#second chance

‘Shit.’

Rain poured viciously in Lower Manhattan; where people who were brought up with diamond spoons either reside, have blind dates arranged—to strengthen their family's already unmatched wealth—, or have a ridiculously expensive dinner after a massive decline in the stock market.

For the first time in his life, Harry Castillo stuck out like a sore thumb in the very area he called home. He walked down the busy streets, completely soaked to his nails. In situations like these, not even his imported fine-tailored suit could shield him from the weather.

His driver? Lord knows. Harry had told him to go home after deciding it would be a good evening to take a peaceful walk back to his house. Help clear his mind, he said.

A man like Harry Castillo never had to worry about the weather. Tonight was no different. So it slipped his mind to keep track of the weather forecast.

But now that every store he could reach with his feet had ran out of umbrellas, all he had left was his black blazer held up above his head—essentially doing nothing to keep him dry. Not that an umbrella could help with a wind like this.

Since the moment he stepped out of Le Veau d'Or—for a lavish dinner he didn't have the appetite for—, his right side has had to deal with the most damage, because none of the drivers had the courtesy to slow down for people like him, who had no other choice but to walk. As if that is not enough for one night, every taxi and Uber in his proximity was occupied, leaving him on the streets like a drowned rat.

It's a scene he never imagined himself to live through. He was always on the other side, sheltered inside his Mercedes-Maybach, not a drop of water staining his suit. To say now that he was humbled would be an understatement.

Harry was only two blocks away from his home in the very center of Tribeca when his steps came to a halt, realizing the state he's in. He couldn’t go home like this. People recognized him. And they will talk.

He could already picture the headlines in his mind—

Nope.

He couldn't let some rumors taint his family's reputation and risk the shares declining. And he certainly didn’t need his mother finding out about his walk from the media, and have her worry about him even more than she already had.

So with a twist of his ankles, Harry made a turn; and headed in the direction of a neighborhood he hadn’t stepped in in months.

Twenty four months, to be exact. Twenty four excruciatingly long months since he last saw you. The person who never left his mind, nor his heart. The very reason for this walk alone in the rainstorm.

Harry no longer rushed his steps. Whether he reached his destination or not, the rain will continue to shower him and attempt to freeze him to death. So he slowed down; and did what he had initially planned. To take a peaceful walk. Under a slightly different circumstance.

With every step, the poundings of his heart intensified, adding another layer of beats in his ears.

Finally, the familiar six-storey building loomed over him like a nightmare and a dream, stopping him in his track.

He stared long at the wooden door painted in dark green. The door that locked away memories of him and you. All the times you had him sit through movies from the 1930s, all the burnt dinners you blamed on him for being distracting, and all the cuddles that had him running late for work.

Harry sighed deeply and craned his neck to look up to the sky that was hiding the glow of the moon with thick fog. He finally lowered his blazer and held it by his side, letting the rain fall freely onto his head.

His eyes droop lower before completely shutting; and he riveted on the feel of raindrops plunging against his face like gentle pokes of fingers. At the same time, his ears focused on the inconsistent patters of rain hitting against his polished black oxford. His fingers then twitched slightly, feeling the wind redirecting the rain into another direction, blowing chilly air against his back.

In that moment, he had no complaints about the rain.

Or the choices he'd made for his life.

Or the time he had lef—

“—Fine! Since you’re so insistent on pushing me away, I’ll let you!”

Harry took a shallow breath through his slightly parted lips and shook his head to push away the memory. Those were the words that had been engraved on his mind; haunting him in his sleep and his wake for the past two years. Your last words to him before you walked out of his office—and out of his life…

It was for the better, he had assured himself then.

But that was two years ago...

The Harry now resented that version of himself.

The one that let you go.

No.

The one that made you go.

After what felt like an eternity, Harry finally took another agonizing step towards the door that stood there like it was mocking him for all that he had done. As if reminding him that he no longer belonged there. Something he'd come to acknowledge, but could never accept.

The crunch of his leather outsoles and heels against the pebbles was amplified by the wet earth, making him even more aware of the steps he's taking. He was actually back. In the same neighborhood he used to visit almost every single day for the three whole years that you were together. Before he ruined everything.

But Harry stopped himself before he could step on the first tread of steps.

Perhaps this was a bad idea.

Perhaps he should turn around and find a hotel instead.

Yeah.

This was messed up.

He should leave you alone—

“Harry?”

The man visibly flinched at the sound of his name leaving the mouth of the very person he had both longed and dreaded to see. Suddenly it felt like the world was closing in on him, like he was caught intruding.

His throat bobbed as he stood there frozen with his back against the owner of the house.

He dreamed of this moment every single night. When he would see you again.

But being here, now?

He was not ready.

To face you after a couple of years without any contact. To admit that he needed you—more than anything in his life.

But he couldn't run away and avoid this forever. He couldn't lose you the second time…

So Harry composed himself, barely, and slowly turned; stalling in his steps to prepare himself before his eyes would inevitably meet yours.

You were greeted with the silhouette of a man standing in the rain, blocking your way inside your apartment building. For a moment, you thought it might be Mr. Gutierrez; your Spanish neighbor who would only occupy the house above yours if he had business in New York.

But you crossed out the guess as fast as they appeared. Your neighbor had longer curls; and you knew that he wouldn't stall in this rain. He had complained to you times before—whenever you'd bump into each other inside the elevator—, saying he catches cold easily in the rain.

You clutched the handle of your umbrella tighter as your mind spiraled with guesses. Then, for a moment, a whiff of the man's cologne invaded your sense of smell. And just as immediately, your body reacted, goosebumps rising all over your skin—and not due to the cold.

No way.

"Harry?"

Surely this was a wicked prank from the universe and your exhausted body; testing your weak patience by poking at your unhealed wound.

But as the man turned around, you went still like the Statue of Liberty herself, breath completely sucked out of your lungs.

It's him.

It really fucking is him.

Harry Castillo.

Your ex-boyfriend.

Now standing in front of your house, soaked from head to toe.

You stood under your umbrella unmoving; eyes wide in shock as they trailed up to his face.

That insanely gorgeous face.

Harry flashed you a smile—and the little fire of rage in your chest died down a little. It was the same smile he had given you when you met for the first time at Central Park; when he patted your mother's dog—who decided that Harry was the lucky stranger to be attacked with his enthusiastic hug.

It was also those big brown eyes looking into yours that had you falling for him on your first meet.

Harry opened his mouth and uttered your name with his sweet, sultry voice,—smiling as if no time had passed. “Hey..”

His head was mostly facing the ground, and you were forced to see him looking at you through his wet lashes that accentuated his glistening eyes.

The sight did things to your heart the way it hadn't for the past two years; and you questioned if your heart ever changed the way it felt for him.

Despite his casual attitude, you could see past the smile to sense the nerves in his eyes. How they roamed over your face to take in the soft wrinkles that weren’t there the last time he saw you. How he swallowed his mouth dry as his mind ran miles a second to figure out his next words.

“I..” He stammered.

You took a step closer before he could continue, holding your umbrella above your heads. His gelled curls had fallen over his forehead, and the water droplets fell from the tips, wetting his cheeks.

Your eyes landed on his again; now red and brimming with tears that weren’t there before. His beautiful smile that you missed so dearly had faded too, lips pursed tightly like he's keeping them from quivering.

“What brought you here?” The question left your lips like a gentle whisper, so soft as if afraid you’d break him—like you did last time.

“I..” His breath trembled the moment he opened his mouth again to speak. Harry didn't have an explanation for the effect you were having on him. He thought he could face you without breaking down, given the months he'd had to recover from the pain your breakup had caused him.

He realized then, how completely wrong he was. At this point, pushing all the pressure down to his core was the only way he could keep himself together.

“I got stuck in the rain..” was all he managed to say.

“Shouldn't your driver be around to pick you up? Where is he?”

“Home..” He glanced down at his watch, the glass fully covered in steam. He could barely see the numbers anymore. “Probably asleep in his wife’s arms.” He added, voice gruff and filled with regret as his trembling eyes found yours again. Regret of what could have been.

Harry cleared his throat and tore his gaze away from yours. “I should go.” He said abruptly. Any hint of vulnerability was then replaced with a professional tone, and something twisted in your chest.

Panic surged through you when Harry actually stepped aside to leave; and before you could register your next action, your hand moved to grab his, holding it in a death grip.

Your eyes grew wide, surprised by your own reflex. Memories from that day flashed through your mind, and it sent electric sparks all over your skin. The bright sunny park. Your first handshake and his warm hand. The moment he told you his name and repeated yours...

But now, all you felt was his ice-cold fingertips, and the slight shiver of his body.

Your eyes trailed up to gauge his reaction. You expected him to pull away. To draw boundaries. To remind you of the fact that things will never go back to how it was.

Except he didn't.

Instead, you found his eyes widening, mirroring your silent shock.

And so you blurted it out.

The one word you and Harry wished either of you had said two years ago.

The word that could have fixed everything.

“Stay.”

There was a beat of silence. Where none of you seemed to breathe. You stared deep into his eyes to decipher his feelings; praying desperately that you haven't lost your chance. Haven't completely lost him.

You saw his resolve faltering in real time; the walls he'd built up crumbling at the sight of your pleading eyes—the sight of the woman he never had the heart to refuse.

“You shouldn’t…” His voice shook, begging you to let him go. To walk away without him. For the second time.

But you knew better now.

“I’m not asking, Harry Castillo.” Your voice grew firm, giving him no space to argue as you watch his eyes welling up with fresh tears.

"You'll freeze to death out here…" You reasoned, feeling desperate. At this point, you would say just about anything if it means he'd stay.

When he no longer resisted, you loosened your grip and gently tugged at his hand, leading him inside your house. The aroma of scented candle welcomed you the moment you crossed the threshold.

Harry stood next to you, and you felt his thick fingers carefully wrapping around yours. Something he used to do whenever he sought comfort. Your stomach tightened, the contact reminding you of how much you missed his touch and presence in your life.

The door closed behind you with a soft click, drowning out the sound of the heavy rain that gave no indication of stopping soon. Your free hand reached out to turn on the lights, revealing what was left of the space that the man beside you used to be a part of.

“…It’s still the same.” He muttered in disbelief.

“It is..” You swallowed the lump in your throat and quickly slid your feet inside a pair of slippers before handing him the other, leaving both your wet shoes on the rack. Harry didn’t let go of your hand the whole time—and it made it all the harder for you to keep yourself together.

You cleared your throat and focused your attention on Harry's current condition. “You should get cleaned up.” You said as you pointed to the bathroom. “You know where everything is.”

He nodded silently, fingers reluctantly slipping away from yours.

“I’ll get you something to wear.” You said, your hand feeling uncomfortably empty without his bigger one to embrace it.

He watched you for a moment as you left, feeling his chest closing in at the sight of you after all this time. He couldn't believe his luck, having you care for him again—and it made him feel like the biggest prick for ruining what you both had.

You pulled open the very left side of your wardrobe. The door hinge let out a long, high-pitched creak, a testament to how long it had been sitting there, building up rust.

You haven’t seen the content in months; and now, seeing them was like looking past the mask you had been putting on. The mask that concealed the broken pieces of your heart.

Your fingers traced over the neatly folded sweaters and pajamas; the bottle of cologne with the scent that Harry was loyal to; and his hair gel that had expired over a year ago. His dress shirts and blazer were still there—hanged and ironed—always ready for him whenever he stayed overnight.

You hadn’t removed anything. Nor did you change their positions. After the breakup, all you managed to do was ignore that part of your wardrobe as if you lost the key.

Harry never came over to pick them up—and you never dared find him to return them.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears the longer you reminisce on the past, so you quickly blinked them away and moved to grab anything Harry might need. A pair of sweatpants, a sweater, and a towel.

Outside your room, the sound of shower was the only thing filling the silence of your house. You placed his things inside the basket right outside the bathroom and left to allow him some privacy.

You didn't notice Harry entering the kitchen, too occupied with thoughts as you stirred the piping hot content inside the teapot; a porcelain teapot with delicate art nouveau floral motifs from Louis Vuitton which Harry got for you when you moved in to this house four years ago.

It was a gift you treasured. Harry's best friend for whenever he caught a cold and could no longer swallow plain water to save his life.

"What are you making?"

You almost jumped when he spoke, accidentally spilling some of the tea onto the tabletop. It had been a while since you had company at home. Not since Harry. So hearing voices—other than your own and the people inside the tv—spooked you more than you'd like to admit.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you." He said, rushing over to grab a kitchen towel from the bottom drawer. He surprised himself by remembering where you had stored it.

"No, it's fine." You thanked him and quickly cleaned up the mess.

An awkward silence fell over you. Harry noticed how you tensed up at the proximity, so he left to sit at the kitchen island instead, eyes still subtly watching your every move.

You, working in the kitchen, was a sight he hadn't had the privilege of witnessing in so long. But his memory never failed him.

Harry sat there quietly, remembering how you preferred your own space as you move about in the kitchen, wanting to experiment with new recipes without distractions; but he was always ready to help whenever you called—mostly with emotional-support shoulder massages and back hugs.

The memory of your kitchen rituals made him smile; but they faded when he was again reminded of the reality.

You were no longer his.

No longer the person who would feed him burnt steak and rock-hard cupcakes.

No longer the person who would force him to watch Gone With the Wind for the third time in a week.

Harry snapped out of his thoughts and cleared his throat the moment he saw you approaching. The warmth of his fingers brushing over your knuckles spread over your skin as he accepted the mug, thanking you with a soft, sweet smile that made your chest feel lighter.

"Still tastes the same." Harry said after taking a sip of the chamomile tea.

"You mean tasteless?"

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest at your playful jab.

He missed this.

Missed you.

“Yeah. Can’t possibly go wrong with chamomile.”

Standing across from him with your hips against the counter, your eyes drifted downwards to his plump lower lip that was resting just outside the rim of the mug. How they shift as his throat bobbed with the drink.

You caught yourself mid-thought and immediately dragged your eyes back onto his, finding them already on yours. He was quietly observing you with his lips pursed, already finishing his tea.

"You have questions." He stated with a hushed tone, knowing how your mind works better than anybody else.

"I do."

"You deserve answers." His attention was fully on you, preparing himself for the questions you might throw his way.

“What were you doing out so late?" You asked. "You didn’t drink, did you?”

Harry would have laughed at your question if you didn't look so concerned. “No. I only had some juice.” He assured, shaking his head in amusement.

He placed the mug in front of him and leaned his arms on the kitchen island so he could look up at you through his lashes.

“Zero alcohol.” He confirmed, flashing you with the smile that used to charm you.

Or perhaps still does.

You could no longer deny the flutter in your chest as you looked at him.

No. Get a grip.

This was your first meeting in two years. You couldn't possibly just let him sweep you off your feet in one night. Not after everything.

But the spike in your heartbeat and the surge of heat on your cheeks were only proving the latter.

“My turn." His eyes were on you with startling intensity; as though Castle Group's stock would crash the second he looked away. You pushed those thoughts away and listened. "Why were you home late? Out with a guy?” Your lips parted, but they closed again when no word came out. The question—and the assumption that you were out with a man—caught you off guard. Harry jerked his head when you didn't answer, a tight smirk tugging at his lips. It only deepened the attractive creases around his eyes, making your fingers twitch—itching to reach over and trace every wrinkle on his face. “I had work.” You said, crossing your arms over your chest in a defensive stance. You needed to set a boundary. You didn't appreciate how naturally the conversation slipped into old rhythms. How easily he could charm you. Harry let out an amused hum at your answer. "This late?" He tilted his head. "That’s not very healthy.” You almost scoffed at that. Funny. That used to be your line. You only shrugged. Harry was no longer entitled to detailed logs of your day. There was no need for explanations. You could tell that he was bothered by your answer that gave away nothing, but you kept your mouth shut. "Boyfriend?" He inquired, trying to lighten the mood. "No."

Harry’s ears perked up. "What do you mean no?" He frowned, as if the idea of you being single was outrageous. But you knew better than to be tricked by his fake concern. It's all over his eyes—that victorious glint. “I’m single.” You turned to refill his mug before he could say anything, mentally rolling your eyes. But being just as insufferable as your ex-lover, you added.

“For two years now.”

The man had to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop his smile from widening.

There was a beat of silence before you spoke again. “How’s your own work?”

Harry went silent. Your eyebrows shot up in confusion as his smile disappeared. "What happened?" You placed the tea pot down. “I resigned.” Your lips parted in surprise. “You what?” Him stepping down was the last thing you expected; given his work ethic was what drove you away in the first place.

“Just this afternoon.” He said quietly, chewing on his bottom lip as he observed your reaction.

“Then who’s handling it now?” You asked further, forcing yourself to keep your voice level.

“My brother. He’s taking over the company.”

Your face burned more and more with each word that left his lips. He said them so casually like he didn’t pour his sweat and tears into the company.

Like he didn’t neglect you for it. You didn't know whether to be mad or relieved. Mad that he was acting like his decision didn't matter; and relieved that he would finally be taking a break.

Harry took in your expression, aware how your mind was running miles per second at this information. Guilt started to eat him alive—how will you take it if you knew why?

He hoped you wouldn't ask.

Though, when did luck ever side with him? "But why now?"

You rested your elbows against the countertop, looking intently into his eyes. The Harry you knew would never make rash decisions.

"You've been working so hard. And you’re not even close to retiring—”

The air inside your house suddenly felt too thin.

No.

No.

It can't be.

"Harry…" You called with a careful tone, afraid of the answer you'll get. "Tell me it's not what I think it is."

But his silence, and the way he avoided your eyes, was louder than any confirmation.

"Harry. Say something." You urged, tears burning at the back of your eyes as your stomach tightened. You wanted to shake him, make him speak. "Say something!"

"I'm sorry." He finally uttered, voice cracking as he himself tried to push down his tears.

You clenched your fists so tight they turned a shade paler; holding yourself together as your world fell apart.

“How.. how long…?” Your vision blurred as tears rapidly welled-up.

Harry gently took your hand in his, unclenching your fist and interlacing his fingers with yours. The sight of you crying shattered his heart. It was exactly what he was afraid of.

He leaned his head down and pressed a kiss over your knuckles. “They estimate about.." His lips stayed there as he shut his eyes and took a long, deep breath.

"..about five months.”

Your knees buckled and gave out as the words hammered into your head.

Five months. His words echoed in your head.

Harry rushed over to your side, letting the stool fall behind him with a loud crash. He dropped onto the floor next to you and pulled you into his arms, wrapping them tightly around your form.

“Shh, baby. It’s okay. I’m okay.” He chanted with a hushed tone. Despite his effort to comfort you, you could feel his chest shaking at every breath that left with his words.

“Please, Harry. Please tell me you’re lying.” You pleaded as tears rapidly streamed down your face, almost choking on them as you spoke.

“I’m sorry, baby.” He whispered against your hair as a tear finally escaped and trailed down his cheek. "I wish I was lying…"

His hand gently but firmly held the back of your head, letting you bury your face into the crook of his neck. He pulled you even closer against his chest, feeling it constricting from forcing his tears down.

After building up your walls for so long, they all finally came crashing down at this moment.

You wrapped your arms around Harry's neck, pulling him closer if that was even possible.

Harry responded, his forearms flexing at the intensity of his hold. "I'm sorry, baby." He whispered, breath hitting your temple like a gentle caress.

There, in the middle of the kitchen, sat you and Harry, holding on to each other as you cried your heart out.

Harry pulled his head back to look down at you, the pad of his thumb gently wiping your tears away. “Stop crying, Honey, please. I can’t bear to see you cry.”

It was hypocritical of him to say that with his own tears still streaming down his face. You looked up and tried to make out Harry’s features despite your blurred vision, and your heart dropped again to your stomach.

He was just as scared as you. Maybe even more.

"Don't cry, baby." He pulled his lips into a tight smile as he gazed into your eyes with affection. The kind you never received from anyone else except him.

"Smile for me." His thumb brushed the corner of your lips, trying to coax you into smiling.

"How can you expect me to smile, Harry?" Your eyes burned again with tears, feeling your frustration bubbling up. Frustrated at the way he was playing this down. Frustrated at the illness that's trying to take him away from you.

Your mind brought back memories of that day. The day Harry was going to propose to you. The day he was supposed to be your fiancee.

Your phone rang inside your purse and you picked up to be greeted with Harry's voice, breath heavy. "Baby, I'm on my way. I'm so sorry to keep you waiting, but just wait a bit. I'll be there in three."

"Harry, are you running?" You asked, concern etched in your voice. Harry chuckled breathlessly.

"Wait for me, baby." He said before hanging up.

You could only sigh, sitting on a bench at Central Park. That same spot where you had met for the first time.

Your fingers nervously played with the hem of your yellow dress, excited about today's date. Mainly because of where you were; and because you wanted to show off the sundress that Harry loved so much.

Your eyes trailed over to your watch every few seconds with a soft smile, anticipating your boyfriend's arrival. He specifically got off work early today so he could spend more time with you, but you also understood how bad the traffic could be at this time of day.

"Honey!"

Your head whipped over to the direction of the voice, knowing all too well it was Harry's. You practically jumped to your feet, a wide smile gracing your face at the sight of Harry sprinting in your direction.

His smile was as wide as yours and he waved the bouquet in his hand, adorned with bright yellow and white flowers. You waved back with a soft chuckle, feeling your heart fluttering in your chest.

As Harry got closer, your feet started towards him, wanting to pull him into a kiss—already missing him way too much since he left for work this morning.

Until his eyes went wide and his hand flew over to clutch his chest with an audible gasp.

"Harry?" You froze, eyes wide in terror.

Harry dropped to his knees, looking up at you through those red eyes that would forever haunt you after that day.

"HARRY!" But his body fell onto the hard ground before you could take another step.

Everything went by in a daze after. Harry was rushed to the ICU, and you had to break the news to his family.

You had no time to rest and process everything that had just happened. Not until you sat on the chair outside his ICU ward with only his blazer to hold on to.

That's when you felt it. Your heart shattering into a million pieces.

Tears streamed down your face like a broken dam as you recalled the past two hours. Harry passing out right in front of you; The panic inside the ambulance; Watching the doctors bring him back with defibrillators while you could only stand helplessly at the other side of the glass.

You didn't dare name it, but you knew what had happened. You had seen it in movies; yet you never thought it would happen to the person you loved most.

You could have lost Harry. Forever.

You glanced at the door of Harry's ward. You were not allowed in; and that scared you more than anything.

You stared down at Harry's blazer again, bringing it close to your chest as the doctor's words rang in your ears. "Mr. Castillo is diagnosed with a coronary microvascular disease. His heart wasn't able to pump enough blood while running, which led to the cardiac arrest."

You would have given anything to go back and tell him to stop running. To let you wait a little longer at the park. As long as he was safe.

You felt something hard bulging from the pocket of his blazer. Something like a cube. Curious, you took it out to find a small, blue velvet box. The air got stuck in your throat, and you felt more tears prickling at the corner of your eyes.

Carefully opening the box, you saw a beautiful diamond ring. The same one you had been admiring when you passed by Harry Winston a few months prior.

The memory once again flashed through your mind. Harry being so excited that he couldn't wait a few minutes inside his car and chose to run to you.

You snapped the box close, jaw clenching hard that your teeth almost hurt.

"You shouldn't have ran, Harry…"

Harry hadn't been the same.

After waking up from the coma a few days later and learning about his condition, you could feel a shift in your relationship.

He would stare out into space more often until he would unconsciously block out your voice and ignore you.

You refused to coddle the negative thoughts early on, knowing he was recovering. Harry needed you now more than ever; so you took care of him to the best of your abilities, always insisting to stay by his side and look after him—even when his mother would advise you to get some rest.

However, your gut feelings only heightened after Harry got discharged from the hospital. He was now a different man in your eyes; always occupied with work.

It became harder to see him. Day by day, you got more and more worried about his well-being, and he did nothing to assure you otherwise. Your days were filled wondering if he was working too hard, if he was getting enough rest.

At one point, you realized that he was distancing himself from you. Deliberately.

Harry used to come home right on time, and he would skip office events as much as he could just so he could spend those time with you.

Now that man is no more.

He no longer wished you a good morning or ask how you were doing. Every reply to your texts were short and dry as if you were his employee—not the woman he once chose to marry.

You tried. You really did. To call him, send him food, get him gifts to cheer him up, and plan a dinner date. None worked. You couldn't even visit him at his house anymore—because he was rarely ever there; always in the office or on a flight somewhere for a business.

You felt neglected by your own boyfriend; both physically and emotionally. And after months of tolerating his behavior, you could no longer take it.

So one day, after receiving yet another text from Harry saying he'd finish work late, you grabbed your car key and drove straight to Castle Group.

And you let him win.

“I know what you’re doing, Harry.” You said the moment you stepped inside his office, eyes burning through his skull.

You didn't even wait for his secretary to announce your arrival. The last thread of your patience had vanished a while ago whilst on your way to this luxurious office tower.

“Honey—” Harry sat frozen behind his mahogany desk as you stormed inside.

“Don’t." You cut him off, holding a finger up. "I’m not stupid."

Harry stilled. He'd never seen you this angry.

"You’re trying to drive me away."

"Congratulations." You shot him a tight smile, which only made the man sitting in his exorbitant leather chair feel smaller. "It’s working.”

Hurt flashed through his eyes; and you caught the half-a-second display of vulnerability before he composed himself.

“Baby, please.” Harry stood up abruptly, the rollers sending his chair backwards until it gently hit the ceiling-to-floor glass window that overlooked the city.

“Hear me out.” He carefully stepped closer to you, arms extended with palms facing up—as if you were a wild animal in need of taming.

“No!" You shouted, tears burning in your eyes. By now, you couldn't care less if the whole executive floor could hear you. "I worry for you day and night, but you won’t give me a chance to take care of you!”

“Because I’m scared!”

Harry's shouting that rivaled yours instantly shut you up. He took another step closer, towering over you.

“I can’t..” His voice broke, eyes turning soft and misty.

“I don’t know how to deal with this.. this illness." He gently took your hand in his.

For the first time in weeks, you finally had his full attention. And it sucked that you'd had to compete with his work.

He took a deep breath and continued, "I can’t do this, baby... You deserve someone who can love you fully."

Your heart sank. You didn't like where this was going.

"I love you so much…" He said softly, swallowing the tears that were building up.

"But—" His breath shook.

"But you don’t deserve this weak heart that will soon never beat for you again.” He roughly pounded his fist against his chest, eyes bloodshot from holding back his tears. It was as if he was angry at his feeble heart that won't let him be around until you're old and gray.

Your resolve almost faltered, until they hardened again just as fast. You had made up your mind, after all those nights of being refused a fraction of his time and affection.

“Well you’re a coward.” You spat. Harry's grip on your hand loosened in an instant and his crestfallen face reflected the shattering of his heart.

You knew that you were turning into a villain in your own love story—but it was time you choose yourself over a man who didn't want you by his side at his lowest.

"I just don't want to hurt you by leaving you behind once I die!"

There it was again. A reminder that his time was coming.

“Well now you’re doing it twice. So fine! Since you’re so insistent on pushing me away, I’ll let you be alone when you take your last breath!”

Your stormed out of his office without looking back, ignoring the spectators outside and heading straight towards the elevator that soon took you to your car.

Hot tears streamed down your face the moment you closed the door, fingers clasping over the steering wheel tightly like an anchor.

You knew in your heart that you loved Harry despite everything; but the anger and resentment were still there, bright, and far from dying down.

Harry backed up slowly as he watched you leave, stumbling over nothing before holding the edge of his desk.

Once you were completely out of his sight, his legs gave out and he slid down against the side of his desk—the sturdy wooden body supporting his back as he sat on the cold marble floor, knees close to his chest.

He bit his quivering lips, throat constricting as he stared at the shiny marble floor that reflected the sunlight directly into his eyes.

The more he replayed the moment you left in his head, the harder his body shook, forcing out his tears that had been pushed down too hard, that now the immense pressure was starting to backfire. When the dam finally broke, Harry buried his face in between his knees, letting out the wails that kept him from hyperventilating.

His chest hurt, but none of that mattered when he lost the one thing that kept his heart beating.

Your words rang in his ears over and over again, "I’ll let you be alone when you take your last breath!" His throat burned, and he tried—really tried—to hold back the next sobs, but to no avail.

Harry never imagined he would cry over a woman. Over love. The one thing he swore makes him feel pathetic.

But now here he was; crying over you on the floor of his office like a pitiful child—and he couldn’t blame anyone, but himself.

"Since you left.. I've only been waiting for my time to come." Harry spoke, his voice gruff. "I threw myself into work; even worse than before you left. I thought that would distract me.."

You pulled back slightly to meet his gaze and Harry gently wiped the rest of your tears away. "But the more I did that, the more I hated myself."

His hands slid down your arms to hold your hands in his. "I hated myself for pushing you away. For thinking that this was my fight alone." He sniffed. "It took me way too long to realize that all you wanted from me was to let you stay; and I took that away from you."

"Stupid me for thinking I was doing the right thing, when the whole time I was actually being a selfish asshole." You squeezed his hand gently as a silent comfort. "I hurt you, baby. I hurt you so badly; and at the same time, I hurt myself even more. And my mother."

Harry quickly wiped away a stray tear that escaped his eyes. "I hurt the two most precious women in my life. She had wanted nothing for me but happiness, but I threw my happiness away the moment I stopped fighting for us."

"I don't deserve your forgiveness. I know I don't." He shook his head, observing the change in your expressions with desperation. "But please, baby. Give me a chance to make this right. The last chance. It's all I need."

"If—if I die tomorrow, I want your face be the last thing I see. I don't—I don't want to be alone when that time comes…" His shoulders shook as he pleaded.

You tugged at his hand, and Harry didn't wait to wrap his arms around you again, clinging onto your smaller form like a lifeline.

You stroked his back with the flat of your palm. "I won't forgive you for thinking you should face it alone."

Harry's heart sank, but he slowly nodded. "I don't deserve it—"

"But I also won't forgive myself for letting you push me away." You cut him off. "I lost when I walked out."

Harry pulled away to gaze intently into your eyes. "No." He firmly said, shaking his head. "You did nothing wrong, baby. You don't ever let me treat you like that again."

When he saw the stubbornness in your eyes, he swiftly took your face in his hands. "Don't think for one second that you're responsible for what happened between us." He said with a low, warning tone. "I deserved it. All of it. Hell I deserve even more for how much I hurt you."

"But now I'm gonna make it right." He promised, loosening his hold on your face as he bit his lower lip in hesitation. "If you'll let me."

"I know five months are not be enough to make up for the two years.. but with the time that I have, I'll love you with every bit of me."

"Harry…"

He shook his head to stop you. "I told you I resigned. So from now on, whenever you need me, I'll be home. Every second left to my life, I will devote them to you."

"No, Harry. There has to be a way. There has to be. You can't." You cried, gripping his wrists tightly as he held you face in his palms. "Five months is too soon…"

Harry scooped you up and pulled you against him, cradling your body against his chest before burying his face into your hair. "I wish there is a way, baby. I would do anything just to stay with you longer. Anything.." His words trailed as he let out a shaky sigh and shut his eyes tight.

When you both pulled away again, Harry leaned his forehead against yours, letting your breaths mingle. "Will you.." His fingers ran through your hair to soothe you. "allow me into your life again?"

There was a pause before you replied, "Only if.."

Harry looked at you with a newfound determination. Whatever condition you'll set, he'd fulfill them all if it meant getting you back.

"If you give me that ring this time."

Harry let out a surprise breath before a smile appeared on his tear-stained face.

"I have it." He quickly said. "Inside my blazer pocket. I can go on my knee right now if you want me to, honey."

A soft chuckle escaped your lips before you leaned in, capturing his in a gentle kiss. Harry froze for a heartbeat, then his hand slid up to cradle your jaw, drawing you closer as he deepened the kiss. The faint taste of tears lingered between you—a bittersweet reminder of everything you'd endured apart, and of the love neither of you would ever regret choosing a second time.

You pulled away just enough to meet his eyes, your lips leaving his with a soft brush. "Not right now. We're a mess."

Harry chuckled and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. "We are."

"Are you sure you don't want to sleep at your house? I can send you back. It's more comfortable there."

Your were both lying on your bed after the emotional downpour. Harry held you against his chest, and you pressed your ear against him where his heart was consistently beating.

"No." Harry shook his head, nuzzling his nose against your hair as he breathed in the scent that was uniquely you. "I want to be here with you."

You pulled your head back slightly to look up at him, meeting his eyes. "And for the record," He spoke in a hushed tone. "I sleep better in your bed..." He leaned down to press a kiss against your forehead. "Always have.."

You laid there in comfortable silence, indulging in the comfort of being in each other's arms. "Baby?" You hummed as he called you softly.

"I'm sorry. I really, really am. I can't imagine how much you've been hurting because of me." Your gaze softened. You were hurt, yes, but you couldn't imagine how much harder it was for him.

"Did you ever stop loving me?" At your quiet, hesitant question, Harry immediately shook his head.

"Never. Not for one second. And I regret not coming to you sooner."

"For the past two years.. when I close my eyes, all I see is you." He gulped, eyes gleaming with fresh tears. "When I open my eyes, all I wish to see is you. Even when you're not around, I felt you everywhere. All the time."

"Harry.." You felt your own tears welling up at his admission. "I was angry, and I resented you for how you pushed me away. But more than that, I regret the way I ended things between us."

"Because even then, I loved you." Harry's breath trembled as he listened. "I still do."

"And time may be limited for us, but I'd rather have you now than never." You said, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. "So please.. don't push me away again."

Your eyes fluttered close when he leaned down to kiss your eyelid, inhaling shakily. "I've lost you once, baby. I'm not losing you again. Not in this life—and not the next." He swore, running his fingers through your hair.

You couldn't form any word. The immense love you had for this man was unlike anything you ever felt for anyone.

"I love you, Baby. I'll love you till I die, and even after that…"

You arrived home from work and immediately spotted a huge bouquet leaning against the door of your apartment. The sight made you smile wide, and all the exhaustion from the day completely disappeared along with your frown.

It was from Harry.

You picked it up and admired the flowers he had picked for you this time; pink roses and white mums. A mix of yours and Harry's favorites.

There was a printed note on the small card that was neatly tied around the wrapper.

Happy One Year Anniversary, My Honey. I Love You.

"Harry? What are you doing?" You asked the moment you stepped inside your house to find your husband hunched over the kitchen island, typing on his laptop.

He almost jumped at your voice, having been too focused on his task. The moment he saw you, he shut his laptop close with a sharp slap as if he was secretly going over your bank statements.

"Uhh nothing." He sat up straight and stilled like a deer caught in the headlights, carving a smirk on your face.

"Nothing?" You waltzed over to him, making him chuckle nervously. "I thought you don't have any work." You raised your eyebrows, seeing right through him.

Harry tried to divert your attention and pulled you by your hips, letting you stand in between his parted legs as he looked up at you. "It's not work." He assured, being painfully shy with his tone and smile.

You couldn't help but cup his cheeks, stroking his beard and dimples with your thumbs. "Then what were you up to, hm?"

"Surprise?" He said, for some reason making his eyes rounder.

"Come on. Not even a hint?" You pouted, attempting to coax him into giving in.

"Nope."

"What if I give you a kiss?" You negotiated. A deal that never gets rejected.

Harry grinned childishly. "Then I guess I'll consider it."

You crossed the threshold of your room and sat on the edge of your bed, holding the bouquet close to you.

Ever since the day he resigned from his job, Harry had kept himself occupied with planning gifts for you as you leave the house for work. The one you're currently staring at was one of them.

It's the twelfth card, twelfth bouquet; a reminder of the twelve months since you let Harry put a ring on your finger.

Today was a special day, hence the bigger present. A teddy bear sat in the center, surrounded by the beautiful arrangement of flowers. Your finger traced its soft fur before halting at a little note hanging around its neck.

Keep him on my side of the bed. He'll sleep better there ♡

It was seven months ago when Harry's condition deteriorated. On his last checkup, the doctor had shook his head and said the two words that still haunted you until today, "anytime now".

You had tried to prepare yourself for the inevitable, but no one could ever truly prepare for something like death. What you weren't ready for was for the time to arrive one ordinary morning—while you were making breakfast for him.

Harry wanted to sleep a little longer like the previous mornings, needing more rest than usual due to his current physical condition. His pale complexion was no longer your biggest worry. He rarely ever stepped out of the house anymore except for some sun exposure in the mornings.

"Baby, wake me up for breakfast?" He said weakly, looking up at you with those tired eyes that made your stomach clench every time.

You smiled softly—masking the sadness in your heart—and nodded as you wiped away the beads of sweat on his forehead with a small towel.

"I will. Rest up, darling. I'll make your favorite."

You kissed his forehead before getting up.

Unaware it'll be the last.

Harry's grip on your arm loosened as you pulled away, watching you from the corner of his eyes as you left for the kitchen.

"I love you." He whispered under his breath when the door clicked shut behind you.

You held the bear against your chest, your body trembling as you soaked its fur with your tears—remembering your husband's last smile, last request, last touch.

Harry didn't know love before you; but once he did, it was his heart that couldn't bear the strength of his love.

Thank you so much for reading! Your comments and reblogs would be greatly appreciated. I would love to know your thoughts!! <3

This man ignored your messages, disappeared through your entire pregnancy, and missed his daughter’s birth. And now, after two years, he had the audacity to walk in and say “it’s been a while?”

Your glare was sharp, piercing, and cold. You were hoping that your overall demeanor and vibe was enough to have him walking out the door already—but with Winnie making excited bubbling noises on your hip, you knew it was a lost cause. 

“It’s been a while?” you repeated, scoffing. “Is that really all you have to say to me, Bucky?” 

His shoulders tensed, and his frown lines deepened. His blue eyes flickered from you to the toddler in your arms, then back at you again.

“You… you have a baby,” he pointed out quietly. 

You narrowed your brows. “I do.” 

He stared at you for a moment, swallowing hard before speaking again. “Is she—” 

Before he could get the words out, Winnie started babbling on your hip again. She clutched your shirt with her tiny hand—twisting and pulling, a telltale signal that she was hungry. You adjusted her with both arms, pouting playfully down at her.

“I tried feeding you earlier, but you slapped the bottle away,” you teased in a sing-song baby voice. “That wasn’t very nice, was it?”

She whined and tugged on your shirt harder. 

“Alright, alright,” you said, reaching for the bottle on the couch. “But this time you have to drink it, not slap it out of Mommy’s hands. Deal?”

Her blue eyes lit up at the sight of the bottle. Tiny fingers reached, just out of grasp, until you brought it closer. She opened wide, latching on eagerly.

“There we go, Winnie.” 

You rocked her gently as she drank, her pudgy cheeks working against the bottle while her wide eyes blinked up at you. Your heart melted instantly, as it always did.

It was always so easy to get lost in her bright blue eyes and tiny little face. You smiled, your attention solely focused on your daughter now, not even realizing how all the color drained from Bucky’s face. He stood frozen, stiff as a board, watching like he couldn’t breathe.

“Her name is Winnie?” 

His voice cracked quietly when the words came out—his voice laced with disbelief and something that sounded like hurt, almost. You lifted your head to meet his eyes, pursing your lips together, not quite sure how to explain that you named your daughter after the mother of her not-so-present father. 

When you didn’t answer right away, he took a hesitant step closer. 

“You named her after my mother?” 

You couldn’t bear to look Bucky in the eye, so instead, your eyes drifted down to your daughter’s face. Truthfully, you didn’t know why the name of Bucky’s mother stuck with you. Maybe it was the way that he held you in his arms when you slept together for the first time. Maybe it was the way his rough hands turned gentle as he caressed your back softly. Maybe it was the way he told you stories about his family, about his mother, about everything she sacrificed for him before she passed.

But that was before. 

Back when you thought Bucky meant something to you.

He takes another step forward, putting a firm hand on your shoulder in hopes to get your attention back on him. 

“Please,” he pleaded softly. “Just tell me. Is the baby mine?” 

You felt your throat tightened. 

“You’re… you’re asking me if the baby is yours?” your voice trembled slightly as your eyes started to burn. “I sent you texts when the test came back positive. I called. I tried, Bucky. I tried reaching out—”

Your voice cracked on the last part, and you let out a shaky breath in a pathetic attempt to steady yourself.

“I just thought you didn’t want to be a part of this. So I gave up. And now you’re here, in fucking… Louisiana of all places—wanting to babysit because Sarah dragged you into it? This has to be some kind of sick joke.”

Bucky felt like the air had been stolen from his lungs. He looked like he wanted to say a hundred different words, but couldn’t find where to even start.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he explained, voice low. “Sam just told me someone needed help. I… I didn’t think you’d be here either.” His gaze searched for yours as he treaded carefully. “But now that you’re here, I want to help you. I want to be there for both of you in any way that I can.” 

You stood straighter, blinking back tears, your expression hardening even as your voice shook.

“Then why didn’t you text me back, Bucky?” 

“I never got a text from you,” he frowned. “I had that flimsy little flip phone before it broke. I got a new one and switched numbers. I thought you didn’t want to hear from me.”

You stared into his eyes as he spoke solemnly. You didn’t trust yourself to speak anymore. 

“We… we both agreed it was a one-time thing. Remember?” he reminded you.

The hardest part was that you wanted to believe him. You’ve spent the last lonely year imagining what it would be like if Bucky ever showed up on your doorstep again. In your mind, you always saw yourself slamming the door in his face, nose turned up, walking away without a second thought.

But with Winnie perched on your hip, her wide, adoring eyes locked on the man she instinctively knew was her father, you realized it wasn’t going to be that simple.

Even if he wasn’t telling the truth, would it really be fair—or anything but selfish—to take that chance away from her? 

To deny her the father she deserved, without ever letting her decide for herself?

You watched as Bucky looked down at Winnie, and a small and sad smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He made a small little wave of his fingers in an attempt to entertain her. It was awkward and stiff. Unusual for someone like him—yet Winnie’s face lit up instantly, laughing around the bottle clutched in her hands, delighted by the smallest gesture.

As much as it hurt to admit it, you already knew the answer.

He was her father. 

And she had every right to know him.

But that didn’t mean you were going to open your heart to him again. 

“Okay, here’s the plan,” you shifted Winnie into her playpen nestled in the middle of the living room and crossed your arms. “As much as I don’t want to see you right now, I do need the help. And between shifts and errands, I’m stretched thin. You’d be doing more than just visits.” 

His brows lifted in surprise. He parts his lips like he wants to say something, but you breeze right through. 

“My nursing job is demanding, and my schedule changes constantly. I work a lot of overtime, so I might need you at odd hours. I’m not sure how you want to keep in touch—if email works, I can forward you my weekly schedule. And as for payment—”

“I don’t want money,” he cut in firmly. “I’m not clocking in to be her dad. I just want to be here for you both. I want to help however I can. If you’ll let me.”

Your arms tightened over your chest, your defensive walls coming up. “That’s not how this works. I’m not asking for favors, Bucky. If you’re in my house, watching my kid, you’re working. And I pay people who work for me.”

His jaw clenched, and you couldn’t tell if it was from guilt, regret—maybe even annoyance. “You really think I’d take money to spend time with my own daughter?” 

You let out a snort, voice teasing. “Look at you, trying to play Father of the Year. You know, Sarah told me that the guy she found for me didn’t have a criminal record.” 

He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Well…”

“She also said you were a flirt.”

Bucky’s face flushed pink, his eyes darting anywhere but at you. “I was only messing around to piss Sam off.”

“Oh, of course,” you drawed out. “Just wait until Winnie finds out her father is a player.”

You waited for him to shoot back, maybe roll his eyes, maybe give you that cocky grin you remembered so well. But he didn’t. He just stood there, quiet.

“You really know how to kick a guy when he’s down, don’t you?” he muttered in defeat. 

For a second, guilt twisted in your stomach. Maybe you’d gone too far—but damn it, he deserved at least a little sting for ghosting you when you needed him most. Before you could come up with another jab, Winnie’s squeals cut through, her little hands waving in the air from her playpen, demanding attention.

Bucky’s eyes dropped to her immediately, and just like that, his whole face softened. He moved a step closer without thinking—then stopped short, like he remembered himself. He looked up at you, hesitant.

“Can I… try to hold her?”

You felt a lump forming in your throat. You’ve always been protective of Winnie. It had taken months before you let Sarah—or even your own family—hold her. Handing her over to Bucky felt like cracking your walls wide open and giving him your entire heart. 

But if you were really going to trust him to watch Winnie, you’d have to swallow that fear down and let him.

You took a step closer to the playpen.  “Do you even know how?”

His brows lifted slightly in surprise, his eyes glinting with hope over the fact that you’re even considering it. Most people would’ve been offended over such a simple question, but even though it’s been a year, you know how Bucky is. 

“Can you show me?” he asked softly.

Your chest tightened. He looked so unsure, so vulnerable. It was the same look that had undone you years ago, the one you’d fallen for when you were wrapped up in his arms that one night you swore you’d never think about again.

You cleared your throat, bending down into the playpen to scoop Winnie into your arms. She squealed happily, pudgy legs kicking against your side.

“Okay,” you said carefully, shifting her weight, “first things first, you need to support her head and back. She’s cute on the outside, but a total wiggle worm—so don’t let her fool you.” 

Bucky nodded sternly, his brows furrowed in concentration. His big hands hover awkwardly in the air as you positioned her towards him. He looked terrified, and for some reason, the sight tugged at your chest. 

“Here,” you guided, placing Winnie gently into his arms. “One hand here, the other—yeah, like that. Don’t drop her—” 

“I would never drop her,” he reassured you quickly, yet his voice was tight and strained, his entire body stiff and completely unsure of himself. 

Winnie wiggles around in his arms for a moment, but Bucky begins rocking her gently and speaks in a soft and soothing voice.

“Wow,” he breathes, a wide smile breaking across his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling handsomely. “You’re such a pretty little thing—just like your mama.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks immediately, your heart thumping wildly in your chest. You want to look away, but you can’t—not when the sight of him cradling your daughter feels so disarming. Bucky’s voice was always so gruff, and it was so unexpected to hear him speak so soft and tender. 

He tilted Winnie upwards as he began cooing praises like, “pretty little baby,” and "what a precious girl you are.”

Winnie tugged at his shirt, her bright smile widening as her curious blue eyes drank him in. She kicks her feet with delight, so eager and happy that drool drips down her chin. Bucky hesitates, uncertain whether to wipe it or let it go, and you can’t help but laugh.

His head tilts at the sound of your voice, his eyes finding yours. 

A small smile spreads slowly across his face, and you two just stare at each other for a moment. The pause between you stretches, and it seems like there’s something he wants to say, but he can’t find the words. 

Instead, Bucky clears his throat and adjusts Winnie in his arms. 

“Thanks for letting me do this,” he says quietly. 

“It’s just a babysitting gig, Bucky.” 

“It’s not like that,” he frowns. “Not to me, and not to you. We both know that.” 

You cleared your throat and pulled your phone out of the back of your pocket—eager to change the subject. 

“I’m going to need to keep in touch with you for schedule updates,” you say, keeping your gaze fixed on the screen just to avoid his.

Bucky sets Winnie gently back in the playpen. She lets out a soft, agitated whine, but he soothes her with a pat before pulling his own phone from his pocket. It’s definitely not the beat-up flip phone you remembered.

“Alright,” he says, holding it up, squinting as he taps at the screen with one finger. “I’ll give you my number… if I can figure out how.”

You watched as he mumbled to himself, inaudible grumpy words under his breath as he tapped aimlessly at the screen, completely lost.

“Is this it?” he muttered. 

A pause. 

“Shit. No it isn’t.”

You glanced down at Winnie, who was staring up at him with heart eyes, then back at Bucky. A tired sigh escapes your lips. 

How were you supposed to trust this man to watch your daughter when he couldn’t even work a phone?

“Here, let me see,” you held out your hand. 

He handed his phone without protest, and you took one glance at it. He only had the default starting apps and the stock wallpaper. You’re pretty certain that he doesn’t even have a passcode on this thing. 

“Does email work for you?” you asked. 

“We should exchange numbers,” he said instead. “It’s more convenient.” 

A scoff slipped out before you could stop it. “Funny, coming from you.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he folded his arms across his chest. “I know I screwed up—badly. But I’m here now.”

You paused, lifting your head slowly. Your gaze locked on his, sharp and cold. “Of course you are.” 

Before he could say anything else, you quickly added your number to his contact list before handing him his phone back. 

“I’ll text you my schedule, her feeding times, and what kind of shows she likes to watch. Overstimulating videos with all the bright colors and crap overwhelm her, so try to stray away from those,” you continued, words tumbling out faster than you intended. “She naps best if you play white noise, but there are times where she gets agitated with the noise, so good luck with that. Oh, and even though I have a lot of pacifiers in the cabinets, she’ll only suck on one kind—she hates the rest, just spits it right back out—”

As your eyes meet his again, you realize that Bucky isn’t writing anything down. He isn’t even pretending to. He’s just… staring. 

His arms were dangling loosely at his sides, head titled slightly, and his expression completely unreadable—but his blue eyes are locked on you like he’s got a million things running through his mind, yet no words come out. 

Your words falter, trailing into silence. “What?” you snap, heat rushing to your face.

He blinks, like he’s been caught in a daze, and clears his throat. “Nothin’.”

“Bucky,” you frowned. “I really need you to pay attention here. I need to be confident leaving my daughter with you.”

“I am paying attention,” he clarified. “And ‘our’ daughter, you mean.”

You rolled your eyes, heat flushing your cheeks. “Whatever.”

Bucky stared at the schedule you texted him, spending too damn long adding your schedule to his calendar. After far too many YouTube videos—that he could barely understand either—and frustrated phone calls with Sam, he finally managed to get it right.

The next morning, he showed up at your place early—maybe even too early, considering you were still half-dressed for your shift. But the earlier he arrived, the more time he got with his daughter. 

He was trying to make up for all the time lost.

Once you left for work, Bucky rummaged through the pile of baby supplies you had left out for him. One thing in particular caught his eye. It was a bundle of soft, stretchy fabric. You mentioned it in passing, calling it a “baby sling.” You even demonstrated how it worked before laughing and telling him he’d never actually use it—especially since he looked ridiculous with it on.

But your tiny house was a mess, and Bucky wanted to clean, all while still holding Winnie close. 

So he frowned at the sling, holding her easily against his vibranium arm while awkwardly shuffling the fabric with his other hand.

Winnie babbled and pointed at it, as if she was trying to teach him herself.

He glanced at Winnie, frown deepening. “How the hell did your mommy do this?”

Winnie just kicked her little legs, squealing happily.

He sighed. “Okay, I’m just… gonna put you down on the counter—actually, no. I’ll… I’ll just put you down on the floor…” he bent down and gently set Winnie down on the tile floor. 

She blinked up at him, confused. 

“Sorry, sweetheart. Just give me a second to figure this out, then Daddy’s got you,” he promised, turning his focus back to the fabric contraption.

After several grumpy mumbles, a failed attempt at wearing it like a scarf, and another round of shitty YouTube tutorials, he finally got it right.

“Okay,” he huffed in relief, triumphant. He glanced down at the floor—only to find it empty. Winnie had crawled out of sight.

“Winnie?” He called out, panic rising in his chest as he rounded the kitchen counter. “Winnie, baby, where are you?”

He spotted her by the fridge, thumb in her mouth, giggling at the sight of him. Winnie was probably just like her mom, thinking he looked ridiculous with it too. Regardless, relief crashed over him as he scooped her up, tucking her securely into the sling.

“Gotcha,” he murmured, pressing his chin lightly to the top of her head.

With Winnie nestled snug against his chest, Bucky finally turned to the chaos of the kitchen and living room. It wasn’t exactly dirty, but it was definitely overwhelming. He rolled up his sleeves. If he was going to do this dad thing right, then cleaning up was just part of the journey.

The sling was snug, Winnie’s soft breaths puffing against his chest as he moved around the living room. 

One arm balanced her lightly while the other reached for clutter—folding blankets, stacking stray toys, clearing dishes off the coffee table.

It felt… ordinary, yet strange at the same time. And he didn’t quite know what to do with that feeling.

Bucky glanced down at her tiny hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt. She looked so content, like she trusted him without question.

He cared about her—of course he did. She was his daughter. But the truth felt guilty in his chest. He didn’t feel the instant connection he thought he was supposed to—that most parents would when they see their child for the first time. Not like Sam. Sam told him he lit up the second he saw his nephews. 

That easy love, that natural joy—it just flowed out so… quickly out of him. 

But as bad as it was, Bucky didn’t feel that way.  

He wanted to protect Winnie. He cared for her. He wanted to do right by her. He even… cared for her mother, though he wasn’t sure what to call that feeling either. The feeling was undeniably there, but it was messy. Just like this house.

Did he love her? He couldn’t say. He didn’t even know what it was supposed to feel like. 

As he scrubbed at the counter, his thoughts started to drift. 

The idea of getting back with you seemed nearly impossible. It was clear that you despised him—and he couldn’t even blame you for it. 

Besides, maybe you had already moved on. You were a pretty girl, after all. Smart. Hardworking clearly. A steady job. The kind of woman who deserved better than someone like him. A deadbeat father who abandoned his family. 

But still, a small and selfish part of him recoiled at the thought. The idea of someone else stepping into that role, of being your partner, of taking care of his daughter… 

It made his stomach twist in ways he wasn’t fond of. 

But as he moved through the apartment, gathering toys and stacking bottles, he started to notice things. Or rather, the absence of them. No men’s clothes draped over a chair. No extra toothbrush by the sink. No photographs on the wall showing you with someone else.

It was just you. 

Just you and Winnie.

Maybe the reality was that there was no space for anyone else in your heart. But he could still be here for you both—he could still try. 

If nothing else, he could be your friend again… at least enough to make this co-parenting thing work. For Winnie’s sake, he could try. She deserved that much. 

The broom swished across the wooden floors of the living room, the rays of the sunset peeking through the windows. Winnie was still snug against his chest in the sling, her tiny breaths warming his shirt as she dozed off. 

He looked down at her, gaze softening at the sight of his little girl. 

But then, movement outside the window caught his eye.

Your figure came into view, climbing out of a beat-up truck. The man behind the wheel followed—big, broad, with a thick beard and a roughness that set Bucky on the edge. He looked dirty and dangerous. 

Not the kind of man you should be anywhere near. 

You clutched a small white cat to your chest, your shoulders tense and your expression strained. The man smiled, like he was attempting to reassure you as he laid a heavy and dirty hand on your shoulder. 

But you weren’t smiling. You were frowning, discomfort and anxiety clear in every line of your face. 

Bucky’s jaw clenched. Maybe he was just a friend. Someone at work giving you a ride. After all, you did leave your car at home in case he needed it…

But you worked at a clinic. And this man? He didn’t look like someone who worked at a clinic. If anything, he looked like the type to put people in one.

Bucky forced himself to keep sweeping, though his eyes kept flicking up to the window. He told himself he was just making sure you were safe—for Winnie’s sake. For yours. That’s all it was.

Then the man leaned closer, and you shifted uncomfortably. That was enough.

Anger flared hot in his chest. Before he could think better of it, Bucky’s grip on the broom tightened and he stormed for the door, Winnie still strapped snugly to his chest.

The door swung open with a loud thud, his boots heavy against the porch’s floorboards as he pointed the broom at the burly man. 

You both turned, blinking in surprise at the sight of him. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Bucky growled.

Peter doesn’t have time to second-guess himself because you’ve swung open the door and look pissed.

You don’t say anything but that’s fine. Peter is so well-versed in the language of eyes that he knows you don’t not want him here, but you also don’t want to see his face at the moment.

His soft eyes plead with your vexed ones, trying to do what he should’ve done all those months ago.

“Please.” Is all he says and you stand there, debating whether or not you should let him in when your heart overrides your mind.

He walks past you and you close the door, not quite ready to turn around and face him yet.

Peter can wait, he’s prepared to.

“What are you doing here?” You say, your back still to him.

“I’m here to see you.” The tenderness in his longing is sweet, it threatens to melt you.

You begrudgingly turn around and lean back on the door, letting him have a look of your face.

His eyes have grown desperate for that look, like a once plush green field now in drought, but this one look has brought the rain to end it.

He watches you stand uncomfortably and considers leaving, but he knows deep down in your heart that you miss him just as much he does you.

Peter takes slow steps towards you, giving you the opportunity to deny him of the closeness if you so choose. But you don’t.

“Are you gonna say anything?” You look anywhere else but at him, eyes darting from the floor to the shoes lined up by the door.

He’s thought about the answer to your question many, many times. Went through every scenario and still never quite figured out how he’d speak his mind, just what he would say.

So he does just that.

“I missed you.” He murmurs, standing directly in front of you now.

The audacity. “Yeah, okay.” You scoff with a shake of your head.

He expected this and isn’t mad at all. “I deserve that.”

“You deserve a lot less.” You look at him now, despite the warnings from your mind telling you not to.

You just have to. You haven’t seen this man in months, you just had to.

He nods. “I know. And I do, but just,” He sighs heavily. “Hear me out.”

Peter looks tired, like he hasn’t slept in some time. His eyes don’t hold the same weight as they would when he’s awake. The determination makes them look different.

He keeps his eyes on you, like he’s looking at you for the last time and wants to really commit you to his memory.

“…I should have talked to you.” Peter’s voice is heavy with regret. “I should have told you what was going on with me, and I should have fought for you.”

You hate being so affected by his words. You were fully ready to dismiss him and get him out of your sight but you don’t want to anymore.

You gave up on closure a long time ago, but seeing him here and now opens up that space again.

“I shouldn’t have let you go.”

Your misty-eyed face hits him right in the heart.

Peter hesitantly brings his hands up to touch you, finger brushing away some hair from your face and you duck down.

“Don’t.” You sniffle, not finding it in yourself to see your reflection in his eyes.

He presses on, committed to earning a second chance. One hand comes to rest on the door beside your face and the other comes under your chin to lift your gaze.

You close your eyes and the tears slip down. He wipes them with his thumb.

“Look at me, please?”

You deeply inhale through your nose, opening your eyes for him to see and he almost drops to his knees right there.

Your lashes cling to the rims of your eyes and he wipes at them with his thumb so gently, you almost cry again.

He holds your face. “I hurt you and there’s no going back from that. I did what I thought was the best thing for us but it wasn’t, and I was wrong.”

You blink at him, trying to read his face through your blurry eyes.

“I hurt you and I’m so, so fucking sorry.” Peter rests his forehead against yours and you bite back a sob.

“I’ll say it as many times as you want me to, but don’t turn me away.”

“…You really hurt me, Peter.” You say. “You didn’t just break my heart, you broke our dreams and left me behind to pick up the pieces.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, shame twisting into him like a knife, angrily.

“For better or worse, remember?”

He nods. “…Yeah.”

You push his head back a bit, making some room between your noses. “You can’t just show up and apologize to me and expect me to forgive you.”

He gulps when he sees that look in your eyes. One that isn’t so forgiving but is beyond giving retribution.

“I have to prove myself and I will.” He says. “But will you give me that chance?”

When you look at him, you don’t see a deceitful, dishonest, manipulative person. You see a brave, loyal, kind-hearted man who was the first and only one you’ve showed every part of you to and didn’t use it to hurt you.

He was your fiancé, that means something.

“I never stopped loving you.” You admit softly. “I still love you… but I can’t hurt like that again.”

Peter nods, knowing full well that you won’t go easy on him but he doesn’t want it any other way. “I know.”