back, you’re pulled back into his world when he calls, asking you to work alongside him again. You drop everything, desperate for something…anything, that might erase the weight of the past. But it’s tense, it’s uncomfortable, and it’s painful, working alongside the man that you never got to claim. The man who still haunts you, even when he’s out of reach.

Despite yourself, you’d thought that you’d moved on. He certainly has.

In an attempt to stave off the loneliness that you feel late at night in the Tower, you download an anonymous dating app… and an anonymous stranger, your anonymous Romeo; comes into your life. He’s everything that you thought you were missing. Someone who listens when no one else does. Who makes you feel seen in a way that you haven’t felt in years. And for the first time, you dare to hope.

Until the day that the two of you decide to meet. No more anonymous messages, no more hiding behind a screen, just two people, reaching out for something real.

The truth crashes over you in an instant, but it’s too late. The past is never really gone, and some feelings can’t be outrun.