#gyugraphy

The hotel suite sat on the top floor of a glass-walled tower overlooking the Coachella Valley, where the desert was already bleeding into gold and violet dusk. The floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the living space, turning the entire room into a glowing box of sunset and distant festival haze.

Inside, everything looked expensive in a way that was almost too clean to feel real: cream linen couches, a marble coffee table cluttered with water bottles, VIP passes, and half-open packaging from last-minute wardrobe fixes. The faint thrum of bass from the festival outside pulsed through the glass like a heartbeat the entire city shared.

Before any of them even spoke, your presence was already everywhere in the room... not physically, but in the way every screen seemed to orbit around you. On Sam’s phone. On Natasha’s tablet. On the muted hotel TV looping entertainment news. Your face kept appearing in fragments: rehearsal clips, paparazzi shots, fan edits already dissecting your outfits for the night. It was always like this around you, even when you weren’t there.

You weren’t just performing at Coachella that night.

You were the headline.

You weren't just famous in the way most celebrities were famous. You were globally unavoidable. The kind of pop star whose songs didn’t just chart, they lived in public memory like landmarks. Every comeback broke streaming records. Every tour sold out in minutes that felt almost suspiciously fast. You were called the “princess of pop” by magazines that ran out of new ways to describe your consistency: flawless vocals, cinematic concepts, stage presence that made arenas feel intimate and personal even from the nosebleeds.

And then there was the other layer, the internet.

The one where your image became mythology. You were a sweetheart in interviews, soft-spoken when you wanted to be, laughing easily in a way that made people think they knew you. Fanboys adored you openly. Fan edits multiplied daily. Entire corners of TikTok treated your expressions like lore, slowing down your smiles like they were clues.

And somewhere in all of that, the Steve Rogers narrative had taken root and refused to die.

Bucky stood near the couch, one boot resting on the edge of the coffee table like he had forgotten furniture was not decorative. He wore a fitted black henley with the sleeves pushed to his forearms, dark tactical pants that somehow looked more casual than military now, and his hair was pulled back into the low bun you had texted him about earlier that day. It was neat. Intentional. And unfairly attractive in a way that made Sam visibly suffer the moment he saw it.

“You look like you fix motorcycles and ruin women emotionally,” Sam had said immediately.

Natasha was lounging on the arm of the couch in a black satin slip dress with a loose robe half-tied around her waist, red hair still damp like she’d rushed through getting ready just to avoid being early to anything. She held a champagne flute like she was already bored of the evening and waiting for something interesting to happen. Steve stood near the glass wall in a plain gray shirt and baseball cap he was doing absolutely nothing to hide behind, sunglasses hooked lazily in his hand. Sam was slouched in a chair, phone in hand, scrolling with the intensity of someone trying to argue with the internet.

Bucky’s phone lit up, your contact photo filling up the screen immediately.

His expression changed before he could stop it, softening instantly.

Sam noticed. “Oh no. That’s the face again.”

Natasha leaned slightly to look over his shoulder.

It was a mirror selfie. Backstage. You, already in your first outfit of the night. You wore a baby pink rhinestone corset, tiny white fur trim, glitter catching in the corners of your eyes like stardust. Your hair was pinned up messily, strands falling loose around your face. You looked like trouble disguised as perfection.

The message read:

first outfit <3 u ready? :)

put the bun back exactly how i showed you or i’m ignoring you tonight

Bucky exhaled through his nose, then typed: that a threat?

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

it’s a guarantee.

Then another message:

i can tell when you’re overthinking. stop it. just do the bun right.

Sam leaned forward. “She talks to you like you’re her emotional support soldier.”

Natasha didn’t look up. “That’s because he is.”

Steve finally turned from the window. “She’s very particular.”

Bucky muttered, “She’s bossy.”

Natasha’s mouth twitched. “You like it.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Instead, he adjusted a loose strand near the bun automatically, like his body had already decided it was going to obey you whether he admitted it or not.

Then Bucky’s phone buzzed again.

send proof of bun.

He angled the camera and took a quick photo—bun tight, hair cleanly pulled back, black henley framing his shoulders under the warm hotel light.

Sent.

Three seconds later:

okay wow. don’t let anyone else look at you tonight :P

Sam groaned. “I hate this relationship.”

Natasha smiled into her glass. “No you don’t.”

Steve adjusted his cap again, glancing at the time. “We should head out soon. Traffic will be bad.”

Bucky barely had time to lock his phone before it started lighting up again, except this time it wasn’t you.

It was TikTok.

He didn’t even open it before Sam pointed. “Oh no. Don’t do that. That’s how you lose peace.”

Bucky ignored him and tapped anyway.

Immediately—

A video loaded.

A fan edit of you and Steve at last year’s gala, slow-motion, cinematic filter, soft piano music layered over it.

Text on screen says, "she looks at him like he’s home.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

Swipe.

“You cannot convince me Y/N isn’t dating Steve Rogers. look at this.”

The clip starts with you laughing at something Steve says during an interview, head tilted slightly toward him, crowd noise fading into romantic audio.

they’re literally endgame!

this is america’s royal couple idc

Swipe.

A compilation titled: “moments Y/N forgets she’s not in love with steve rogers”

It showed clips of you and Steve walking a red carpet side by side. Steve adjusting your microphone at an event. You touching his arm briefly during a charity appearance camera zooming in on shared smiles that were probably nothing and everything at once depending on who was watching

Bucky’s thumb paused for half a second longer than it should have.

Natasha noticed immediately. “Don’t do that thing.”

“What thing.”

“The thing where you let TikTok convince you reality is optional.”

He didn’t respond, just kept scrolling.

Another video loaded.

“Okay but be serious for a second,” a girl said into the camera, “Y/N and Steve are literally built like a romance novel. like she’s the princess of pop and he’s captain america, that’s insane storytelling.”

Cut to another clip: your interview answer about “admiring people who do the right thing no matter what.”

Bucky read the big bold text overlay flashing right in front of him: "SHE MEANT HIM."

Sam laughed from the chair. “They’re doing narrative analysis on her like it’s a thesis.”

Swipe. Another.

This one had a million likes already.

Steve smiling at you during a press event, and you smiling back. The caption: “if they’re not together what is this energy? mom and dad fr"

Bucky’s grip on the phone tightened slightly.

Swipe.

Another video immediately autoplayed.

A compilation of fan comments scrolling too fast to read fully, but the gist was clear: Steve and Y/N are perfect, Steve is so respectful, they’re both America’s image, this is what healthy looks like.

Bucky finally locked the phone for a second.

The screen went dark.

Silence in the room held for maybe two seconds.

Then it lit up again.

Your name.

Another message from you, like you could feel the shift through the silence.

i’m going on soon. don’t get weird about anything online. can't wait to see u after the show :)

Bucky stared at it.

Sam leaned forward slightly. “That’s… actually kind of unfairly calming.”

Natasha smiled faintly. “She knows him.”

Steve exhaled, almost relieved. “She really does.”

Bucky put his phone down this time, properly, like it had weight now.

“Let’s go,” he said again, quieter.

The roar of the crowd hit them before they even reached the VIP section. It wasn’t just noise, it was pressure, like the entire desert had turned into a single living thing that reacted to your name. Thousands upon thousands of people packed into the festival grounds beneath flashing lights and towering LED screens, the air itself vibrating with bass so heavy it felt like it was coming from inside the ribs. Giant spotlights swept across the audience in slow, cinematic arcs, catching waves of raised phones and glittering signs, while drones hovered above like silent eyes recording every second.

Your name illuminated the entire stage in pink and gold lettering: Y/N. It wasn’t just a title above a performer anymore, it looked like a monument. The stage design stretched wider than anything Bucky had seen in person before, all layered platforms and moving risers, with a long catwalk slicing straight into the crowd like a runway built to swallow distance. LED panels wrapped around everything in shifting visuals with soft pink hearts one moment, sharp metallic glitch effects the next, already cycling through aesthetics that matched your eras like chapters in a story.

The audience even screamed every time a crew member so much as stepped into view because they thought it might be you. Even shadows got mistaken for you. Even your absence felt like anticipation.

Bucky stayed close behind Natasha as security pushed them through a side corridor into the VIP barricaded area near the front. The closer they got, the more overwhelming it became—heat from bodies, the smell of desert dust mixed with perfume and sweat and smoke machines already testing their cues. The bass wasn’t just heard anymore; it physically pressed against his chest in rhythmic pulses that matched nothing but the scale of what he was about to watch.

People noticed them almost instantly.

“Oh my god.”

“Is that—?”

“The avengers! They're here!”

Phones lifted like a wave cresting all at once, screens glowing as they tilted upward. The reaction spread through the crowd in ripples, turning heads, pointing fingers, half-shouted guesses bouncing between strangers who suddenly had something else to look at while waiting for you to appear. Steve pulled his cap lower instinctively, shoulders tightening as cameras caught sight of him from every angle. Sam, on the other hand, grinned and gave a casual wave like he was at a neighborhood barbecue instead of standing in front of tens of thousands of screaming people, which only made the reaction louder.

Bucky kept his head down, moving with Natasha’s lead until they reached the side-stage viewing area. From here, everything opened up.

The catwalk stretched out like a glowing spine into the crowd, cutting through the sea of people and ending in a circular platform surrounded on all sides. Above it, suspended lighting rigs hovered like mechanical constellations, shifting colors in slow gradients that bathed the audience in pinks, reds, and deep electric blues. The main stage loomed behind it like a skyscraper of screens, layered with moving visuals. Your past music videos are playing in edited loops, clips of choreography, close-ups of your face slowed down into something almost unreal.

Bucky could feel the crowd more than he could see them from here. It wasn’t just cheering anymore, it was anticipation stretched to the breaking point. A thousand conversations all happening at once, all orbiting the same name, the same expectation.

And then he started hearing it.

“Steve Rogers is here too, right?”

“I swear I saw him backstage earlier—like at that charity thing with her—”

“He's definitely here for her, I wonder if she knows"

Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly at that, subtle but immediate, his attention shifting without him meaning to. Another cluster of fans nearby, phones angled toward the stage, voices rising over the bass.

“Now that he’s here it’s literally confirmed though.”

“Right? Like why would Captain America be at her show unless—”

“Unless it’s real. It HAS to be real.”

Bucky’s hand flexed once at his side, metal fingers twitching faintly before he forced them still. His gaze stayed forward, fixed on the empty stage as if looking anywhere else would make it worse. Natasha, walking just ahead of him, didn’t turn around, but her voice dropped slightly anyway, just enough for him to hear.

“Don’t spiral,” she said simply.

“I’m not spiraling,” Bucky muttered automatically.

“Sure,” she replied, dry.

Behind them, another fan voice carried, louder this time, almost excitedly convinced of itself.

“I’m telling you, this is like the official confirmation episode. Steve’s here, she’s performing, it’s literally going to happen on stage.”

That one hit a little differently, like it landed heavier than the rest.

Bucky looked down for half a second, then back up again, steadying himself without acknowledging it.

Steve, who had been quietly taking in the scale of everything with a more reserved expression, shifted slightly closer. He had heard enough by then, enough repetition of his name next to yours, enough certainty in strangers’ voices that didn’t match reality.

He glanced at Bucky briefly, then stepped in closer beside him as they stopped at the viewing rail.

“Hey,” Steve said quietly.

Bucky didn’t look at him. “It’s fine.”

Bucky looked at him then, sharp but controlled. Steve met it without flinching, tone steady, grounded in something calmer than the crowd.

“She’s performing,” Steve said. “That’s all this is right now. The internet is going to build stories no matter what happens in front of them.”

Steve glanced back toward the stage, then toward Bucky again. “Plus, you're the one she’s texting during all of this,” he said quietly.

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze returning to the empty stage where every light was now building toward your entrance.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, quieter than before. “I know.”

And then the entire stadium lights shifted again, as if the desert itself had decided the waiting was over.

The stadium went black like someone had pulled the plug on the entire desert at once. No light, no movement, just a suspended silence that lasted half a heartbeat too long— long enough for eighty thousand people to hold their breath without realizing they were doing it. Then the screen above the stage flickered once, twice, and burst open in a wash of neon pink, yellow, and white strobe. Your name didn’t appear this time. It announced itself.

A single note hit first. It was low, distorted, almost like it was being dragged through glass. Then another layer stacked on top of it, brighter, faster, until the sound built into something unmistakable. The opening of your set. Your signature intro. The one every fan recognized instantly even before the visuals fully resolved. The desert lit up in pulses, synchronized like a heartbeat trying to catch up with itself.

And then you appeared.

Not immediately center stage, but elevated, on a platform that rose slowly through the floor like it had been waiting beneath the world the entire time. White light hit you from below first, turning you into a silhouette before the color fully caught up. Then everything snapped into focus: you in a structured, crystal-studded bodysuit that shimmered between soft pink and chrome under the lights, a matching sheer cape that moved like liquid behind you, hair styled in soft waves that framed your face like it had been painted there on purpose.

The crowd screamed.

The sound wasn’t just loud, it was physical. It rolled through the VIP section like a shockwave, vibrating through the barricades, through the stage, through Bucky’s chest before he even fully processed that you were there.

Natasha tilted her head slightly. “There she is!"

Sam let out a low whistle. “Yeah, okay. That’s insane.”

Steve didn’t say anything at first, just watched as the stage transformed around you—lights shifting into synchronized geometry, dancers appearing in layers behind you like they had been hidden in the architecture itself. Moving platforms rose and fell in time with the beat, and the entire stage felt less like a set and more like a living system built entirely around you.

Bucky wasn’t speaking either.

He just watched.

Because you didn’t stand still for even a second. You moved like the stage was reacting to you instead of the other way around, every step triggering a shift in light, every turn pulling the audience deeper into the performance. The camera screens flashed between close-ups and wide shots, cutting between your face and the sea of people losing their minds in real time.

Your voice came in clean, controlled, effortless over the production. It was bright and teasing, already fully in command of the crowd. You weren’t easing into it. You were owning it from the first second.

A few songs later, the set started building.

The visuals shifted. Pink turned into deeper reds. Glitter into sharp light beams. The choreography tightened. The energy changed... not slower, just sharper, like something was about to pivot.

The music kept rising, playful but charged now, that familiar teasing tension threading through the arrangement as dancers moved in formation behind you, creating shapes that looked almost like they were spelling something the crowd couldn’t read yet.

You paced toward the end of the catwalk, still singing, still smiling, completely unbothered by the scale of what you were doing to the audience.

Bucky’s grip tightened faintly at his side without him realizing it.

This was where the performance stopped being just performance and started becoming something else entirely.

The lighting softened.

The crowd screamed louder because they could tell what was coming even before it arrived.

“Coachella,” you said into the mic, and the desert answered instantly. The crowd erupted so loudly it felt like the ground itself shook in response, a wave of sound rolling through the VIP barricade and into the night sky.

You laughed softly, letting it breathe for half a second before lifting your gaze across the sea of lights.

“Before my final song I just wanted to ask something.”

The cheers grew louder immediately, scattered screams turning into a single rising roar.

You tilted your head, pacing slowly at the end of the catwalk like you were thinking out loud.

“Has anyone of you become obsessed with something?”

A beat.

“…or someone?”

The crowd exploded.

Even the Avengers section reacted. Sam let out an impressed “ohhh,” Natasha smirking into her drink, Steve raising his eyebrows slightly like he already knew where this was going. Bucky, though, just stared at you like the rest of the world had disappeared behind your voice. There was something soft in his expression now, something almost disbelievingly fond, like he still wasn’t used to the fact that this was his life.

“…cause I have.”

The scream that followed was deafening.

You smiled into it, unbothered, glowing under the lights.

“I wanna dedicate this song to someone…”

You paused, letting the anticipation build, eyes drifting across the stadium before landing right on the camera.

“You know who you are.”

The jumbotron cut to your face instantly. Close-up. Soft lighting. Glitter in your lashes. You smiled directly into it like you were speaking to one person in a stadium of thousands.

Bucky saw it on the screen and smiled without meaning to, small and quiet, like it slipped out of him before he could stop it.

Sam immediately leaned in. “Oh my god, she’s about to emotionally ruin you in 4K.”

Bucky didn’t look away from the screen. “Shut up.”

The beat dropped.

“Don’t have to tell your hot ass a thing / Oh yeah, you just get it”

The crowd screamed again, louder than before, immediately locking onto the energy shift. Cameras flashed everywhere. Somewhere in the audience someone yelled, “SHE’S SINGING THIS FOR STEVE!” and it spread fast.

Steve actually heard it this time.

He gave a small sideways glance toward Bucky, something calm and almost reassuring in it, like he wanted to cut through the noise before it built into something heavier.

Bucky met his eyes briefly.

A silent exchange.

Then Steve gave a faint nod, like ignore them, like it’s not what they think.

Bucky nodded back once, understanding without needing more.

“You make me wanna make you fall in love”

The crowd roared, lights shifting pink and gold across the stage as dancers moved in tight formation behind you. You didn’t miss a beat, voice steady, playful, teasing the entire stadium like it belonged to you.

Bucky’s gaze followed you instinctively, softer now, fully locked in. There was something almost unreal about watching you like this, and the fact that with thousands of people screaming your name, every light in the desert pointing toward you... your expression still felt personal in the way it always did when you texted him stupid things at 2 AM.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling again.

Sam noticed anyway. “Yeah, okay, he’s in love.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky said again, but there was no bite in it.

Steve’s attention flicked back toward the crowd as another wave of chatter rose near the barricade.

“Steve and Y/N are literally happening tonight, I swear—”

“That’s why he’s here, look at him—”

Steve exhaled quietly, then leaned just slightly closer to Bucky so only he could hear him.

“For the record,” Steve said, calm, steady, “I’m not confused about any of this.”

Bucky glanced at him.

Steve added, “And neither should you be.”

Bucky held his gaze for a second, then nodded once, slower this time.

The music pulsed forward.

“I know you want my touch for life”

The crowd erupted again, phones rising like a wave. Bucky watched you move across the catwalk, lights catching on your outfit, your smile sharp and bright as you played with the audience like it was second nature.

And despite everything, the noise, the theories, the constant wrong assumptions, there was something grounding in how clearly you were performing for this moment, not for the narrative being built around it.

Sam bumped Bucky’s shoulder lightly. “Hey. Eyes up. She’s literally doing her thing.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh under his breath. “Yeah. I see her.”

“...let you lock me down tonight”

The beat softened into something more teasing, more dangerous, the kind of rhythm that made the crowd lose their minds without fully understanding why.

Bucky felt it anyway. That pull. That focus. Like the entire show was narrowing in real time.

He didn’t notice the comments anymore. Not really. He keeps on watching you.

That was it.

“Can’t help myself, hormones are high / Give me more than just some butterflies”

Your eyes lowkey swept the VIP section.

Scanning.

A little slower this time.

Bucky straightened slightly without thinking, like he felt it before he understood it.

The crowd took it differently.

A ripple went through them instantly.

“Is she looking for Steve?!”

“She’s literally scanning for him—”

Sam groaned. “Oh my god, they’re narrating again.”

“Wanna try out some freaky positions?”

The crowd screamed so loudly it almost swallowed the next beat.

You suddenly ran forward toward the camera, playful, grinning like you were about to break the entire internet on purpose.

“Have you ever tried this one?”

You blew a kiss directly into the lens.

The screen cut instantly.

Steve.

Close-up on the jumbotron.

The crowd lost it completely. Even louder than before.

Sam wheezed. “OH NO—”

Steve blinked once, clearly caught off guard, then let out a short breath through his nose like he had accepted his fate.

Bucky heard it now—different pockets of the crowd reacting exactly how the internet had trained them to.

Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly before Sam immediately leaned in again.

“You okay man?”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Because you had already moved.

A quick glance, again, towards the VIP section.

Toward him.

Not long, but enough.

And then you turned back to the crowd and started walking.

“... you know I just might / let you lock me down tonight”

You moved toward the stairs now, still singing, still perfect, still fully in control of the entire stadium.

Bucky’s attention tracked you immediately.

You passed the barricade slowly as you sang, cameras following, security adjusting as you descended into the crowd-level walkway.

The audience went feral, reaching out, screaming your name as you moved closer and closer to the VIP section.

And then—

you walked past Steve.

Steve shifted slightly aside instinctively as you passed, more out of awareness than anything else.

And then you stopped...

Right in front of Bucky.

The sound didn’t drop, but it sharpened. The crowd saw it at the same time.

“No way—”

“WAIT—”

“OH MY GOD.”

You continued singing.

“Adore me… hold me and explore me…”

And you sang it directly to him. Eyes locked.

No crowd in your face anymore.

Just him.

Bucky froze for half a second, breath catching, expression softening immediately like he didn’t know how to function under that kind of attention.

Steve, just behind, stepped slightly closer behind Bucky, not pushing, just guiding the moment forward as the barricade tightened with security and movement.

“mark your territory, tell me I’m the only only only only one…”

The stadium erupted again, louder than anything before it.

Bucky didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Because you were looking at him like there was no one else in the world.

“...hold me and explore me”

Your voice softened slightly, still carrying, still perfect.

And then your hand lifted.

Pressed gently to his chest.

The crowd absolutely detonated.

Bucky inhaled sharply, eyes flickering for just a second like he felt everything at once.

“tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one…”

Your hand slid down his chest slowly as you finished the line, deliberate and controlled, the entire stadium screaming like it was witnessing something irreversible.

Sam made a sound like he had given up on life entirely. “OH MY GOD.”

Steve let out a quiet, almost amused breath behind them, like he couldn’t believe the internet was about to implode this hard.

And you—

You just smiled at Bucky like it was easy.

Then you stepped back and let go.

Turned.

And ran back toward the stage.

Still singing.

Still owning every second of the chaos you had just created.

You were already moving back toward the stage as the moment at the barricade dissolved into chaos behind you, security guiding the flow but never touching you. The bass never let up, carrying you forward like you were still fully inside the choreography even off-center. Fans reached out as you passed, screaming your name into the desert night, phones shaking as they tried to keep up with you.

“I know you want my touch for life”

Your voice stayed steady as you stepped up toward the stage, the camera catching you mid-motion, glitter flashing under the lights as you glanced once toward VIP before turning back.

Bucky hadn’t moved. Just watched you like everything else had gone quiet around him.

Sam leaned slightly. “She’s really just acting like that didn’t happen.”

Natasha hummed. “It did. Just not for her.”

Steve stayed quiet now, eyes on you, expression softer than before.

You reached the stage again, lights snapping back into full intensity as dancers fell into place behind you.

“If you love me right, then who knows?”

The crowd roared instantly, the energy snapping back into full performance mode.

"I might let you make me Juno"

You moved across the stage with ease, smiling like you never left.

Bucky’s gaze stayed locked on you, unblinking now.

Sam muttered, “Yeah, she’s enjoying this way too much.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Because you were still looking his way sometimes.

"Let you lock me down tonight"

The lights shifted warmer, fireworks beginning to glow faintly in the distance as the crowd built toward the end.

Bucky exhaled slowly, shoulders easing without him noticing.

“One of me is cute, but two though?”

The crowd screamed the lyric back at you, phones rising higher.

“Give it to me, baby”

You pointed out over them, playful, effortless, in control of every second.

And then—

“You make me wanna make you fall in love!"

The Avengers Tower common floor was doing its usual post-viral-event routine: pretending everything was normal while the TV on the wall refused to stop replaying Coachella like it had become permanent programming. Your performance looped again in glossy slow motion. The pink-gold lights, the barricade moment, that frozen frame of Bucky with your hand on his chest played while a scrolling headline insisted beneath it:

FANS STILL DEBATE BUCKY BARNES VS STEVE ROGERS AFTER COACHELLA MOMENT.

On the coffee table, someone’s phone was just running TikToks on its own at this point.

Yelena sat curled up on the couch with a bowl of cereal, watching like it was live sports. “She is very dramatic walker,” she said flatly as another slowed edit of you crossing the stage played again.

Alexei nodded seriously from the armchair, scrolling. “No, no. This is artistic movement. Very precise. Like ballet, but with internet consequences.”

Yelena glanced at him. “You are enjoying this too much.”

“I enjoy truth,” Alexei said, immediately liking a zoomed-in edit of your hand on Bucky’s chest set to cinematic music.

Natasha stood in the kitchen making tea like none of this qualified as emergency behavior. Steam curled up as she finally said, “You two are going to give yourselves headaches.”

Then—

the elevator dinged.

Bucky stepped out and stopped immediately upon seeing the TV.

His face. Your hand. Crowd screaming.

Frozen in the worst possible angle for someone trying to have a normal morning.

Yelena lifted her cereal bowl slightly. “Oh good. The internet’s boyfriend is here.”

Alexei waved. “Hello, prince charming.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just walked toward the glass wall instead, like distance could somehow reset reality.

Outside, the city below the tower entrance was already packed. Fans. Cameras. Press vans. All clustered tightly like the building had become a landmark overnight. Phones pointed upward. Waiting.

Natasha watched him over her mug. “So, what did her publicist say about this?”

“I don't know, haven't checked,” Bucky said immediately.

Yelena tilted her head. “You are staring very hard at outside people.”

“I’m observing.”

Alexei leaned forward. “They are observing you back. Very intense social ecosystem.”

Before Bucky could respond, the TV switched to live footage.

LIVE: Y/N L/N ARRIVING AT AVENGERS TOWER

Yelena sat up instantly. “Oh. She is early.”

On screen, your SUV door opened. The crowd outside surged like it had been waiting for that exact moment all morning.

Bucky turned fully now. Watching despite himself.

You stepped out calmly. Sunglasses on. Hair loose. Outfit too put-together for 7 AM and paparazzi chaos. Security formed instantly, but microphones still pushed forward.

“Y/N! IS THIS ABOUT BUCKY BARNES?”

"ARE YOU HERE FOR STEVE ROGERS?”

"WHY BUCKY?”

You paused, then said, very calmly, “I forgot my coffee upstairs.”

Silence.

Then chaos exploded.

Yelena pointed at the screen. “That is worst answer. I respect it.”

Before anyone could recover, you added casually, “Also, I’m here for Bucky.”

That did it. The crowd detonated again in real time.

And then another clip cut in on someone’s phone at the coffee table, this one already going viral: a girl in front of a messy bedroom setup, speaking like she was delivering sworn testimony.

“I knew y’all got the wrong guy when I saw her wearing Bucky’s hoodie months ago at that Starbucks,” she said, pointing at the camera like it was evidence in court. “Y’all are just in DENIAL.”

The video zoomed in aggressively on a screenshot of you in an oversized hoodie, coffee in hand, walking beside Bucky months earlier.

Text overlay says:

RECEIPTS WERE RIGHT IN FRONT OF US THE WHOLE TIME

Yelena leaned forward slightly. “Oh this one is confident.”

Alexei nodded approvingly. “Strong argument. Poor grammar, but strong conviction.”

Bucky didn’t say anything.

Because he was already moving.

Natasha called after him, “Hey, you don’t need to—”

But he was already gone.

The lobby felt louder than it should have been, even for Avengers Tower. Security radios crackled. Cameras clicked outside the glass doors. The crowd pressed forward like the building itself had become a stage.

Bucky came down too fast, then slowed immediately when he saw you.

You were already inside.

Just past the entrance zone. Calm in the middle of moving chaos, surrounded by security and microphones and overlapping questions.

“Have you ever dated both of them?”

"Why Bucky Barnes specifically?”

"What happened at Coachella?”

You removed your sunglasses just as the doors closed.

And Bucky was there.

Ten feet away.

He stopped.

You stopped too.

Everything behind you stayed loud, but the space between you was oddly quiet. Like it didn’t belong to the internet.

You looked at him and smiled.

“Hi,” you said.

Bucky blinked once. “Hey.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the chaos behind you. Then back.

“You said coffee?" he added, quieter.

You nodded.

That got him. A small laugh slipped out before he could stop it. He stepped forward.

You met him halfway and took his hand like it was obvious you would.

Behind you, the lobby exploded again—cameras, shouting, headlines being born in real time—but it stayed outside the moment.

Bucky looked down at your hand in his, then back at you.

“You’re kinda early,” he said.

You shrugged slightly. “Traffic was emotional.”

His smile softened properly now.

“Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”