Just somebody who loves warm hugs

The elevator doors slid open with a whisper, revealing the cold marble floor of the mob tower’s top level. Bucky stepped out, dark coat swinging behind him.

Steve stood near the railing with his arms crossed, jaw tight. Sam paced beside him, checking his watch for the third time in two minutes. Both of them turned at the sound of approaching footsteps — heavy, measured, familiar.

“Dude, where the hell were you?” Sam was the first person to speak, stepping beside Bucky as they walked to the conference room.

“Good morning to you too, Sam.” Bucky rolled his eyes, but his lips were tucked slightly upward. There was a certain softness to his expression, a skip in his step.

Sam squinted his eyes. “There’s something on his face, Steve.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, looking at his reflection in the marble of the walls. “What?”

Steve elbowed Sam lightly. “You’re smiling, Buck.”

Sam interrupted, “No, no. That’s not possible. There has to be some other explanation. I bet on – He’s dying.”

Bucky rolled his eyes again. “Shut up. Can’t a man just have a good day?”

Sam’s eves widened. “A goo - ? Steve. I am telling you, he cannot lead this meeting in this condition. We need to rush him to the hospital, or even the cemetery is fine with me.”

They stepped into the conference room where Stark had been waiting for 15 minutes. As soon as his eyes landed on Bucky, his grimace grew. “Barnes, you’re late. Some of us have other empires to run, you know.”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t argue back. “You’ll live, Stark.”

Bucky straightens up and claps his hands once. “So, let’s get to it.”

Tony picked up his tablet, presenting the screen to the whole room. “So, the Mark IV. Still think it’s too flashy?”

“I think it’s unstable,” Bucky said, sliding into the chair opposite. “I need reliability, not a light show.”

Tony clicked his tongue. “So, you want boring.”

“I want functional,” Bucky replied, voice calm. “If it fails, people die.”

“Alright, alright,” Tony grumbled, thumbing through settings. “I’ll strip it down, swap in a tri-core stabilizer. Loses some edge, but it won’t jam in a blizzard.”

“And the recoil sensors?”

“Upgraded. Thermal override. But you’ll lose two percent on range.”

Bucky gave a slow nod. “I can live with that.”

He leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. His voice was still quiet, still measured. “But I want eyes on every shipment. No third-party drops. Your men hand it to mine. In person.”

Tony raised a brow. “So that’s what this mellow version of you is about— trust issues wrapped in a velvet bow.”

“Call it what you want,” Bucky said. “Non-negotiable.”

Tony leaned back and gave him a crooked grin. “Fine. But if this goes south, don’t come crying to me.”

“I don’t cry, Stark.”

“No,” Tony smirked. “But you used to break tables when you didn’t get your way.” He stood, offering a hand. “Progress.”

Bucky clasped it once, firmly.

Tony smirked. “Also, congratulations on taking down Pierce. It was about damn time.”

Bucky nodded. ”But we still haven’t caught that bastard. Escaped like a mouse.”

“I am sure you will.”

Across the room, Sam leaned toward Steve again. “Okay, what the hell? Bucky isn’t yelling, hasn’t clipped commands or threatened to break someone’s jaw or burn them alive in half an hour. Trust me, I am not complaining but what has gotten over him?”

Steve didn’t respond right away. Sam kept his voice low. “Maybe it’s not bad. You’ve seen him like this before?”

“Once,” Steve said, jaw tightening. “Before everything went to hell.”

Sam whispered slowly, “You think it’s her?”

Steve didn’t answer. He knew what Sam didn’t. Knew Bucky.

The meeting wrapped up with a handshake and a few nods. Tony left with a smirk, mumbling something about miracles and therapy. The room emptied slowly.

Bucky stayed behind, gathering the files. Calm. Almost serene. Steve didn’t move until the door clicked shut behind the last man.

Then: “You’re not even going to tell me what’s going on?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Nothing’s going on, Steve.”

“You show up smiling, speaking in full sentences, not threatening to break anyone’s jaw—Sam practically started doing the sign of the cross.”

Bucky shrugged. “Can’t a guy have a good day?”

Steve walked closer, voice dropping. “It’s not just a good day. Something’s changed.” A pause.

Then Bucky met his eyes, and Steve saw it — the softness. The warmth. Something achingly human behind the cool blue.

“She’s good for you,” Steve said, softer now. “I see it. So does Sam.” He didn’t ask. He stated it.

That earned him a glance. “What are you getting at?”

Steve exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You care about her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Steve turned to him fully. “But you’re not just smiling, Buck. You’re softening. Letting her in. That’s not something you do lightly.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, the moment of levity gone. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Steve asked, and his voice wasn’t accusing, just heavy. “Does she know who you are?”

Silence. “Buck.”

“No.” The word left his mouth quietly. “She doesn’t.”

Steve exhaled. “Then you are building a deep damn hole for yourself, Buck. Because this thing—whatever it is—it’s real. And she doesn’t know who you are.” Silence. “She doesn’t know what we do. The people we’ve hurt.”

“I know,” Bucky snapped, sharper than he intended. “You think I don’t lie awake thinking about that? You think I don’t see it every time I look at her? That every single time she smiles at me, or holds my hand, I feel like I am somehow tainting her with the blood on my hands? Every damn time she says my name with a softness I won’t be worthy of in any universe, I hate myself a little more.” He stopped, breath caught. His voice dropped, almost to a whisper, “because god damn it, how does someone like me get to even breathe the same air as someone like her?”

Steve’s voice softened, his heart aching for his best friend. “You need to tell her. Before someone else does.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, suddenly restless. “Because I finally have something that doesn’t feel like blood and ash. Something soft. And good. And real.” His voice cracked slightly. “She looks at me like I’m just… James. Not a monster. Not a mob boss. Just… James. And the moment I tell her truth, I lose that. I lose her. She would never want to see my face again, Steve. She will hate me.”

Steve takes a step forward, “You don’t know that.”

A broken expression flickered across Bucky’s face. “That’s the thing. I do. I have stood there and listened to her talking about how much she hates the mob. About how she despises them with everything she’s got. And even after that, I am such a fucking terrible person, I didn’t tell her truth. You know why? Because the moment I do so, everything comes crashing down. She will stop looking at me like someone worthy. Like someone anything more than a monster. Like someone she could love.” Bucky’s voice echoes in the hall room.

Steve had never seen his friend so scared, so vulnerable. He was seeking the light and he knew it, but he had to save his friend from the fire too. “She deserves to know the truth.”

“I know she does.”

Steve moved closer. “So tell her. Would you rather build something on a lie?”

“It’s not a lie—”

“It is if you’re hiding the worst part of yourself.” Bucky flinched. “I’m not saying you don’t deserve this,” Steve added gently. “God, Buck, if anyone deserves a shot at something good, it’s you. But you’re terrified she’ll walk away, and what then? You spiral? You burn down everything again?”

Bucky was quiet for a long time. Then, finally: “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Steve.” His voice was almost broken. “And I don’t know how to let go of that.”

Steve put a hand on his shoulder, his voice gentler now. “Then don’t.” He squeezed gently. “Just don’t wait too long. Because the truth always finds a way out. And if it comes from someone else… you won’t just lose her. You’ll lose yourself.”

Bucky looked away, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he couldn’t catch his breath. “I don’t know how to do this, Steve. I’ve never had something I wanted to protect this badly.” “You don’t protect someone by lying to them,” Steve said quietly. “You protect them by giving them the choice.”

Bucky didn’t reply. He just stared out through the window, eyes far away, knuckles white. And Steve, watching him, didn’t say anything else. Because he knew that look—the look of a man dangling off the edge, holding on with bleeding fingers, too afraid to fall and too afraid to let go.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩

You step out of the grocery store just as the sun slips below the skyline. The sky is that in-between shade and the streetlights buzz to life with a flicker, casting long shadows that stretch across the pavement.

You hug the paper bag closer to your chest. It crinkles in your arms. Feels louder than it should in the quiet. The walk to the bakery isn’t long. Ten minutes, maybe less if you don’t stop.

Your phone is silent in your coat pocket. Still no message. Still no call.

You tried not to think about it. Tried not to let the silence weigh too much. Last night meant something. Right?

Your fingers gripped the paper bag tighter. You could still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin, still remember the way he had looked at you—so gentle, so unguarded. But the doubt crept in, quiet and mean.

What if it hadn’t meant anything to him? What if you were just another soft place to land? You hate the way your chest tightens, how the silence starts to sound like a verdict. Maybe he woke up and realized it was a mistake. Maybe he left it behind like it was easy. You swallow the thought. It feels too sharp, like chewing on glass.

The city is quieter than usual. Not empty, just… muted. Like it’s holding its breath. A man across the street leans against a lamppost, smoke curling from the tip of his cigarette. He doesn’t look at you. Still, something prickles at the back of your neck. You ignore it. Tell yourself you’re being dramatic.

Another streetlamp flickered overhead. Buzz. Flicker. Dark. Light again.

You glance over your shoulder. Nothing there. And yet. There’s a feeling. Like breath on your collarbone. Like something just barely out of sight. You shake it off. Adjust your pace. Just a little faster.

Then— A sound. A footstep that doesn’t match your rhythm. You stop. Pretend to check your phone. You glance back. No one. But you feel it. That sensation. Of not being alone.

You pass the florist. Closed. Lights off. The reflection in the darkened window catching your eye. Someone was behind you. Far back. Walking slow.

You start walking again, quicker this time. Each step lands harder than the last. Your heartbeat starts to climb, matching the tempo of your feet. You pass a row of darkened windows. Your reflection moves with you. And then—a footstep. Not yours. Measured. Delibrate.

You don’t turn. You just know. Every hair on your arms stands on end. Your hands tremble, the grocery bag rustling like dry leaves. Your breath fogs in the air. You try to keep it even. Try to make it to the corner. One more street and you’ll see the bakery. The lights. The warmth. Another step behind you. Closer now.

Your mouth goes dry. You think you can hear your heartbeat—too fast, too loud—thudding in your ears like it might give you away. You grip your phone so tight your fingers ache. You don’t unlock it. Don’t text anyone. You don’t want to look down. You just want to get there.

You turn the corner. There it is. The bakery. Lit up like a beacon. You break into a near-run, not caring how it looks, not caring if you drop the stupid groceries. You don’t look back. You don’t want to see what’s behind you. Not yet.

You stumble the last few steps to the bakery. The bag crushes against your chest, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The warm glow from the bakery providing a moment of relief. Your heart hammering in your chest – But then you see him.

Just to the side of the door, half in shadow, half under the flickering bakery sign. James

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s looking at the ground like he’s arguing with himself.

“James” You call out, still out of breathe. He looks up immediately. His shoulders are tense, eyes sharp. Like he’s been waiting.

His gaze lands on you, narrowing with concern. He steps forward quickly, hand reaching out on instinct before halting just short of touching you. “Sweets, you okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I just—”

But your voice betrays you. It's thin. Unsteady.

His brows pull together. “What happened?”

You hesitate. “I think… I think someone was following me.”

“Where?” he asks, instantly alert. “Where exactly?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “Back on Hemsworth. Maybe earlier. I didn’t see a face. Just—heard footsteps. It could’ve been nothing.”

James takes a few steps away, peering down the sidewalk. You know that look—like he’s slipping into some version of himself you haven’t met yet. “I’ll check—”

“No,” you say, reaching for his arm. “Don’t.” His eyes meet yours again, searching.

“There’s no one now. And if there was someone… they wouldn’t still be standing around waiting to be caught, right?”

He doesn’t answer. Just studies you like he’s trying to read more than you’re willing to say. “Please,” you say, quieter. “I just want to go inside.”

After a beat, he nods. Gently takes the bag from your arms like it’s instinct. The touch makes something in your chest ache.

The doorbell jingles as you both step inside. Warmth spills over you. Bread and sugar and safety. But it doesn’t chase away the cold in your stomach.

James sets the bags on the counter, then hands you a glass of water. “You sure you are okay?” You slip slowly, trying to calm your trembling hands before nodding. “Yeah, yeah.”

You glance at him. He runs his hand through his hair, visibly torn. It looks like he is wrestling with something. You watch as his mouth opens slightly, like he’s going to say something – but doesn’t. And just like that, the fear creeps back in—but a different kind this time. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the part where he tells you it was a mistake. That last night was too much. Too soon.

Maybe he waited here not because he missed you—but because he needed to end it before it went further. You assume the worst—because it’s easier than hoping. You watch him battle something inside himself. Like it’s taking everything in him just to stay put.

So, you try to defuse the tension. You clear your throat. “So, I’ve been thinking about renovating the bakery.”

Bucky’s head snaps up at that. “Really? I thought you loved this place exactly how it is.”

You nod. “Yeah, but.. change is good, right?”

A smirk tugs at his lips, “Sweets, you once threatened to track down a customer and burn their house down because they moved a flower pot.”

“I - The pot is supposed to be by the window so it gets enough sunlight, everybody knows that.”

He lets out a laugh, and the sound steadies you a little.“Okay, but why the sudden change of heart?”

“Well,” you shrug, “I’ve saved up. Thanks to someone who keeps stuffing the tip jar every time they visit.” You point an accusatory finger at him.

He looks away, feigning innocence. “Could be anyone.”

“With hundred-dollar bills? Seriously?”

Bucky chuckles innocently.

Silence falls again, but this time, it’s heavier. That uneasy weight presses down again. James is still fighting something. Steve was right—if he wants this, and God, he’s never wanted anything more—he can’t build it on lies.

But the fear that the truth will destroy it—that you’ll walk away—that fear is choking him. Still, he tries. “Y/N,” he says, voice low. “I need to talk to you about something.”

One look at him, and you know it is killing him to get the words out. Why was it so difficult for him to break your heart? So, you make it easier for the both of you. “James, you don’t have to say it. I know.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. It couldn’t be, right?

You took a deep breathe before continuing, “I understand if last night didn’t mean anything. It was late. You had just come back after so long and were clearly in a rough space. I just want you to know, it’s okay. I’m okay. I mean, I know we didn’t say anything about what it was… I didn’t expect anything. It was late, we were both tired, and emotions were—high, and that happens sometimes, right?”

You let out a nervous laugh. It sounds awful. Tight. He takes a step toward you, eyes narrowing.

“Because I don’t want to make this weird,” you continue, forcing a smile that trembles at the edges. “We’re friends, right? And I hope that doesn’t change. I sincerely hope that. So if that’s where you’re at,” you rush on, “if you’re standing here because you want to say it was a mistake, or that we should just pretend it didn’t happen, or that you’re sorry—please, just say it. I can take it. I’d rather you just be honest than—than stand there looking like you’re trying to figure out how to break bad news.”

“Stop.” His voice is low. Firm. Not angry—urgent. You freeze.

He takes another step closer, and now he’s right in front of you. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him. Close enough that his voice drops even lower when he says— “Stop talking like that. Like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.” You blink, lips parting—but no words come out.

“It meant something to me,” he says. “It meant everything to me.”

Your heart stutters. “James…”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated—but not with you. With himself. With this moment. With whatever war’s been playing out behind his eyes since the second you arrived. “You think I’m trying to figure out how to walk away from you?” His eyes are on you now—unflinching. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to stay.”

He takes a breath. “I’m not good at this. I never have been. I screw things up. I keep things in. I second-guess the people I care about because… I never really let myself care before.” You can’t breathe. Not properly. “But last night?” he says, shaking his head. “I didn’t get caught up. I didn’t lose control. I chose it. I chose you. Every second of it.”

Your chest is tight now, full of too much and not enough at once. He exhales, shaky. Runs a hand down his face. “You think I could just forget what happened? That I could hold you like that and not have it break something open in me?”

He reaches out—hesitant still, but when you don’t move away, his hand finds yours. “I could never think of it as a mistake,” he says. “You could never be a mistake.”

You look at him—really look at him—and your heart stumbles over the truth that’s been sitting in your chest for hours. “I was scared it mattered more to me than it did to you.” You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know when it happened,” you murmur. “Maybe it was the night you stayed after closing just to fix the jammed drawer, or when you started learning the names of all my regulars like it mattered to you. Or maybe it was way before that, when you started showing up like clockwork, always pretending it wasn’t on purpose.” You lift your eyes to his, voice gentler now. “So if you’re scared, you’re not alone. I’m terrified. Because you matter to me in ways I don’t know how to say without sounding like I’ve already given you too much of me.”

And his thumb brushes your knuckles like he’s grounding himself with the contact. You don’t say anything.

Because suddenly, standing there in the warm light of the bakery, your hands tangled together, everything feels…right.

James steps closer. And before you can even catch your breath, he kisses you—soft and warm and real. You smile into it, wrapping your arms around his neck, kissing him back like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

When you part, you laugh quietly. “What was that?”

His smile is so warm it could light up the world. Yours, especially. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you pulled me under your ridiculously floral umbrella.”

You squint at him. “First of all, my umbrella is beautiful. Second--creepy much?”

Bucky wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer, “You know you love it.”

And you do. He will never know just how much you love it. Love him. Standing there in the heart of the bakery, wrapped in his arms, your faces close enough to count the freckles on his nose—you love all of it.

But you don’t know the war raging inside his mind. The things he hasn’t said. And the truth he was still hiding had teeth—and it was already circling the edges of everything you’d just begun to build. You just didn’t know it. At least not yet.

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The elevator doors slid open with a whisper, revealing the cold marble floor of the mob tower’s top level. Bucky stepped out, dark coat swinging behind him.

Steve stood near the railing with his arms crossed, jaw tight. Sam paced beside him, checking his watch for the third time in two minutes. Both of them turned at the sound of approaching footsteps — heavy, measured, familiar.

“Dude, where the hell were you?” Sam was the first person to speak, stepping beside Bucky as they walked to the conference room.

“Good morning to you too, Sam.” Bucky rolled his eyes, but his lips were tucked slightly upward. There was a certain softness to his expression, a skip in his step.

Sam squinted his eyes. “There’s something on his face, Steve.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, looking at his reflection in the marble of the walls. “What?”

Steve elbowed Sam lightly. “You’re smiling, Buck.”

Sam interrupted, “No, no. That’s not possible. There has to be some other explanation. I bet on – He’s dying.”

Bucky rolled his eyes again. “Shut up. Can’t a man just have a good day?”

Sam’s eves widened. “A goo - ? Steve. I am telling you, he cannot lead this meeting in this condition. We need to rush him to the hospital, or even the cemetery is fine with me.”

They stepped into the conference room where Stark had been waiting for 15 minutes. As soon as his eyes landed on Bucky, his grimace grew. “Barnes, you’re late. Some of us have other empires to run, you know.”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t argue back. “You’ll live, Stark.”

Bucky straightens up and claps his hands once. “So, let’s get to it.”

Tony picked up his tablet, presenting the screen to the whole room. “So, the Mark IV. Still think it’s too flashy?”

“I think it’s unstable,” Bucky said, sliding into the chair opposite. “I need reliability, not a light show.”

Tony clicked his tongue. “So, you want boring.”

“I want functional,” Bucky replied, voice calm. “If it fails, people die.”

“Alright, alright,” Tony grumbled, thumbing through settings. “I’ll strip it down, swap in a tri-core stabilizer. Loses some edge, but it won’t jam in a blizzard.”

“And the recoil sensors?”

“Upgraded. Thermal override. But you’ll lose two percent on range.”

Bucky gave a slow nod. “I can live with that.”

He leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. His voice was still quiet, still measured. “But I want eyes on every shipment. No third-party drops. Your men hand it to mine. In person.”

Tony raised a brow. “So that’s what this mellow version of you is about— trust issues wrapped in a velvet bow.”

“Call it what you want,” Bucky said. “Non-negotiable.”

Tony leaned back and gave him a crooked grin. “Fine. But if this goes south, don’t come crying to me.”

“I don’t cry, Stark.”

“No,” Tony smirked. “But you used to break tables when you didn’t get your way.” He stood, offering a hand. “Progress.”

Bucky clasped it once, firmly.

Tony smirked. “Also, congratulations on taking down Pierce. It was about damn time.”

Bucky nodded. ”But we still haven’t caught that bastard. Escaped like a mouse.”

“I am sure you will.”

Across the room, Sam leaned toward Steve again. “Okay, what the hell? Bucky isn’t yelling, hasn’t clipped commands or threatened to break someone’s jaw or burn them alive in half an hour. Trust me, I am not complaining but what has gotten over him?”

Steve didn’t respond right away. Sam kept his voice low. “Maybe it’s not bad. You’ve seen him like this before?”

“Once,” Steve said, jaw tightening. “Before everything went to hell.”

Sam whispered slowly, “You think it’s her?”

Steve didn’t answer. He knew what Sam didn’t. Knew Bucky.

The meeting wrapped up with a handshake and a few nods. Tony left with a smirk, mumbling something about miracles and therapy. The room emptied slowly.

Bucky stayed behind, gathering the files. Calm. Almost serene. Steve didn’t move until the door clicked shut behind the last man.

Then: “You’re not even going to tell me what’s going on?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Nothing’s going on, Steve.”

“You show up smiling, speaking in full sentences, not threatening to break anyone’s jaw—Sam practically started doing the sign of the cross.”

Bucky shrugged. “Can’t a guy have a good day?”

Steve walked closer, voice dropping. “It’s not just a good day. Something’s changed.” A pause.

Then Bucky met his eyes, and Steve saw it — the softness. The warmth. Something achingly human behind the cool blue.

“She’s good for you,” Steve said, softer now. “I see it. So does Sam.” He didn’t ask. He stated it.

That earned him a glance. “What are you getting at?”

Steve exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You care about her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Steve turned to him fully. “But you’re not just smiling, Buck. You’re softening. Letting her in. That’s not something you do lightly.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, the moment of levity gone. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Steve asked, and his voice wasn’t accusing, just heavy. “Does she know who you are?”

Silence. “Buck.”

“No.” The word left his mouth quietly. “She doesn’t.”

Steve exhaled. “Then you are building a deep damn hole for yourself, Buck. Because this thing—whatever it is—it’s real. And she doesn’t know who you are.” Silence. “She doesn’t know what we do. The people we’ve hurt.”

“I know,” Bucky snapped, sharper than he intended. “You think I don’t lie awake thinking about that? You think I don’t see it every time I look at her? That every single time she smiles at me, or holds my hand, I feel like I am somehow tainting her with the blood on my hands? Every damn time she says my name with a softness I won’t be worthy of in any universe, I hate myself a little more.” He stopped, breath caught. His voice dropped, almost to a whisper, “because god damn it, how does someone like me get to even breathe the same air as someone like her?”

Steve’s voice softened, his heart aching for his best friend. “You need to tell her. Before someone else does.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, suddenly restless. “Because I finally have something that doesn’t feel like blood and ash. Something soft. And good. And real.” His voice cracked slightly. “She looks at me like I’m just… James. Not a monster. Not a mob boss. Just… James. And the moment I tell her truth, I lose that. I lose her. She would never want to see my face again, Steve. She will hate me.”

Steve takes a step forward, “You don’t know that.”

A broken expression flickered across Bucky’s face. “That’s the thing. I do. I have stood there and listened to her talking about how much she hates the mob. About how she despises them with everything she’s got. And even after that, I am such a fucking terrible person, I didn’t tell her truth. You know why? Because the moment I do so, everything comes crashing down. She will stop looking at me like someone worthy. Like someone anything more than a monster. Like someone she could love.” Bucky’s voice echoes in the hall room.

Steve had never seen his friend so scared, so vulnerable. He was seeking the light and he knew it, but he had to save his friend from the fire too. “She deserves to know the truth.”

“I know she does.”

Steve moved closer. “So tell her. Would you rather build something on a lie?”

“It’s not a lie—”

“It is if you’re hiding the worst part of yourself.” Bucky flinched. “I’m not saying you don’t deserve this,” Steve added gently. “God, Buck, if anyone deserves a shot at something good, it’s you. But you’re terrified she’ll walk away, and what then? You spiral? You burn down everything again?”

Bucky was quiet for a long time. Then, finally: “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Steve.” His voice was almost broken. “And I don’t know how to let go of that.”

Steve put a hand on his shoulder, his voice gentler now. “Then don’t.” He squeezed gently. “Just don’t wait too long. Because the truth always finds a way out. And if it comes from someone else… you won’t just lose her. You’ll lose yourself.”

Bucky looked away, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he couldn’t catch his breath. “I don’t know how to do this, Steve. I’ve never had something I wanted to protect this badly.” “You don’t protect someone by lying to them,” Steve said quietly. “You protect them by giving them the choice.”

Bucky didn’t reply. He just stared out through the window, eyes far away, knuckles white. And Steve, watching him, didn’t say anything else. Because he knew that look—the look of a man dangling off the edge, holding on with bleeding fingers, too afraid to fall and too afraid to let go.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩

You step out of the grocery store just as the sun slips below the skyline. The sky is that in-between shade and the streetlights buzz to life with a flicker, casting long shadows that stretch across the pavement.

You hug the paper bag closer to your chest. It crinkles in your arms. Feels louder than it should in the quiet. The walk to the bakery isn’t long. Ten minutes, maybe less if you don’t stop.

Your phone is silent in your coat pocket. Still no message. Still no call.

You tried not to think about it. Tried not to let the silence weigh too much. Last night meant something. Right?

Your fingers gripped the paper bag tighter. You could still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin, still remember the way he had looked at you—so gentle, so unguarded. But the doubt crept in, quiet and mean.

What if it hadn’t meant anything to him? What if you were just another soft place to land? You hate the way your chest tightens, how the silence starts to sound like a verdict. Maybe he woke up and realized it was a mistake. Maybe he left it behind like it was easy. You swallow the thought. It feels too sharp, like chewing on glass.

The city is quieter than usual. Not empty, just… muted. Like it’s holding its breath. A man across the street leans against a lamppost, smoke curling from the tip of his cigarette. He doesn’t look at you. Still, something prickles at the back of your neck. You ignore it. Tell yourself you’re being dramatic.

Another streetlamp flickered overhead. Buzz. Flicker. Dark. Light again.

You glance over your shoulder. Nothing there. And yet. There’s a feeling. Like breath on your collarbone. Like something just barely out of sight. You shake it off. Adjust your pace. Just a little faster.

Then— A sound. A footstep that doesn’t match your rhythm. You stop. Pretend to check your phone. You glance back. No one. But you feel it. That sensation. Of not being alone.

You pass the florist. Closed. Lights off. The reflection in the darkened window catching your eye. Someone was behind you. Far back. Walking slow.

You start walking again, quicker this time. Each step lands harder than the last. Your heartbeat starts to climb, matching the tempo of your feet. You pass a row of darkened windows. Your reflection moves with you. And then—a footstep. Not yours. Measured. Delibrate.

You don’t turn. You just know. Every hair on your arms stands on end. Your hands tremble, the grocery bag rustling like dry leaves. Your breath fogs in the air. You try to keep it even. Try to make it to the corner. One more street and you’ll see the bakery. The lights. The warmth. Another step behind you. Closer now.

Your mouth goes dry. You think you can hear your heartbeat—too fast, too loud—thudding in your ears like it might give you away. You grip your phone so tight your fingers ache. You don’t unlock it. Don’t text anyone. You don’t want to look down. You just want to get there.

You turn the corner. There it is. The bakery. Lit up like a beacon. You break into a near-run, not caring how it looks, not caring if you drop the stupid groceries. You don’t look back. You don’t want to see what’s behind you. Not yet.

You stumble the last few steps to the bakery. The bag crushes against your chest, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The warm glow from the bakery providing a moment of relief. Your heart hammering in your chest – But then you see him.

Just to the side of the door, half in shadow, half under the flickering bakery sign. James

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s looking at the ground like he’s arguing with himself.

“James” You call out, still out of breathe. He looks up immediately. His shoulders are tense, eyes sharp. Like he’s been waiting.

His gaze lands on you, narrowing with concern. He steps forward quickly, hand reaching out on instinct before halting just short of touching you. “Sweets, you okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I just—”

But your voice betrays you. It's thin. Unsteady.

His brows pull together. “What happened?”

You hesitate. “I think… I think someone was following me.”

“Where?” he asks, instantly alert. “Where exactly?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “Back on Hemsworth. Maybe earlier. I didn’t see a face. Just—heard footsteps. It could’ve been nothing.”

James takes a few steps away, peering down the sidewalk. You know that look—like he’s slipping into some version of himself you haven’t met yet. “I’ll check—”

“No,” you say, reaching for his arm. “Don’t.” His eyes meet yours again, searching.

“There’s no one now. And if there was someone… they wouldn’t still be standing around waiting to be caught, right?”

He doesn’t answer. Just studies you like he’s trying to read more than you’re willing to say. “Please,” you say, quieter. “I just want to go inside.”

After a beat, he nods. Gently takes the bag from your arms like it’s instinct. The touch makes something in your chest ache.

The doorbell jingles as you both step inside. Warmth spills over you. Bread and sugar and safety. But it doesn’t chase away the cold in your stomach.

James sets the bags on the counter, then hands you a glass of water. “You sure you are okay?” You slip slowly, trying to calm your trembling hands before nodding. “Yeah, yeah.”

You glance at him. He runs his hand through his hair, visibly torn. It looks like he is wrestling with something. You watch as his mouth opens slightly, like he’s going to say something – but doesn’t. And just like that, the fear creeps back in—but a different kind this time. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the part where he tells you it was a mistake. That last night was too much. Too soon.

Maybe he waited here not because he missed you—but because he needed to end it before it went further. You assume the worst—because it’s easier than hoping. You watch him battle something inside himself. Like it’s taking everything in him just to stay put.

So, you try to defuse the tension. You clear your throat. “So, I’ve been thinking about renovating the bakery.”

Bucky’s head snaps up at that. “Really? I thought you loved this place exactly how it is.”

You nod. “Yeah, but.. change is good, right?”

A smirk tugs at his lips, “Sweets, you once threatened to track down a customer and burn their house down because they moved a flower pot.”

“I - The pot is supposed to be by the window so it gets enough sunlight, everybody knows that.”

He lets out a laugh, and the sound steadies you a little.“Okay, but why the sudden change of heart?”

“Well,” you shrug, “I’ve saved up. Thanks to someone who keeps stuffing the tip jar every time they visit.” You point an accusatory finger at him.

He looks away, feigning innocence. “Could be anyone.”

“With hundred-dollar bills? Seriously?”

Bucky chuckles innocently.

Silence falls again, but this time, it’s heavier. That uneasy weight presses down again. James is still fighting something. Steve was right—if he wants this, and God, he’s never wanted anything more—he can’t build it on lies.

But the fear that the truth will destroy it—that you’ll walk away—that fear is choking him. Still, he tries. “Y/N,” he says, voice low. “I need to talk to you about something.”

One look at him, and you know it is killing him to get the words out. Why was it so difficult for him to break your heart? So, you make it easier for the both of you. “James, you don’t have to say it. I know.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. It couldn’t be, right?

You took a deep breathe before continuing, “I understand if last night didn’t mean anything. It was late. You had just come back after so long and were clearly in a rough space. I just want you to know, it’s okay. I’m okay. I mean, I know we didn’t say anything about what it was… I didn’t expect anything. It was late, we were both tired, and emotions were—high, and that happens sometimes, right?”

You let out a nervous laugh. It sounds awful. Tight. He takes a step toward you, eyes narrowing.

“Because I don’t want to make this weird,” you continue, forcing a smile that trembles at the edges. “We’re friends, right? And I hope that doesn’t change. I sincerely hope that. So if that’s where you’re at,” you rush on, “if you’re standing here because you want to say it was a mistake, or that we should just pretend it didn’t happen, or that you’re sorry—please, just say it. I can take it. I’d rather you just be honest than—than stand there looking like you’re trying to figure out how to break bad news.”

“Stop.” His voice is low. Firm. Not angry—urgent. You freeze.

He takes another step closer, and now he’s right in front of you. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him. Close enough that his voice drops even lower when he says— “Stop talking like that. Like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.” You blink, lips parting—but no words come out.

“It meant something to me,” he says. “It meant everything to me.”

Your heart stutters. “James…”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated—but not with you. With himself. With this moment. With whatever war’s been playing out behind his eyes since the second you arrived. “You think I’m trying to figure out how to walk away from you?” His eyes are on you now—unflinching. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to stay.”

He takes a breath. “I’m not good at this. I never have been. I screw things up. I keep things in. I second-guess the people I care about because… I never really let myself care before.” You can’t breathe. Not properly. “But last night?” he says, shaking his head. “I didn’t get caught up. I didn’t lose control. I chose it. I chose you. Every second of it.”

Your chest is tight now, full of too much and not enough at once. He exhales, shaky. Runs a hand down his face. “You think I could just forget what happened? That I could hold you like that and not have it break something open in me?”

He reaches out—hesitant still, but when you don’t move away, his hand finds yours. “I could never think of it as a mistake,” he says. “You could never be a mistake.”

You look at him—really look at him—and your heart stumbles over the truth that’s been sitting in your chest for hours. “I was scared it mattered more to me than it did to you.” You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know when it happened,” you murmur. “Maybe it was the night you stayed after closing just to fix the jammed drawer, or when you started learning the names of all my regulars like it mattered to you. Or maybe it was way before that, when you started showing up like clockwork, always pretending it wasn’t on purpose.” You lift your eyes to his, voice gentler now. “So if you’re scared, you’re not alone. I’m terrified. Because you matter to me in ways I don’t know how to say without sounding like I’ve already given you too much of me.”

And his thumb brushes your knuckles like he’s grounding himself with the contact. You don’t say anything.

Because suddenly, standing there in the warm light of the bakery, your hands tangled together, everything feels…right.

James steps closer. And before you can even catch your breath, he kisses you—soft and warm and real. You smile into it, wrapping your arms around his neck, kissing him back like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

When you part, you laugh quietly. “What was that?”

His smile is so warm it could light up the world. Yours, especially. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you pulled me under your ridiculously floral umbrella.”

You squint at him. “First of all, my umbrella is beautiful. Second--creepy much?”

Bucky wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer, “You know you love it.”

And you do. He will never know just how much you love it. Love him. Standing there in the heart of the bakery, wrapped in his arms, your faces close enough to count the freckles on his nose—you love all of it.

But you don’t know the war raging inside his mind. The things he hasn’t said. And the truth he was still hiding had teeth—and it was already circling the edges of everything you’d just begun to build. You just didn’t know it. At least not yet.

Taglist (open) - (I have tagged all the people from the original taglist to this. If you would like to be removed from it, please let me know)

The elevator doors slid open with a whisper, revealing the cold marble floor of the mob tower’s top level. Bucky stepped out, dark coat swinging behind him.

Steve stood near the railing with his arms crossed, jaw tight. Sam paced beside him, checking his watch for the third time in two minutes. Both of them turned at the sound of approaching footsteps — heavy, measured, familiar.

“Dude, where the hell were you?” Sam was the first person to speak, stepping beside Bucky as they walked to the conference room.

“Good morning to you too, Sam.” Bucky rolled his eyes, but his lips were tucked slightly upward. There was a certain softness to his expression, a skip in his step.

Sam squinted his eyes. “There’s something on his face, Steve.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, looking at his reflection in the marble of the walls. “What?”

Steve elbowed Sam lightly. “You’re smiling, Buck.”

Sam interrupted, “No, no. That’s not possible. There has to be some other explanation. I bet on – He’s dying.”

Bucky rolled his eyes again. “Shut up. Can’t a man just have a good day?”

Sam’s eves widened. “A goo - ? Steve. I am telling you, he cannot lead this meeting in this condition. We need to rush him to the hospital, or even the cemetery is fine with me.”

They stepped into the conference room where Stark had been waiting for 15 minutes. As soon as his eyes landed on Bucky, his grimace grew. “Barnes, you’re late. Some of us have other empires to run, you know.”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t argue back. “You’ll live, Stark.”

Bucky straightens up and claps his hands once. “So, let’s get to it.”

Tony picked up his tablet, presenting the screen to the whole room. “So, the Mark IV. Still think it’s too flashy?”

“I think it’s unstable,” Bucky said, sliding into the chair opposite. “I need reliability, not a light show.”

Tony clicked his tongue. “So, you want boring.”

“I want functional,” Bucky replied, voice calm. “If it fails, people die.”

“Alright, alright,” Tony grumbled, thumbing through settings. “I’ll strip it down, swap in a tri-core stabilizer. Loses some edge, but it won’t jam in a blizzard.”

“And the recoil sensors?”

“Upgraded. Thermal override. But you’ll lose two percent on range.”

Bucky gave a slow nod. “I can live with that.”

He leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. His voice was still quiet, still measured. “But I want eyes on every shipment. No third-party drops. Your men hand it to mine. In person.”

Tony raised a brow. “So that’s what this mellow version of you is about— trust issues wrapped in a velvet bow.”

“Call it what you want,” Bucky said. “Non-negotiable.”

Tony leaned back and gave him a crooked grin. “Fine. But if this goes south, don’t come crying to me.”

“I don’t cry, Stark.”

“No,” Tony smirked. “But you used to break tables when you didn’t get your way.” He stood, offering a hand. “Progress.”

Bucky clasped it once, firmly.

Tony smirked. “Also, congratulations on taking down Pierce. It was about damn time.”

Bucky nodded. ”But we still haven’t caught that bastard. Escaped like a mouse.”

“I am sure you will.”

Across the room, Sam leaned toward Steve again. “Okay, what the hell? Bucky isn’t yelling, hasn’t clipped commands or threatened to break someone’s jaw or burn them alive in half an hour. Trust me, I am not complaining but what has gotten over him?”

Steve didn’t respond right away. Sam kept his voice low. “Maybe it’s not bad. You’ve seen him like this before?”

“Once,” Steve said, jaw tightening. “Before everything went to hell.”

Sam whispered slowly, “You think it’s her?”

Steve didn’t answer. He knew what Sam didn’t. Knew Bucky.

The meeting wrapped up with a handshake and a few nods. Tony left with a smirk, mumbling something about miracles and therapy. The room emptied slowly.

Bucky stayed behind, gathering the files. Calm. Almost serene. Steve didn’t move until the door clicked shut behind the last man.

Then: “You’re not even going to tell me what’s going on?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Nothing’s going on, Steve.”

“You show up smiling, speaking in full sentences, not threatening to break anyone’s jaw—Sam practically started doing the sign of the cross.”

Bucky shrugged. “Can’t a guy have a good day?”

Steve walked closer, voice dropping. “It’s not just a good day. Something’s changed.” A pause.

Then Bucky met his eyes, and Steve saw it — the softness. The warmth. Something achingly human behind the cool blue.

“She’s good for you,” Steve said, softer now. “I see it. So does Sam.” He didn’t ask. He stated it.

That earned him a glance. “What are you getting at?”

Steve exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You care about her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Steve turned to him fully. “But you’re not just smiling, Buck. You’re softening. Letting her in. That’s not something you do lightly.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, the moment of levity gone. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Steve asked, and his voice wasn’t accusing, just heavy. “Does she know who you are?”

Silence. “Buck.”

“No.” The word left his mouth quietly. “She doesn’t.”

Steve exhaled. “Then you are building a deep damn hole for yourself, Buck. Because this thing—whatever it is—it’s real. And she doesn’t know who you are.” Silence. “She doesn’t know what we do. The people we’ve hurt.”

“I know,” Bucky snapped, sharper than he intended. “You think I don’t lie awake thinking about that? You think I don’t see it every time I look at her? That every single time she smiles at me, or holds my hand, I feel like I am somehow tainting her with the blood on my hands? Every damn time she says my name with a softness I won’t be worthy of in any universe, I hate myself a little more.” He stopped, breath caught. His voice dropped, almost to a whisper, “because god damn it, how does someone like me get to even breathe the same air as someone like her?”

Steve’s voice softened, his heart aching for his best friend. “You need to tell her. Before someone else does.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, suddenly restless. “Because I finally have something that doesn’t feel like blood and ash. Something soft. And good. And real.” His voice cracked slightly. “She looks at me like I’m just… James. Not a monster. Not a mob boss. Just… James. And the moment I tell her truth, I lose that. I lose her. She would never want to see my face again, Steve. She will hate me.”

Steve takes a step forward, “You don’t know that.”

A broken expression flickered across Bucky’s face. “That’s the thing. I do. I have stood there and listened to her talking about how much she hates the mob. About how she despises them with everything she’s got. And even after that, I am such a fucking terrible person, I didn’t tell her truth. You know why? Because the moment I do so, everything comes crashing down. She will stop looking at me like someone worthy. Like someone anything more than a monster. Like someone she could love.” Bucky’s voice echoes in the hall room.

Steve had never seen his friend so scared, so vulnerable. He was seeking the light and he knew it, but he had to save his friend from the fire too. “She deserves to know the truth.”

“I know she does.”

Steve moved closer. “So tell her. Would you rather build something on a lie?”

“It’s not a lie—”

“It is if you’re hiding the worst part of yourself.” Bucky flinched. “I’m not saying you don’t deserve this,” Steve added gently. “God, Buck, if anyone deserves a shot at something good, it’s you. But you’re terrified she’ll walk away, and what then? You spiral? You burn down everything again?”

Bucky was quiet for a long time. Then, finally: “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Steve.” His voice was almost broken. “And I don’t know how to let go of that.”

Steve put a hand on his shoulder, his voice gentler now. “Then don’t.” He squeezed gently. “Just don’t wait too long. Because the truth always finds a way out. And if it comes from someone else… you won’t just lose her. You’ll lose yourself.”

Bucky looked away, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he couldn’t catch his breath. “I don’t know how to do this, Steve. I’ve never had something I wanted to protect this badly.” “You don’t protect someone by lying to them,” Steve said quietly. “You protect them by giving them the choice.”

Bucky didn’t reply. He just stared out through the window, eyes far away, knuckles white. And Steve, watching him, didn’t say anything else. Because he knew that look—the look of a man dangling off the edge, holding on with bleeding fingers, too afraid to fall and too afraid to let go.

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You step out of the grocery store just as the sun slips below the skyline. The sky is that in-between shade and the streetlights buzz to life with a flicker, casting long shadows that stretch across the pavement.

You hug the paper bag closer to your chest. It crinkles in your arms. Feels louder than it should in the quiet. The walk to the bakery isn’t long. Ten minutes, maybe less if you don’t stop.

Your phone is silent in your coat pocket. Still no message. Still no call.

You tried not to think about it. Tried not to let the silence weigh too much. Last night meant something. Right?

Your fingers gripped the paper bag tighter. You could still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin, still remember the way he had looked at you—so gentle, so unguarded. But the doubt crept in, quiet and mean.

What if it hadn’t meant anything to him? What if you were just another soft place to land? You hate the way your chest tightens, how the silence starts to sound like a verdict. Maybe he woke up and realized it was a mistake. Maybe he left it behind like it was easy. You swallow the thought. It feels too sharp, like chewing on glass.

The city is quieter than usual. Not empty, just… muted. Like it’s holding its breath. A man across the street leans against a lamppost, smoke curling from the tip of his cigarette. He doesn’t look at you. Still, something prickles at the back of your neck. You ignore it. Tell yourself you’re being dramatic.

Another streetlamp flickered overhead. Buzz. Flicker. Dark. Light again.

You glance over your shoulder. Nothing there. And yet. There’s a feeling. Like breath on your collarbone. Like something just barely out of sight. You shake it off. Adjust your pace. Just a little faster.

Then— A sound. A footstep that doesn’t match your rhythm. You stop. Pretend to check your phone. You glance back. No one. But you feel it. That sensation. Of not being alone.

You pass the florist. Closed. Lights off. The reflection in the darkened window catching your eye. Someone was behind you. Far back. Walking slow.

You start walking again, quicker this time. Each step lands harder than the last. Your heartbeat starts to climb, matching the tempo of your feet. You pass a row of darkened windows. Your reflection moves with you. And then—a footstep. Not yours. Measured. Delibrate.

You don’t turn. You just know. Every hair on your arms stands on end. Your hands tremble, the grocery bag rustling like dry leaves. Your breath fogs in the air. You try to keep it even. Try to make it to the corner. One more street and you’ll see the bakery. The lights. The warmth. Another step behind you. Closer now.

Your mouth goes dry. You think you can hear your heartbeat—too fast, too loud—thudding in your ears like it might give you away. You grip your phone so tight your fingers ache. You don’t unlock it. Don’t text anyone. You don’t want to look down. You just want to get there.

You turn the corner. There it is. The bakery. Lit up like a beacon. You break into a near-run, not caring how it looks, not caring if you drop the stupid groceries. You don’t look back. You don’t want to see what’s behind you. Not yet.

You stumble the last few steps to the bakery. The bag crushes against your chest, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The warm glow from the bakery providing a moment of relief. Your heart hammering in your chest – But then you see him.

Just to the side of the door, half in shadow, half under the flickering bakery sign. James

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s looking at the ground like he’s arguing with himself.

“James” You call out, still out of breathe. He looks up immediately. His shoulders are tense, eyes sharp. Like he’s been waiting.

His gaze lands on you, narrowing with concern. He steps forward quickly, hand reaching out on instinct before halting just short of touching you. “Sweets, you okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I just—”

But your voice betrays you. It's thin. Unsteady.

His brows pull together. “What happened?”

You hesitate. “I think… I think someone was following me.”

“Where?” he asks, instantly alert. “Where exactly?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “Back on Hemsworth. Maybe earlier. I didn’t see a face. Just—heard footsteps. It could’ve been nothing.”

James takes a few steps away, peering down the sidewalk. You know that look—like he’s slipping into some version of himself you haven’t met yet. “I’ll check—”

“No,” you say, reaching for his arm. “Don’t.” His eyes meet yours again, searching.

“There’s no one now. And if there was someone… they wouldn’t still be standing around waiting to be caught, right?”

He doesn’t answer. Just studies you like he’s trying to read more than you’re willing to say. “Please,” you say, quieter. “I just want to go inside.”

After a beat, he nods. Gently takes the bag from your arms like it’s instinct. The touch makes something in your chest ache.

The doorbell jingles as you both step inside. Warmth spills over you. Bread and sugar and safety. But it doesn’t chase away the cold in your stomach.

James sets the bags on the counter, then hands you a glass of water. “You sure you are okay?” You slip slowly, trying to calm your trembling hands before nodding. “Yeah, yeah.”

You glance at him. He runs his hand through his hair, visibly torn. It looks like he is wrestling with something. You watch as his mouth opens slightly, like he’s going to say something – but doesn’t. And just like that, the fear creeps back in—but a different kind this time. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the part where he tells you it was a mistake. That last night was too much. Too soon.

Maybe he waited here not because he missed you—but because he needed to end it before it went further. You assume the worst—because it’s easier than hoping. You watch him battle something inside himself. Like it’s taking everything in him just to stay put.

So, you try to defuse the tension. You clear your throat. “So, I’ve been thinking about renovating the bakery.”

Bucky’s head snaps up at that. “Really? I thought you loved this place exactly how it is.”

You nod. “Yeah, but.. change is good, right?”

A smirk tugs at his lips, “Sweets, you once threatened to track down a customer and burn their house down because they moved a flower pot.”

“I - The pot is supposed to be by the window so it gets enough sunlight, everybody knows that.”

He lets out a laugh, and the sound steadies you a little.“Okay, but why the sudden change of heart?”

“Well,” you shrug, “I’ve saved up. Thanks to someone who keeps stuffing the tip jar every time they visit.” You point an accusatory finger at him.

He looks away, feigning innocence. “Could be anyone.”

“With hundred-dollar bills? Seriously?”

Bucky chuckles innocently.

Silence falls again, but this time, it’s heavier. That uneasy weight presses down again. James is still fighting something. Steve was right—if he wants this, and God, he’s never wanted anything more—he can’t build it on lies.

But the fear that the truth will destroy it—that you’ll walk away—that fear is choking him. Still, he tries. “Y/N,” he says, voice low. “I need to talk to you about something.”

One look at him, and you know it is killing him to get the words out. Why was it so difficult for him to break your heart? So, you make it easier for the both of you. “James, you don’t have to say it. I know.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. It couldn’t be, right?

You took a deep breathe before continuing, “I understand if last night didn’t mean anything. It was late. You had just come back after so long and were clearly in a rough space. I just want you to know, it’s okay. I’m okay. I mean, I know we didn’t say anything about what it was… I didn’t expect anything. It was late, we were both tired, and emotions were—high, and that happens sometimes, right?”

You let out a nervous laugh. It sounds awful. Tight. He takes a step toward you, eyes narrowing.

“Because I don’t want to make this weird,” you continue, forcing a smile that trembles at the edges. “We’re friends, right? And I hope that doesn’t change. I sincerely hope that. So if that’s where you’re at,” you rush on, “if you’re standing here because you want to say it was a mistake, or that we should just pretend it didn’t happen, or that you’re sorry—please, just say it. I can take it. I’d rather you just be honest than—than stand there looking like you’re trying to figure out how to break bad news.”

“Stop.” His voice is low. Firm. Not angry—urgent. You freeze.

He takes another step closer, and now he’s right in front of you. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him. Close enough that his voice drops even lower when he says— “Stop talking like that. Like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.” You blink, lips parting—but no words come out.

“It meant something to me,” he says. “It meant everything to me.”

Your heart stutters. “James…”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated—but not with you. With himself. With this moment. With whatever war’s been playing out behind his eyes since the second you arrived. “You think I’m trying to figure out how to walk away from you?” His eyes are on you now—unflinching. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to stay.”

He takes a breath. “I’m not good at this. I never have been. I screw things up. I keep things in. I second-guess the people I care about because… I never really let myself care before.” You can’t breathe. Not properly. “But last night?” he says, shaking his head. “I didn’t get caught up. I didn’t lose control. I chose it. I chose you. Every second of it.”

Your chest is tight now, full of too much and not enough at once. He exhales, shaky. Runs a hand down his face. “You think I could just forget what happened? That I could hold you like that and not have it break something open in me?”

He reaches out—hesitant still, but when you don’t move away, his hand finds yours. “I could never think of it as a mistake,” he says. “You could never be a mistake.”

You look at him—really look at him—and your heart stumbles over the truth that’s been sitting in your chest for hours. “I was scared it mattered more to me than it did to you.” You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know when it happened,” you murmur. “Maybe it was the night you stayed after closing just to fix the jammed drawer, or when you started learning the names of all my regulars like it mattered to you. Or maybe it was way before that, when you started showing up like clockwork, always pretending it wasn’t on purpose.” You lift your eyes to his, voice gentler now. “So if you’re scared, you’re not alone. I’m terrified. Because you matter to me in ways I don’t know how to say without sounding like I’ve already given you too much of me.”

And his thumb brushes your knuckles like he’s grounding himself with the contact. You don’t say anything.

Because suddenly, standing there in the warm light of the bakery, your hands tangled together, everything feels…right.

James steps closer. And before you can even catch your breath, he kisses you—soft and warm and real. You smile into it, wrapping your arms around his neck, kissing him back like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

When you part, you laugh quietly. “What was that?”

His smile is so warm it could light up the world. Yours, especially. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you pulled me under your ridiculously floral umbrella.”

You squint at him. “First of all, my umbrella is beautiful. Second--creepy much?”

Bucky wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer, “You know you love it.”

And you do. He will never know just how much you love it. Love him. Standing there in the heart of the bakery, wrapped in his arms, your faces close enough to count the freckles on his nose—you love all of it.

But you don’t know the war raging inside his mind. The things he hasn’t said. And the truth he was still hiding had teeth—and it was already circling the edges of everything you’d just begun to build. You just didn’t know it. At least not yet.

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The elevator doors slid open with a whisper, revealing the cold marble floor of the mob tower’s top level. Bucky stepped out, dark coat swinging behind him.

Steve stood near the railing with his arms crossed, jaw tight. Sam paced beside him, checking his watch for the third time in two minutes. Both of them turned at the sound of approaching footsteps — heavy, measured, familiar.

“Dude, where the hell were you?” Sam was the first person to speak, stepping beside Bucky as they walked to the conference room.

“Good morning to you too, Sam.” Bucky rolled his eyes, but his lips were tucked slightly upward. There was a certain softness to his expression, a skip in his step.

Sam squinted his eyes. “There’s something on his face, Steve.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, looking at his reflection in the marble of the walls. “What?”

Steve elbowed Sam lightly. “You’re smiling, Buck.”

Sam interrupted, “No, no. That’s not possible. There has to be some other explanation. I bet on – He’s dying.”

Bucky rolled his eyes again. “Shut up. Can’t a man just have a good day?”

Sam’s eves widened. “A goo - ? Steve. I am telling you, he cannot lead this meeting in this condition. We need to rush him to the hospital, or even the cemetery is fine with me.”

They stepped into the conference room where Stark had been waiting for 15 minutes. As soon as his eyes landed on Bucky, his grimace grew. “Barnes, you’re late. Some of us have other empires to run, you know.”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t argue back. “You’ll live, Stark.”

Bucky straightens up and claps his hands once. “So, let’s get to it.”

Tony picked up his tablet, presenting the screen to the whole room. “So, the Mark IV. Still think it’s too flashy?”

“I think it’s unstable,” Bucky said, sliding into the chair opposite. “I need reliability, not a light show.”

Tony clicked his tongue. “So, you want boring.”

“I want functional,” Bucky replied, voice calm. “If it fails, people die.”

“Alright, alright,” Tony grumbled, thumbing through settings. “I’ll strip it down, swap in a tri-core stabilizer. Loses some edge, but it won’t jam in a blizzard.”

“And the recoil sensors?”

“Upgraded. Thermal override. But you’ll lose two percent on range.”

Bucky gave a slow nod. “I can live with that.”

He leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. His voice was still quiet, still measured. “But I want eyes on every shipment. No third-party drops. Your men hand it to mine. In person.”

Tony raised a brow. “So that’s what this mellow version of you is about— trust issues wrapped in a velvet bow.”

“Call it what you want,” Bucky said. “Non-negotiable.”

Tony leaned back and gave him a crooked grin. “Fine. But if this goes south, don’t come crying to me.”

“I don’t cry, Stark.”

“No,” Tony smirked. “But you used to break tables when you didn’t get your way.” He stood, offering a hand. “Progress.”

Bucky clasped it once, firmly.

Tony smirked. “Also, congratulations on taking down Pierce. It was about damn time.”

Bucky nodded. ”But we still haven’t caught that bastard. Escaped like a mouse.”

“I am sure you will.”

Across the room, Sam leaned toward Steve again. “Okay, what the hell? Bucky isn’t yelling, hasn’t clipped commands or threatened to break someone’s jaw or burn them alive in half an hour. Trust me, I am not complaining but what has gotten over him?”

Steve didn’t respond right away. Sam kept his voice low. “Maybe it’s not bad. You’ve seen him like this before?”

“Once,” Steve said, jaw tightening. “Before everything went to hell.”

Sam whispered slowly, “You think it’s her?”

Steve didn’t answer. He knew what Sam didn’t. Knew Bucky.

The meeting wrapped up with a handshake and a few nods. Tony left with a smirk, mumbling something about miracles and therapy. The room emptied slowly.

Bucky stayed behind, gathering the files. Calm. Almost serene. Steve didn’t move until the door clicked shut behind the last man.

Then: “You’re not even going to tell me what’s going on?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Nothing’s going on, Steve.”

“You show up smiling, speaking in full sentences, not threatening to break anyone’s jaw—Sam practically started doing the sign of the cross.”

Bucky shrugged. “Can’t a guy have a good day?”

Steve walked closer, voice dropping. “It’s not just a good day. Something’s changed.” A pause.

Then Bucky met his eyes, and Steve saw it — the softness. The warmth. Something achingly human behind the cool blue.

“She’s good for you,” Steve said, softer now. “I see it. So does Sam.” He didn’t ask. He stated it.

That earned him a glance. “What are you getting at?”

Steve exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You care about her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Steve turned to him fully. “But you’re not just smiling, Buck. You’re softening. Letting her in. That’s not something you do lightly.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, the moment of levity gone. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Steve asked, and his voice wasn’t accusing, just heavy. “Does she know who you are?”

Silence. “Buck.”

“No.” The word left his mouth quietly. “She doesn’t.”

Steve exhaled. “Then you are building a deep damn hole for yourself, Buck. Because this thing—whatever it is—it’s real. And she doesn’t know who you are.” Silence. “She doesn’t know what we do. The people we’ve hurt.”

“I know,” Bucky snapped, sharper than he intended. “You think I don’t lie awake thinking about that? You think I don’t see it every time I look at her? That every single time she smiles at me, or holds my hand, I feel like I am somehow tainting her with the blood on my hands? Every damn time she says my name with a softness I won’t be worthy of in any universe, I hate myself a little more.” He stopped, breath caught. His voice dropped, almost to a whisper, “because god damn it, how does someone like me get to even breathe the same air as someone like her?”

Steve’s voice softened, his heart aching for his best friend. “You need to tell her. Before someone else does.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, suddenly restless. “Because I finally have something that doesn’t feel like blood and ash. Something soft. And good. And real.” His voice cracked slightly. “She looks at me like I’m just… James. Not a monster. Not a mob boss. Just… James. And the moment I tell her truth, I lose that. I lose her. She would never want to see my face again, Steve. She will hate me.”

Steve takes a step forward, “You don’t know that.”

A broken expression flickered across Bucky’s face. “That’s the thing. I do. I have stood there and listened to her talking about how much she hates the mob. About how she despises them with everything she’s got. And even after that, I am such a fucking terrible person, I didn’t tell her truth. You know why? Because the moment I do so, everything comes crashing down. She will stop looking at me like someone worthy. Like someone anything more than a monster. Like someone she could love.” Bucky’s voice echoes in the hall room.

Steve had never seen his friend so scared, so vulnerable. He was seeking the light and he knew it, but he had to save his friend from the fire too. “She deserves to know the truth.”

“I know she does.”

Steve moved closer. “So tell her. Would you rather build something on a lie?”

“It’s not a lie—”

“It is if you’re hiding the worst part of yourself.” Bucky flinched. “I’m not saying you don’t deserve this,” Steve added gently. “God, Buck, if anyone deserves a shot at something good, it’s you. But you’re terrified she’ll walk away, and what then? You spiral? You burn down everything again?”

Bucky was quiet for a long time. Then, finally: “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Steve.” His voice was almost broken. “And I don’t know how to let go of that.”

Steve put a hand on his shoulder, his voice gentler now. “Then don’t.” He squeezed gently. “Just don’t wait too long. Because the truth always finds a way out. And if it comes from someone else… you won’t just lose her. You’ll lose yourself.”

Bucky looked away, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he couldn’t catch his breath. “I don’t know how to do this, Steve. I’ve never had something I wanted to protect this badly.” “You don’t protect someone by lying to them,” Steve said quietly. “You protect them by giving them the choice.”

Bucky didn’t reply. He just stared out through the window, eyes far away, knuckles white. And Steve, watching him, didn’t say anything else. Because he knew that look—the look of a man dangling off the edge, holding on with bleeding fingers, too afraid to fall and too afraid to let go.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩

You step out of the grocery store just as the sun slips below the skyline. The sky is that in-between shade and the streetlights buzz to life with a flicker, casting long shadows that stretch across the pavement.

You hug the paper bag closer to your chest. It crinkles in your arms. Feels louder than it should in the quiet. The walk to the bakery isn’t long. Ten minutes, maybe less if you don’t stop.

Your phone is silent in your coat pocket. Still no message. Still no call.

You tried not to think about it. Tried not to let the silence weigh too much. Last night meant something. Right?

Your fingers gripped the paper bag tighter. You could still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin, still remember the way he had looked at you—so gentle, so unguarded. But the doubt crept in, quiet and mean.

What if it hadn’t meant anything to him? What if you were just another soft place to land? You hate the way your chest tightens, how the silence starts to sound like a verdict. Maybe he woke up and realized it was a mistake. Maybe he left it behind like it was easy. You swallow the thought. It feels too sharp, like chewing on glass.

The city is quieter than usual. Not empty, just… muted. Like it’s holding its breath. A man across the street leans against a lamppost, smoke curling from the tip of his cigarette. He doesn’t look at you. Still, something prickles at the back of your neck. You ignore it. Tell yourself you’re being dramatic.

Another streetlamp flickered overhead. Buzz. Flicker. Dark. Light again.

You glance over your shoulder. Nothing there. And yet. There’s a feeling. Like breath on your collarbone. Like something just barely out of sight. You shake it off. Adjust your pace. Just a little faster.

Then— A sound. A footstep that doesn’t match your rhythm. You stop. Pretend to check your phone. You glance back. No one. But you feel it. That sensation. Of not being alone.

You pass the florist. Closed. Lights off. The reflection in the darkened window catching your eye. Someone was behind you. Far back. Walking slow.

You start walking again, quicker this time. Each step lands harder than the last. Your heartbeat starts to climb, matching the tempo of your feet. You pass a row of darkened windows. Your reflection moves with you. And then—a footstep. Not yours. Measured. Delibrate.

You don’t turn. You just know. Every hair on your arms stands on end. Your hands tremble, the grocery bag rustling like dry leaves. Your breath fogs in the air. You try to keep it even. Try to make it to the corner. One more street and you’ll see the bakery. The lights. The warmth. Another step behind you. Closer now.

Your mouth goes dry. You think you can hear your heartbeat—too fast, too loud—thudding in your ears like it might give you away. You grip your phone so tight your fingers ache. You don’t unlock it. Don’t text anyone. You don’t want to look down. You just want to get there.

You turn the corner. There it is. The bakery. Lit up like a beacon. You break into a near-run, not caring how it looks, not caring if you drop the stupid groceries. You don’t look back. You don’t want to see what’s behind you. Not yet.

You stumble the last few steps to the bakery. The bag crushes against your chest, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The warm glow from the bakery providing a moment of relief. Your heart hammering in your chest – But then you see him.

Just to the side of the door, half in shadow, half under the flickering bakery sign. James

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s looking at the ground like he’s arguing with himself.

“James” You call out, still out of breathe. He looks up immediately. His shoulders are tense, eyes sharp. Like he’s been waiting.

His gaze lands on you, narrowing with concern. He steps forward quickly, hand reaching out on instinct before halting just short of touching you. “Sweets, you okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I just—”

But your voice betrays you. It's thin. Unsteady.

His brows pull together. “What happened?”

You hesitate. “I think… I think someone was following me.”

“Where?” he asks, instantly alert. “Where exactly?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “Back on Hemsworth. Maybe earlier. I didn’t see a face. Just—heard footsteps. It could’ve been nothing.”

James takes a few steps away, peering down the sidewalk. You know that look—like he’s slipping into some version of himself you haven’t met yet. “I’ll check—”

“No,” you say, reaching for his arm. “Don’t.” His eyes meet yours again, searching.

“There’s no one now. And if there was someone… they wouldn’t still be standing around waiting to be caught, right?”

He doesn’t answer. Just studies you like he’s trying to read more than you’re willing to say. “Please,” you say, quieter. “I just want to go inside.”

After a beat, he nods. Gently takes the bag from your arms like it’s instinct. The touch makes something in your chest ache.

The doorbell jingles as you both step inside. Warmth spills over you. Bread and sugar and safety. But it doesn’t chase away the cold in your stomach.

James sets the bags on the counter, then hands you a glass of water. “You sure you are okay?” You slip slowly, trying to calm your trembling hands before nodding. “Yeah, yeah.”

You glance at him. He runs his hand through his hair, visibly torn. It looks like he is wrestling with something. You watch as his mouth opens slightly, like he’s going to say something – but doesn’t. And just like that, the fear creeps back in—but a different kind this time. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the part where he tells you it was a mistake. That last night was too much. Too soon.

Maybe he waited here not because he missed you—but because he needed to end it before it went further. You assume the worst—because it’s easier than hoping. You watch him battle something inside himself. Like it’s taking everything in him just to stay put.

So, you try to defuse the tension. You clear your throat. “So, I’ve been thinking about renovating the bakery.”

Bucky’s head snaps up at that. “Really? I thought you loved this place exactly how it is.”

You nod. “Yeah, but.. change is good, right?”

A smirk tugs at his lips, “Sweets, you once threatened to track down a customer and burn their house down because they moved a flower pot.”

“I - The pot is supposed to be by the window so it gets enough sunlight, everybody knows that.”

He lets out a laugh, and the sound steadies you a little.“Okay, but why the sudden change of heart?”

“Well,” you shrug, “I’ve saved up. Thanks to someone who keeps stuffing the tip jar every time they visit.” You point an accusatory finger at him.

He looks away, feigning innocence. “Could be anyone.”

“With hundred-dollar bills? Seriously?”

Bucky chuckles innocently.

Silence falls again, but this time, it’s heavier. That uneasy weight presses down again. James is still fighting something. Steve was right—if he wants this, and God, he’s never wanted anything more—he can’t build it on lies.

But the fear that the truth will destroy it—that you’ll walk away—that fear is choking him. Still, he tries. “Y/N,” he says, voice low. “I need to talk to you about something.”

One look at him, and you know it is killing him to get the words out. Why was it so difficult for him to break your heart? So, you make it easier for the both of you. “James, you don’t have to say it. I know.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. It couldn’t be, right?

You took a deep breathe before continuing, “I understand if last night didn’t mean anything. It was late. You had just come back after so long and were clearly in a rough space. I just want you to know, it’s okay. I’m okay. I mean, I know we didn’t say anything about what it was… I didn’t expect anything. It was late, we were both tired, and emotions were—high, and that happens sometimes, right?”

You let out a nervous laugh. It sounds awful. Tight. He takes a step toward you, eyes narrowing.

“Because I don’t want to make this weird,” you continue, forcing a smile that trembles at the edges. “We’re friends, right? And I hope that doesn’t change. I sincerely hope that. So if that’s where you’re at,” you rush on, “if you’re standing here because you want to say it was a mistake, or that we should just pretend it didn’t happen, or that you’re sorry—please, just say it. I can take it. I’d rather you just be honest than—than stand there looking like you’re trying to figure out how to break bad news.”

“Stop.” His voice is low. Firm. Not angry—urgent. You freeze.

He takes another step closer, and now he’s right in front of you. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him. Close enough that his voice drops even lower when he says— “Stop talking like that. Like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.” You blink, lips parting—but no words come out.

“It meant something to me,” he says. “It meant everything to me.”

Your heart stutters. “James…”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated—but not with you. With himself. With this moment. With whatever war’s been playing out behind his eyes since the second you arrived. “You think I’m trying to figure out how to walk away from you?” His eyes are on you now—unflinching. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to stay.”

He takes a breath. “I’m not good at this. I never have been. I screw things up. I keep things in. I second-guess the people I care about because… I never really let myself care before.” You can’t breathe. Not properly. “But last night?” he says, shaking his head. “I didn’t get caught up. I didn’t lose control. I chose it. I chose you. Every second of it.”

Your chest is tight now, full of too much and not enough at once. He exhales, shaky. Runs a hand down his face. “You think I could just forget what happened? That I could hold you like that and not have it break something open in me?”

He reaches out—hesitant still, but when you don’t move away, his hand finds yours. “I could never think of it as a mistake,” he says. “You could never be a mistake.”

You look at him—really look at him—and your heart stumbles over the truth that’s been sitting in your chest for hours. “I was scared it mattered more to me than it did to you.” You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know when it happened,” you murmur. “Maybe it was the night you stayed after closing just to fix the jammed drawer, or when you started learning the names of all my regulars like it mattered to you. Or maybe it was way before that, when you started showing up like clockwork, always pretending it wasn’t on purpose.” You lift your eyes to his, voice gentler now. “So if you’re scared, you’re not alone. I’m terrified. Because you matter to me in ways I don’t know how to say without sounding like I’ve already given you too much of me.”

And his thumb brushes your knuckles like he’s grounding himself with the contact. You don’t say anything.

Because suddenly, standing there in the warm light of the bakery, your hands tangled together, everything feels…right.

James steps closer. And before you can even catch your breath, he kisses you—soft and warm and real. You smile into it, wrapping your arms around his neck, kissing him back like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

When you part, you laugh quietly. “What was that?”

His smile is so warm it could light up the world. Yours, especially. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you pulled me under your ridiculously floral umbrella.”

You squint at him. “First of all, my umbrella is beautiful. Second--creepy much?”

Bucky wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer, “You know you love it.”

And you do. He will never know just how much you love it. Love him. Standing there in the heart of the bakery, wrapped in his arms, your faces close enough to count the freckles on his nose—you love all of it.

But you don’t know the war raging inside his mind. The things he hasn’t said. And the truth he was still hiding had teeth—and it was already circling the edges of everything you’d just begun to build. You just didn’t know it. At least not yet.

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