Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Playlist:

Click Here to Listen to me!

The Wisp Sings – Winter Aid

Bury You – the apology club

Bandaid Heart – Fog Lake

4am – soft siren, CASHFORGOLD, Sidewalks and Skeletons

Can't Be By Myself – Lowswimmer, Squirrel Flower, Novo Amor

Sacred Play Secret Place – matryoshka

Spanish Sahara – Foals

Opera House – Cigarettes After Sex

Bloom – The Paper Kites

It's Been a Long, Long Time – Harry James

Let's Stay Together – Al Green

Moonglow – Eddie DeLange, Irving Mills, Will Hudson

Buzzcut Season – Lorde

love song~ – Corbon Amodio

Yam Yam – No Vacation

Love Costs – Love Spells

To Build A Home – The Cinematic Orchestra, Patrick Watson

Formidable – Twenty One Pilots

One year and twenty-four days. That's how long it's been since a piece of me died. Though it feels like yesterday—with the aching hole it left in my chest—she left, in my chest. My best friend.

It happened all so abruptly. One day we were together. The next morning, they told me she died in her sleep.

“A heart attack? In her twenties? Healthy as can be? God, what a joke.” I let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh.

I tried to make sense of it. I did. But I just can't grasp the fact that I will never see her smile again or hear her laughter. She won't be here to criticize my meal choices or tell me I don't exercise enough.

The first few months were rough. I took a break from my job. I couldn't leave the house. I couldn't eat. I rarely spoke to my family and friends—and when I did, I kept it short. Just enough to let them know I was still breathing. I started to lose sight of the point of... everything. What's the point of eating balanced meals and staying active when she did all that and still died of a heart attack?

Looking back, if it weren't for my mom and sister dropping by to check on me and feed me, I don't know what I would've become. A walking zombie, probably.

Music—what once was my passion—now felt empty. She used to listen to my new pieces and unapologetically voice her opinions.

The void she left keeps sucking more pieces of my soul with each passing day. And this stupid city isn't helping. Every shop, every corner still carries her scent and voice. The coffee shop we used to sit in for hours, gossiping and complaining about our jobs. The park where she scraped her knee chasing some kid's kite like a damn heroine. Serves her right for being so goody-hearted. She didn't even like kids. I sigh. A small smile tugs at my lips as I recall that day.

I couldn't stand it anymore. I needed out. I quit my job—yeah, quit. It was draining me even more, and besides, I had enough savings to live comfortably for a while.

I needed to start fresh. Somewhere else. A place that wouldn't remind me of her.

The town's name is something forgettable. It's a quiet place, one that feels like it should've been erased from the map decades ago. The kind of place where everyone knows your name—or your business, if you're unlucky. Me? I'm not here for gossip or small-town charm. I'm here for the escape. New town. New beginnings. I need the peace, the space, the silence.

After I unpacked in the small, cozy place I rented—just until I figured things out—the second thing I did was buy a car. A good deal I stumbled on. It was cheap because it had some issues, but nothing too serious. Or so I thought.

I'd been using it for two days for grocery runs until it finally gave out on me today. I'm not surprised—I expected it. But still, can't say I'm not frustrated it happened now.

“Dammit,” I sigh as I get out.

I pop the hood and stare at the engine like it's about to give me a sign. It doesn't. Truth is, I know nothing about fixing cars. I stand there helplessly for a minute before glancing around. No one in sight. Of course.

I can think of someone who would scold me right now for not getting it checked first.

I shove that thought aside, lock the car, and start walking. After what felt like thirty minutes of walking, I spot what looks like a local garage. I halt and blink. I'm not usually this lucky.

“This must be your doing, huh?” I mutter to the sky before heading toward the garage.

I hear it before I see it—the clank of metal, the low grunt of effort—and then I spot him.

A tall, broad-shouldered man, sleeves nonexistent in a white tank top stained with oil and time, crouched beside the open hood of a car. His dark hair curls slightly at the ends, damp with sweat, and there's a focused intensity in his eyes. The kind that makes you pause before stepping closer. The kind that says he's not someone you interrupt lightly.

But what catches my eye is his left arm— metal, gleaming faintly under the dim garage lights, flexing as he tightens something under the hood. Not a tool. Not quite a prosthetic. It moves too smoothly, too powerfully. Sleek and dark and entirely out of place in a town like this. Like him.

I'd never seen anything like it up close before. Sure, I'd heard that prosthetics had gotten more advanced over the years—something about Stark technology pushing the limits after all the big battles and disasters and whatever magic they worked over in Wakanda— But I wasn't exactly an expert when it came to the whole "Avengers" scene. I figured it was just...a thing now. People with metal limbs that looked like something out of a sci-fi movie.

Still, there was something about the way his arm moved—an effortless strength, a quiet danger—that made my heart skip in ways that had nothing to do with curiosity and everything to do with something far less innocent.

And then there's the cat. A white one, perched like royalty—of all places—on the seat of a motorcycle parked beside him. Watching with half-lidded eyes like she's judging his technique... or maybe just judging me. Draped across the back of the motorcycle is a weathered leather jacket, creased with age and use, like it's been through just as much as the man who owns it.

I swallow.

Of course the town's only mechanic looks like he walked out of a gritty romance novel. Because why wouldn't he?

I linger by the door for a moment, unsure if I should interrupt. But he decides for me when his attention lands on me. His eyes are sharp, but tired. He smiles—just barely—a twitch of his lips, and then it’s gone.

“Need something?” he asks, voice gravelly like it's rarely used.

I glance at the cat, who's still judging me like I owe her rent. Then back at him. “I'm new in town. My car's... well, it's barely hanging on. Broke down just outside of town.”

He nods like he's heard this story a dozen times. Wipes his hands on a rag and tosses it aside.

“You're in the right place,” he says, stepping closer.

Now that he's closer, I can see the color of his eyes—blue, like the ocean right before a storm. Dangerous. Beautiful.

He stops in front of me and offers his hand.

“Bucky. And that's Alpine” he says, gesturing behind him towards the cat.

“Y/N.” I shake it, trying very hard not to think about how his calloused hand feels against mine.

“I left my car just a few minutes down the road,” I say, suddenly aware of how I probably look—dusty, mildly annoyed, and fully caught off guard by... all this.

He tosses a quick glance at the tools behind him before grabbing a ring of keys from the wall.

“C'mon. I'll drive you over.”

I follow him as he strides out toward a beat-up old truck that's parked beside the garage. It's more rust than paint, with a personality of its own, and I can't help but glance back at the open garage.

“You okay just leaving it open like that?” I nod toward the motorcycle, still gleaming under the garage lights like a beast at rest. “What if someone just... walks in? Takes something?”

He gives me a look over the roof of the truck—a slow smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth like he knows something I don't.

“They know better than to steal from me,” he says simply, unlocking the doors.

I raise a brow. “And by ‘they,’ you mean...?”

“Everyone.” He opens the driver's door like that's the end of the conversation. And honestly? It kinda is.

I hesitate for half a second, then shrug and climb into the passenger side. Alpine leaps up into the back seat with the grace of a feline that's clearly done this a hundred times. She curls up immediately, like she's got zero fear of bumping along backcountry roads in a truck that looks like it's held together with spit and sarcasm.

The engine rumbles to life, loud and growling, and we pull onto the road.

The ride is... quiet. Not awkward, but charged. Like we're both sitting in our own thoughts and neither of us is in a rush to fill the space. The windows are down, letting the wind carry in the scent of pine and something that smells faintly of gasoline.

“I don't take the bike for runs like this,” he cuts the silence, like he's been mulling it over the whole ride. “Hard to haul a broken car with a motorcycle.”

I blink, then laugh softly. “Fair point.”

“Besides,” he adds, shifting gears with practiced ease, “Alpine hates the bike.”

I glance back. Sure enough, she's already halfway to a nap, completely unbothered. I smile.

A few minutes later, we pull up to my sad excuse of a car. It's still parked pitifully at the side of the road like it knows it's failed me.

Bucky steps out, cracks his neck, and crouches down to check under the hood. I watch him work for a minute—quiet, focused, efficient.

“Timing belt's shot,” he mutters, more to himself than me. “You got a lemon.”

“You don't say.”

He glances up with that ghost of a smirk again, then rises to his full height and walks back to the truck. He pulls out a heavy-duty tow strap from the bed like it weighs nothing.

“I'll drag her back to the garage,” he says.

“Seriously? You don't wanna send for a tow or something?”

He snorts like I just told him the sky was green. “Nah. We're already here. Might as well.”

And just like that, he hooks the car up like he's done this in his sleep and motions for me to get back in the truck.

As we drive off, towing my pathetic car behind us, I steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye.

Yeah... there's definitely more to this man than grease stains and gruff silence.

Back at the garage, Bucky unhooks the strap with practiced ease and gives my car one last look.

“I'll take a better look at it tomorrow,” he says, wiping his hands again. “Got the tools here for it, but I need to grab a part from the shop a few towns over.”

“Should I... call a cab or—?”

He cuts me off with a shake of his head. “I'll give you a ride home.”

I hesitate, not out of suspicion—though I probably should have some—but more because I'm not used to this. Kindness without strings. From a guy with a murder-arm and a brooding stare.

Inside the garage, the air smells like oil, metal, and something faintly minty, like his cologne maybe. The light's dimmer now, golden hour bleeding through the wide garage door and setting Alpine's fur aglow as she hops back onto her throne—aka the motorcycle seat.

“Does she always sit there?” I ask, gently placing my hand out toward her to see if she's the friendly type.

“She runs the place,” Bucky replies as he heads toward a cluttered workbench. “I just work here.”

Alpine sniffs my fingers, then begrudgingly lets me scratch under her chin. It feels like winning the approval of a tiny queen.

I wander a bit, curiosity tugging at me. On a shelf near the back wall, there's a small collection of random things—an old pocketknife, a framed photo turned just slightly away, a couple of dusty books. Not enough to tell a full story, but enough to know there is one.

I glance over my shoulder to make sure he's still at the bench, then tilt the photo ever-so-slightly to get a better look.

Two men. One of them unmistakably Bucky—clean-shaven, younger, smiling wide in a way I haven't seen yet. The other guy has goggles on his head and a grin like trouble.

“Don't go snooping too deep,” his voice comes from behind me, low but not harsh. More like a warning wrapped in amusement.

I freeze like a kid caught raiding the cookie jar. “Sorry. Just... curious.”

He steps beside me, his gaze flicking toward the photo. “That was a long time ago. Whole different life.”

“You look happy.”

He doesn't answer, just gives a noncommittal hum and steps away again.

“You hungry?” he asks suddenly, eyes flicking to the clock. “I usually make something simple before I close up.”

I blink, surprised. “I can't impose.”

“You're not.” He shrugs. “Besides, Alpine gets fussy if I don't feed my guests.”

The cat lifts her head at her name like she agrees.

“Alright then,” I say, a little breathless from... I don't even know what. a little smile creeping up. “If it's by royal decree, who am I to refuse?”

He chuckles softly, that low, rough sound that feels like it hasn't seen the light of day in a while, and heads toward the small kitchenette tucked in the corner of the garage. It's modest—barely more than a hot plate, a tiny fridge, and a chipped mug collection—but it feels... lived in. Like he actually spends time here, not just fixes cars and disappears.

I settle onto a worn stool at the counter, Alpine hopping up next to me with the grace of a practiced judge, tail flicking like she's deciding if I'm worthy of dinner company.

Bucky moves with easy confidence, rummaging through a few containers until he finds what he's looking for. “Grilled cheese or eggs?” he asks, turning back to me with a raised brow.

“Bold of you to assume I'm not a gourmet grilled cheese enthusiast,” I reply, leaning my elbows on the counter.

His lips twitch—there's that ghost-smirk again. “Grilled cheese it is.”

As he starts prepping, I let the silence settle again. It's not awkward—it's... warm. Like a pause between the beats of a song. The sizzle of butter in the pan, the faint creak of the stool as I shift, Alpine's soft purrs. It's all oddly comforting.

“You always cook here?” I ask after a moment, watching him flip the bread like he's done it a million times.

“Sometimes,” he says. “Place gets quiet at night. Beats eating alone in the house.”

There's something in the way he says it—like he doesn't mind the quiet, but maybe it's been too quiet for a little too long.

“I get that,” I murmur. “Quiet can be peaceful... until it's not.”

He glances at me, something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly. “Exactly that.”

The longer I sit here, watching him, the more memories bubble up. Leia, my best friend. She always handled the cooking when she stayed at my place. I was rarely home, almost never touched the kitchen. I used to whine about her meals being too healthy, too bland—but that was a lie, and we both knew it. She could make anything taste great. She didn't just love cooking—she was good at it. Just like she was good at everything.

The hole in my chest aches again. The sound of utensils snaps me back to the present. Bucky slides a plate toward me. Perfect golden bread, cheese melted just right. He hands me a bottle of hot sauce without asking—like he already knows I'll want it. (Which is terrifyingly accurate.)

“Thanks,” I say, genuinely.

He shrugs like it's nothing. “Told you. Alpine runs a tight ship.”

The cat meows once—like she's confirming the truth—and then curls back into a loaf.

We eat side by side in silence, Alpine settling between us like a tiny chaperone.

“And you?” he suddenly asks. “What do you do?”

Ah. The million-dollar question.

I hesitate just a second too long. “Music,” I say finally. “Piano, mostly.”

He glances sideways at me—curious, but not pushy. “That why your hands look like that?”

I blink down at them. “Like what?”

He shrugs again. “Delicate. But strong.”

A beat passes. Okay. Didn't expect that.

I clear my throat. “Yeah, well. Years of practice.”

“You any good?”

“I'm alright,” I say, smirking.

He gives a low, amused huff—like he sees through it. “Guess I'll find out someday.”

I glance at him. He's looking at me again with those ocean-colored eyes—calm on the surface, deep as hell underneath.

“You planning on stalking me or...?” Ugh. The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Regret hits instantly.

But it earns me a real smirk. Barely there, but enough to light up his whole face. “Maybe.”

I don't answer. Neither does he. It hangs there between us, crackling like the last flickers of a fire you didn't realize was burning.

We finish eating, and he stands to start cleaning. I get up to help, but he waves me off.

“You're the guest. Sit.”

I hesitate, just for a moment. Then I sit. Because it feels safe to.
And it hits me—when was the last time I felt this safe?

I watch him move around the small space, cleaning up like it's second nature. Like he's done this a thousand times. Like stillness isn't new to him. I don't ask what brought him to this forgotten town. He doesn't ask why I really came either. But there's a quiet understanding settling between us. The kind that doesn't need words. Two strangers. A quiet dinner. The edge of the world. And somehow... it feels like the beginning of something.

The sky's already gone full navy by the time we leave the garage. Crickets hum in the trees, and the distant chirp of frogs carries through the fields like a lullaby. The kind of night that settles on your shoulders like a blanket. Soft. Heavy. Still.

He drives me back with the same beat-up truck that looks like it's survived more than a few apocalypses— We don't speak much on the way. The road winds lazily through the woods, and everything is quiet. No honking horns. No city buzz. Just gravel crunching under tires and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.

“It's so quiet here,” I murmur, not even sure I meant to say it out loud.

His hand stays steady on the wheel. “That's the point.”

I glance at him, but he doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. I get it.

He takes every turn without thinking, one hand loose on the wheel, posture relaxed. He knows this town like muscle memory. Like he's been here a while. Long enough to settle into the rhythm of it.

We pull into the gravel drive in front of my house—or, well, my temporary house. Still smells like fresh paint and unpacked dreams.

The porch light flickers as I climb out, the boards groaning under my weight. I fumble for my keys.

Then I notice him trailing a few steps behind me.

“You don't have to—” I start.

He cuts me off with a shrug. “Old habit.”

His tone isn't forceful, just matter-of-fact. Like muscle memory again. I wonder how many people he's walked to their doors before this. And how many made it back.

I unlock the door, push it open. The inside smells faintly like wood, cleaning solution, and cardboard. Boxes everywhere. It's still a stranger's house with my name taped on the side.

I turn back toward him. “I can swing by the garage tomorrow around ten? To check in on the car?”

He nods once. “That works.”

Another silence lingers, but this one feels warmer. Not awkward. Not loaded. Just… quiet.

He steps back toward his truck. Alpine watches us from the passenger window like she's judging every unspoken word between us.

I shut the door behind me, lean back against it, and exhale.

For a second, I just stand there. Listening to the silence press in around me like foam. Then I glance down at my hands, still tingling from the heat of the grilled cheese. Still remembering the glint of metal when he was fixing that car.

The arm.

I pull out my phone and type fast: “Bucky,  metal arm.”

It's instant.

Photos. Articles. Redacted reports. History lessons dressed as headlines.

The Winter Soldier.

My breath catches.

Assassin. War criminal. Avenger. Ghost. Redemption arc.

I scroll through image after image—young, wild-eyed, frozen in time. Then newer ones. Tired eyes. Softer. Like the man who made me grilled cheese and walked me to my door. And there was a man besides him, the same man I saw in that photo in his garage.

I stare at the phone screen a little longer, my thumb frozen mid-scroll. My heart's pounding. Not in a panicky, oh-no-he's-a-killer way. It's... different. Heavy. Quiet. Like a ripple in a still pond after something just sank to the bottom.

That's why the arm looked familiar. I'd seen it before.

When Leia used to stay at my place, she'd watch the news obsessively. I remember seeing glimpses—flickers of that same metal arm on TV screens, while I paced or practiced or tuned the piano. Back then, it was background noise. I barely paid attention. I was too busy. Too booked. Too removed.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, suddenly overwhelmed.

Not scared. Not even shocked, really. Just… reevaluating everything. Every quiet glance, every half-smile, every weighted pause between us. The way he watched me without making it feel invasive. The way he didn't flinch when I said I liked the quiet.

Of course he did. He's lived a thousand lives inside his own skin.

God.

Leia would've flipped.

She was obsessed with the Avengers. Not in a “team t-shirt” way—she saw past the headlines. Said they were all just people doing damage control on their own trauma. She would've recognized him instantly. Would've elbowed me the moment he walked into the garage. Would've dragged me into the back room and whispered, "Do you have any idea who that is?"

Everything feels surreal. Like I stepped into a story I was never meant to be in.

But here's the thing—I don't know him as that. As the Winter Soldier. As a headline. I know him as the guy who fixes cars, the guy who makes grilled cheese in a garage kitchenette and lets his cat judge people.

And that's the version I want to know more about. Not the myth. Not the legacy. Just him.

I drop the phone beside me and flop down onto the old couch in the middle of the living room—no throw pillows, no rugs, just an empty space echoing with the life I left behind.

My eyes drift up to the ceiling.

Leia would've loved this town. She'd have joked about the silence, mocked the deer heads in the antique store, insisted we start a garden we'd forget to water. She would've cooked that first night. Told me the walls were too beige.

Told me I needed to let go.

And now there's Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Ghost of a soldier. Cat dad. He didn't ask questions. Didn't pry. Just made me grilled cheese and walked me to my door like we weren't strangers at all.

I came here to be alone... So why do I already feel less alone?

Chapter Text

I fell asleep on the couch before I meant to. Somewhere between deciding if I had the energy to stand and head to my new bedroom. The hum of the old fridge down the hall filled the space as sleep took me like a tide. My body was exhausted, but my mind... my mind wandered.

In my dream, I was back in my old apartment. The one with the sun-soaked hardwood floors and the velvet blue walls I'd picked to match Leia's favorite mug.

Leia was there, barefoot in the kitchen, her hair tied messily on top of her head like always. She was cooking, humming something low and familiar. Music spilled faintly from the record player—something old and jazzy. It was warm. It felt like breathing.

Then she turned to speak. But her voice didn't match her lips. It came out warped—like a cassette melting in the sun.

“Wait—what? I can't—Leia, I can't hear you—what are you trying to say?”

I stepped forward, but the floor twisted under me. Her mouth kept moving. Her eyes weren't her eyes.

“Leia—please—I'm sorry, I-”

The walls flickered like a dying film reel.

I blinked, and I was back in my childhood home. But it was wrong.

The silence was thick, like it had weight. Every room swallowed sound. I called out—first for Leia, then my parents, but the names felt foreign in my mouth. No one answered.

Their voices came anyway—whispers curling under doors, echoing in vents, slipping behind me when I turned around.

I stumbled through the hallway, breath hitching, throat dry. Furniture sat at angles that defied logic. Every picture frame was crooked. Every mirror was covered.

The whispers grew louder, desperate now. Mocking.

She's gone.

You let her go.

You always let them go.

“No—no, that's not—”

I pressed my hands to my ears, but the voices crawled in anyway.

I was alone. And I was starting to think I always would be.

I fell through darkness; cold, endless, smothering.

And then—

I shot awake, breathless. My skin clammy with sweat. The light coming in from the window was a pale grey-yellow, that early spring sunlight. The silence in the house pressed against me, a stark contrast to the crowded noise in my head.

I rubbed at my eyes and forced myself to sit up. “It was just a dream,” I muttered, though it didn't make it feel any less real.

Dragging myself into the kitchen, I attempted to make coffee. The ancient coffee machine sputtered like a dying animal before begrudgingly spitting out something drinkable. I tripped over a box I swore I shoved into a corner yesterday. Swore at it too.

Still barely unpacked. Still not settled.

I sat in the kitchen for what felt like hours, staring into nothing, the coffee growing cold in my hands.

Trying not to think about the nightmare.

It wasn't real. They wouldn't blame you.

I told myself that. Over and over.

I took another sip, trying to chase the echo of their voices from my head.

When I finally glanced at the clock, it was almost 10 a.m.

I threw on something clean—jeans, a grey sweater that had seen better days. It hugged my arms and made me feel smaller in a way I needed. I brushed my hair into some semblance of order and grabbed my coat.

I couldn't deny the flutter in my chest. Not quite nerves. Not quite anticipation. But something. I knew who Bucky Barnes was. The Winter Soldier. The man who shouldn't be alive. The man who tried to disappear.

And now, here I was. Meeting him at 10 a.m. on a random Wednesday like this was normal.

The town looked different in daylight. Softer. Kinder. A woman opened a bakery, the scent of cinnamon drifting onto the street. A boy sped past me on a bike too small for him. Someone waved from behind a dusty window. It wasn't lively, but it breathed. And today, I breathed with it.

Bucky's garage came into view—unassuming, old, but cared for. The doors were wide open. I saw him before he saw me.

He was bent over something under the hood of my car. Grease on his hands. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Muscles flexing with every turn of the wrench. I had to remind myself to keep walking instead of gawking.

Alpine sat perched on a windowsill like some judgmental feline overlord.

“You're early,” he said without looking up.

“You said ten. It's ten.”

He smirked as he finally glanced up. “Exactly. Early.”

I rolled my eyes playfully and walked closer. “So, what's the damage?”

“Well, timing belt and starter are going bad. Battery's hanging on by a thread. I've got some parts in town, just gotta make the rounds.”

“Sounds serious.”

He shrugged. “Nothing I can't fix.”

We stood in a pocket of quiet for a moment. I watched Alpine jump down and saunter over, brushing against my leg like she was the one fixing the car.

“She always this friendly?” I asked.

“She pretends not to care, but she's needy. Found her sitting on the hood of my old truck two years ago. Never left.”

“Sounds like she adopted you.”

“Guess she has a type.” He glanced at me sideways.

I laughed before I could stop myself.

“I'll drive you into town,” he said. “Need to pick up parts.”

“Sure.”

We took the truck again. The drive was quiet at first, until we passed an old music shop. My gaze caught on the window—an upright piano sat on display. The wood was dark, worn around the keys. My chest tightened.

“You still play?” he asked.

“Used to.”

“You any good, or were you just being modest the other day?”

“I was good,” I said softly. “Once.”

I didn't say more. Couldn't. And Bucky didn't push.

The truth was… I stopped the moment everything changed. When she died.

I couldn't bear to touch the keys. Every chord sounded like a memory I wasn't ready to feel.

Music used to be home. A lifeline. The one constant in a world that never stayed still. Now it felt like standing too close to a fire. Beautiful—yes—but it burned if I lingered too long. My hands trembled before they touched the keys, like they remembered something I wasn't ready to. There were ghosts in the chords. Ones that hadn't let me breathe in a long time.

After a moment, we pulled into a small hardware shop with a crooked sign, and just as we were about to head inside, an old man—white beard, suspenders, the whole picture, stepped out with a plastic bag of screws and washers. He grinned when he saw Bucky.

"This guy," he said, slapping Bucky on the back, "fixed my faucet last week, thing was screamin' at me for days. Didn't even charge me. Hell of a guy."

Bucky smiled. “Glad it's not screaming anymore.”

“You've got magic hands, son. Be well.”

The old man nodded at me with a curious glance, then hobbled off. I looked at Bucky, who was already heading inside like the whole thing hadn't just made my heart squeeze.

He's far from the assassin the world once feared. He wasn't the man people whispered about in news stories anymore. Not here. Not now. Not with Alpine, and busted faucets, and that kind of patience.

When we got back, he unloaded the parts and got to work. I stayed a while, helped where I could. Mostly held tools, handed him bolts, and asked questions like, “How do you know what's wrong just by listening?” or “Does fixing things make you feel in control?” That one earned me a look and a smirk. He was patient. Gentle in ways that surprised me.

“I like puzzles,” he said. “Broken things have patterns.”

I leaned against the edge of the workbench, twirling a wrench in my hands. "Patterns?"

"Yeah. There's always a reason something stops working. Noise, timing, resistance—machines don't just break without warning. You just have to pay attention."

"So, it's like… learning a language?"

He glanced up at me, and for a second, his smirk softened into something closer to surprise. "Exactly. You listen long enough, it tells you everything."

I stared at him for a moment, his words weighing down on me.

"I like that," I said. "Finding order in the chaos."

"Guess it's comforting," he shrugged, wiping his hands on a rag. "Machines don't lie. They don't pretend to be fine when they're not."

That sat between us for a second, heavy and quiet. I didn't press, but I felt it in my chest like a tuning fork—how familiar that sounded.

"So," I said, breaking the silence, "why here?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Here?"

"You don't seem like you're from around this town," I said, trying to sound casual. "And this place—" I gestured around the garage, at the mismatched tools and the cat curled up in the sunbeam on an oil-stained couch—"It feels like it means something."

He considered me for a second, then turned back to the engine. "It's quiet."

I waited, thinking that might be it. But he kept going.

"People keep to themselves. Not a lot of questions. I needed that."

"And the garage?"

"I didn’t plan it, honestly. Came with the place. But... it made sense."

"Because of the patterns?"

"Because it keeps my hands busy," he said, and this time, the smile was faint but real. "Keeps the past from sticking too much, and it gives people a reason to come by without getting too close."

That made me smile too. It wasn't much. But it was something.

He glanced at me sideways. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“I'm curious,” I said with a shrug. “You've got mystery written all over you.”

He huffed a short laugh. “Takes one to know one.”

I paused, then looked down at the bolt I was holding. “Guess it does.”

There was a beat of silence, like the world outside the garage held its breath. Then—

“What about you?” he asked. “You're not from here either. What made you pick a town like this?”

The question wasn't pushy. Just quiet, genuine. The kind people asked when they weren't looking for the full story—just the shape of it.

I fiddled with the bolt, then said, “I needed out. Somewhere quiet and unfamiliar. Somewhere no one knew me.”

His gaze flicked toward me, unreadable. “And this place is good at that.”

“Yeah,” I said, giving him a small smile. “It feels like it forgot how to be loud.”

A mutual understanding, tucked inside a conversation about machines and noise and silence. Neither of us saying too much. But saying enough.

We settled into a rhythm after that—me holding things steady while he worked, the soft clink of metal and the low hum of his voice when he muttered to himself. It wasn't awkward. If anything, it felt… easy. Like the kind of silence that understands you better than words do.

At one point, our hands brushed as I passed him a wrench. He didn't flinch. Neither did I. But the contact left a trail of heat that lingered longer than it should've.

“You're not bad at this,” he said eventually, nodding toward the open hood.

“I hold things real good,” I deadpanned.

That earned me a grin. A real one. Brief, crooked, gone too soon—but it lit something in his face I hadn’t seen before.

He leaned back against the edge of the car, arms crossed, eyes scanning me like he was trying to read sheet music upside down. “Must be all that piano training. You know—world-renowned tool-holding technique.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Yeah, they really drill that in. First year's just passing wrenches and pretending not to cry.”

He smirked. “Sounds rigorous.”

“Oh, brutal. Only the emotionally repressed survive.”

Another pause. Warm. Almost domestic.

I stood there for a moment, watching him work. There was something oddly peaceful about it. The way his hands moved with purpose, the methodical twist of the wrench, the quiet hum of the engine. It was like he knew exactly where every piece fit, every turn, every sound.

I heard the soft thud of paws against the concrete floor before a small white blur streaked past my feet.

I jumped, letting out an embarrassing yelp. I totally forgot about Alpine.

Bucky chuckled, looking down at the source of my alarm. "Alpine's got a thing for making grand entrances."

Alpine, the small white fluffball, was already rubbing herself against my ankle, purring loudly. I glanced down at the cat, eyes wide, then up at Bucky.

“Is this your secret weapon? Distracting people with cuteness?” I teased, crouching to give Alpine a scratch behind the ears.

Bucky smirked again. “She's got her methods. But yeah, she's been known to win hearts before the real work even starts.”

Alpine, evidently pleased with her performance, bumped her head into my hand, purring even louder.

I raised an eyebrow, glancing up at Bucky. “You really let her get away with that? Just letting your cat steal the spotlight?”

“I've learned to pick my battles,” he replied, crossing his arms, his tone slightly amused. “she's the real boss around here.”

I chuckled, scratching Alpine's chin. "I can see that."

Alpine then stretched lazily, her tail flicking in the air. I couldn't help but smile at how perfectly she mirrored her owner. Both of them were calm, yet there was something underneath, something sharp, hidden.

“So, what's next?” I asked, my voice breaking the stillness.

Bucky glanced over at me, wiping his hands with a rag. “Next, we see if the parts fit. Then, maybe I'll teach you how to fix a car.”

I laughed at that. “Right. Because I'm totally handy with an engine.”

“I could teach you,” he said, his grin widening, “but only if you promise not to blow anything up.”

“I make no promises,” I teased, even though the thought of even touching a wrench made me break out in nervous sweat.

He gave a half-hearted shrug. “Fair enough.”

There was a pause, and then he spoke again, his voice softer this time, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“You ever miss it?” he asked.

I glanced up, unsure at first what he meant. “Miss what?”

“Playing,” he clarified. “The piano. Do you miss it?”

The question hung in the air, heavier than I expected. I didn't want to go there, not now, not when I'd just barely started to feel like maybe, just maybe, I could breathe again.

But his eyes were soft, patient, waiting for an answer. So, I gave him one. “I don't know. It's... complicated.” I paused for a moment before continuing. “Music... it used to be everything. But now, it feels like something I can't touch without breaking.”

Bucky didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, he gave a slow nod, as if he understood. It was the kind of silence that didn't need to be filled with words.

“Maybe one day,” he said quietly. “When you're ready.”

I nodded back, feeling a strange comfort in his words. For the first time in a long time, the idea of playing again didn't feel as terrifying.

Bucky cleared his throat, as if shaking off the heavy moment. “So, do you want to help me finish up here, or should I let you go—before you start fixing things and make a mess of it?”

I shot him a playful look. “I'll leave the dirty work to you, thanks.”

He chuckled, that low, rumbling sound that seemed to shake loose something in my chest. “Suit yourself.”

And just like that, the easy silence returned. No pressure. No expectations. Just the two of us, sitting side by side in the quiet of the garage, with Alpine purring somewhere nearby.

The day was coming to an end and it was time for me to head home. I stood up for a moment, the hum of the tools still buzzing. I felt the need to say something before I left. It felt too abrupt just to walk out after everything, even if I wasn't entirely sure what everything was yet.

“Well,” I said, clearing my throat as I glanced over at Bucky. He was leaning over the engine, still focused, his fingers working with an ease that made it look effortless. “Guess I'll leave you to it, then. I'll come again Friday? See how it's going?”

He looked up, his gaze softening when his eyes landed on mine. There was that small, easy smile again, the one that didn't seem forced, like he actually didn't mind my presence.

“Yeah, I'll be here,” he said, wiping his hands. “You're welcome to stop by anytime.”

I hesitated, then nodded. “Thanks… for today. For, well, everything.”

His smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he nodded in return. “No problem. I'm good at fixing things.”

I couldn't help but smile, the weight lifting a little more from my chest. “I'll see you Friday, then.”

“Friday,” he repeated, his eyes following me as I turned to leave.

I walked away, not looking back, but knowing I'd be back again soon. There was something about that garage, about the way Bucky was, that felt like a strange kind of homecoming, even if I didn't know what I was coming home to.

As I walked back toward the quiet of my little house, the weight on my chest felt lighter. The air felt different somehow, less suffocating. It wasn't much, but it was something. Maybe I hadn't solved everything, but for the first time in a long while, I felt like I could breathe without the heaviness hanging over me.

The walk home was peaceful—no rushing thoughts, no haunting memories. Just the soft crunch of gravel beneath my boots, the distant hum of life that seemed almost too quiet. The small town was settling in for the night, the sky bruising with the last light of day. I felt like I was walking away from something… and maybe, for the first time, that wasn't a bad thing.

It was strange, I thought. How someone I just met felt like someone I've known for years.

I couldn't say what exactly had changed since I'd met Bucky.

After I looked him up—just a little. Just enough to find fragments of his story. Steve too. I didn't dig too deep, even though part of me wanted to know everything. It felt...wrong, somehow. Like reading secondhand accounts and half-truths written by strangers could ever capture what really happened to him. What he really lived through. Some things deserved to stay between the scars and the heartbeats they belonged to.

Maybe that's why something in me leaned toward him without meaning to. Because I know what it's like to lose someone and still carry them around in the empty spaces they left behind. He lost a friend too. A brother, if the way the world talked about them was even half true.

Maybe that's why, with him, I don't feel like I have to hide so much of myself anymore. Like I don't have to lock everything away.

By the time I reached the porch of my place, the air felt colder, but the warmth from the garage still lingered in my bones. It was a strange comfort, one that I hadn't realized I needed until now.

Chapter Text

A full day had passed since I met Bucky Barnes for the second time in a garage that smelled like engine oil and sawdust. And somehow, I hadn't had a nightmare last night. Not one. I woke up to sunlight bleeding through the curtains and a strange sensation that settled in my chest—peace. Not the loud kind, not the triumphant kind. Just... quiet. Steady. Like the silence after a storm.

I stayed in bed for a little longer, blinking at the ceiling and letting the feeling soak in. Then I finally got up and cleaned around the house. I swept the dusty wooden floors with slow, methodical strokes, watching little clouds of debris catch the light like ash. I wiped down the windowsills and dusted the tops of shelves I hadn't dared look at since I moved in. The place still smelled faintly of cardboard and cleaning solution, but it was beginning to feel more like mine.

I unpacked some of the boxes I'd been pretending didn't exist. One of them was labeled "Kitchen—Useless," but I found a few mugs I actually liked, and a chipped plate that looked like it had survived a war. It felt good. Not exciting. Just... grounding.

Around noon, I walked into town again to get groceries. The list was basic: vegetables, bread, eggs, coffee. I wasn't ready yet to risk it with chicken or meat. But somehow, I left the store with an air fryer. Leia would've screamed with joy. She used to go on and on about how magical those things were. How I was wasting my life without one. Her voice echoed in my head—bossy, teasing, full of life. I hugged the box closer to my chest as I walked home, pretending it didn't make my throat feel tight.

The town itself was starting to peel back its layers for me. The streets were narrow and cracked in places, framed with crooked lampposts and phone wires that zigzagged across the sky like a nervous sketch. I passed a florist that smelled like soil and sweet petals, and a bookstore that looked permanently closed. The bakery was open, though. The only bakery I saw in town and the woman from before waved me in. I left with a paper bag full of something flaky and buttery and probably way too indulgent for someone who claimed to be on a healing journey. I didn't care. It was warm in my hands, and it made me feel human.

I made it home and after putting away the groceries, I tried one of the beginner recipes from the little manual—some roasted vegetables that smelled better than they tasted. The seasoning was off. Leia would've told me to add garlic powder. Maybe next time. Still, I cleaned the plate. Progress.

On the way back from the store earlier, I had passed by that music shop again. The one I saw yesterday with Bucky. Only this time, I didn't just stare, I opened the door. A bell jingled. The shop smelled like wood polish and something warm, maybe cinnamon. The piano was still there, right where I'd seen it. Dark wood, worn around the keys, haunting. 

I walked up to it and hovered my fingers over the keys. Just hovered. Like touching them might wake something I wasn't ready to face.

"You play?"

The owner was an older man with kind eyes and a half-finished crossword in his hands.

"A little," I said.

He nodded like he didn't believe me but didn't mind. "We've got a smaller one in the back. Good for warming up if you're rusty."

Rusty. Sure. That was one word for it.

I didn't touch the piano.

Later that night, I watched some show I didn't care about, something with laugh tracks and overly bright lighting. It filled the space. That's all I needed it to do.

But when the TV clicked off and the silence came back, my thoughts wandered to him.

Bucky.

I had spent the whole day not thinking about him. Not on purpose, just... lightly ignoring the fact that he existed and how he made me feel. But now, in the dark, I couldn't help it. The way his muscles moved when he tightened bolts, the subtle curve of a smile when I said something sarcastic, the way his eyes softened as they looked at me—not through me, not around me, but at me. Like I was real. Like he understood. 

I told myself it was curiosity. Maybe gratitude. He was helping me with my car, after all. Nothing more.

Tomorrow, I'd see him again. That thought shouldn't have made my stomach flip, but it did. I was looking forward to it, more than I wanted to admit. Maybe it was just the loneliness. Or maybe it was the way he made silence feel less heavy.

Still, I went to sleep with his name buried somewhere beneath my thoughts, tucked under layers of excuses and half-lies.

The dream was soft this time. No chaos, no shadows clawing at the corners of my sleep. Just Leia, leaning against a kitchen counter that didn't exist anymore, laughing at me as I fumbled with an air fryer. Her voice was bright, proud even, and when she said, "Took you long enough," I could feel my lips tug into a smile even in the dream.

I woke up with that smile still ghosting on my face.

The morning light spilled across the floor, warmer than yesterday, and I let it sit on my skin for a while before dragging myself to the shower. The water steamed around me, washing away the sleep, the lingering scent of cinnamon from the music shop, and maybe even a little bit of the grief I always carried.

I picked out something casual but nicer than what I wore on Wednesday. Black jeans that hugged my legs just right, a tucked-in dark green t-shirt with sleeves I rolled up halfway, and a worn leather jacket that still smelled faintly of the city I left behind. I left my hair a little messy on purpose, just enough to feel like I tried without looking like I cared.

At nine sharp, I stepped outside. The town was quieter in the early hours, like it hadn't fully woken up yet. The sky was pale blue with streaks of cloud drifting lazily overhead. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once. The smell of coffee and earth filled the air—someone must've just watered their plants. The kind of morning that felt like a held breath.

I saw him first again. Bucky. He was already at the garage, crouched beside my car, wiping his hands on a rag. My heart stuttered in its rhythm. He wasn't exactly average-looking. Blue eyes too sharp for someone that quiet, features cut from something precise—long nose, sharp jaw, and a subtle stubble that framed his face with casual ruggedness. It was criminal, really. He looked like trouble you wanted to say yes to. And then there was the arm. Sleek vibranium, catching the light like polished obsidian. It should've been intimidating. Instead, it was hot. Unfairly hot. The kind of detail you weren't supposed to stare at but absolutely did anyway.

His eyes lifted before I even spoke, like he sensed me coming. Again. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"You always sneak up on me like that?" he asked.

"You're just easy to sneak up on."

He chuckled and nodded toward the car. "Let's see if she's cooperating today."

We tested it together, starting the engine, listening for odd noises, tightening this, adjusting that. Something still felt... off. A subtle stutter when we hit the ignition. He frowned.

"It's not quite there yet," he muttered. "Might be one of the secondary parts not syncing right. I'll have to dig a little deeper."

"Want me to hold the flashlight and hand you more mysterious tools?" I teased.

"Always," he said, then smirked. "You're a good assistant."

I looked around. "No Alpine today?"

"Vet day," he said. "Just a check-up. I'll pick her up later."

As I passed him a tool, my finger slipped and caught on a sharp edge. I hissed. "Damn."

He was next to me in a flash. "Let me see."

"It's fine," I muttered, holding it up anyway. A small nick, already beading with blood. His hand brushed mine as he inspected it, and my skin tingled under the contact. Close proximity did weird things to my breathing.

"You should treasure those fingers. Pianist, remember?"

I laughed. "I'm not exactly playing Carnegie Hall anytime soon."

Still, he grabbed a first aid kit and gently cleaned the cut, then placed a small bandage over it. The moment felt too delicate for the harshness of a garage.

"Leia would've scolded me for this," I said without thinking.

His hands stilled for a beat. "Who's Leia?"

I hesitated, the smile faltering. "She was... a close friend."

He didn't push. Just nodded, like he knew the weight behind the words.

"Steve would've teased me for opening a garage," he said after a moment, soft and distant. "Said I should've opened a bookstore or something equally boring."

I know who Steve is now. And I know what he was to him. So I didn't push either.

"You don't strike me as a bookstore guy."

He grinned. "Exactly."

We went back to tinkering after that, letting the quiet stretch comfortably between us. At some point, we left to pick up Alpine. She meowed once at the sight of him, then settled on the passenger seat like she owned the world.

"You missed me that much, huh?" he murmured, running a hand over her head. My heart squeezed.

When he dropped me off, the sky was starting to hint at orange.

"Since I'm gonna keep the car a bit longer," Bucky said, reaching for his phone, "might be easier if I can text you. Updates and all."

I blinked, caught off guard for a second. A flutter. I handed him mine before saying, "Don't spam me."

He grinned, fingers brushing mine as he took it. "No promises. I'm still figuring out the keyboard thing."

We exchanged numbers. Just like that. No dramatic music, no tension. Just a small act of practicality wrapped in something that felt like the beginning of much more.

The next morning rolled in slow and golden. Saturday.

Bucky hadn't texted me any updates about the car, so I figured he was probably taking the weekend to rest. Not that I blamed him. Honestly, part of me welcomed the excuse to not hover around the garage like a lost puppy.

Instead, I threw on a light sweater and jeans, tied my hair back into a messy ponytail, and wandered out into town for a walk. The air was thick with the smell of fresh flowers and baking bread, and the sun was finally warm enough to seep into my bones.

I ended up at the small farmer's market, tucked near the old town square. The fruit stand caught my eye — bright strawberries and glossy apples practically begging to be picked.

As I weighed a bag of oranges, I overheard two elderly ladies chatting nearby. Their voices were sweet, sharp, and just nosy enough to be entertaining.

"Oh, are you new here, dear?" one of them asked, turning toward me with a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes.

"Yeah," I said, adjusting the strap of my tote bag. "Just moved in."

"Oh, wonderful! You picked a perfect time," the other chimed in. "The spring event's happening all weekend. Parades, stalls, music! You should come, dear."

"I'll think about it," I said, smiling politely.

Then, as if they'd been waiting for the perfect moment, one leaned in toward the other and said loudly enough for me to hear, "I wonder if that sweet young mechanic will be there."

"Oh, James?" the other replied, practically beaming. "Such a good boy. Always helping folks with their heavy groceries or fixing things without a second thought."

I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. Sweet young boy. Bucky was literally older than this entire town combined, but sure. Let's go with "young."

The ladies weren't done yet. They turned mischievous eyes back on me.

"Are you single, dear?" one asked, way too casually.

"Uh…" I sputtered, feeling my cheeks warm.

"James is such a catch," the other added. "And it's not like we have a lot of young folks left here. Most run off to the cities by the time they're twenty-one."

"I'll… keep that in mind," I managed to say, nearly tripping over my own feet as I made a quick exit.

Back home, I unpacked my groceries and decided to take another swing at conquering the air fryer. This time with chicken, and I didn't forget the garlic.

It went… better. No disasters, at least.

After I cleaned the kitchen and flopped onto the couch, the town's excitement buzzed in the back of my mind. I toyed with my phone for a while, debating.

Finally, I gathered what little courage I had left and shot Bucky a text:

Me: "I heard there's an event."

A minute passed. Then two.

Bucky: "There is. Spring thing."

Me: "are you going?"

Bucky: "Not sure. Not really my scene. Might sit this one out."

I smiled, a little disappointed but understanding. Typing back quickly:

Me: "that's fair. figured i'd ask in case you wanted an excuse to escape your garage"

Bucky: "Appreciate it. might swing by. we'll see."

He didn't text back right away, but that was okay. I wasn't expecting anything. Not really.

When it was time, I stood in front of my mirror, smoothing down the fabric of my dress. It was simple — a soft, flowy thing that brushed just above my knees. A muted lilac color that caught the light every time I shifted. My hair was loose for once, curling a little at the ends.

Outside, the town square had transformed overnight. Flower garlands were strung from lamppost to lamppost, bright tulips and daisies spilling out of every planter. Kids ran laughing through the square, clutching balloons in colors so bright they hurt to look at. Stalls lined the streets, selling everything from homemade jam to handcrafted jewelry. Somewhere, a folk band played a cheerful tune that floated through the warm air.

Leia would've loved this. I could almost hear her laughter, see her dragging me from stall to stall, insisting we try everything twice. She would've made friends with the vendors within minutes, charming them into giving us extra samples "just to be sure." She would've bought something ridiculous — like a giant sunflower hat or a hand-knit scarf in the middle of spring — and worn it proudly all day. The thought ached deep in my chest, bittersweet and sharp. She would've made this entire place feel even more alive.

I walked slowly, soaking it all in. And maybe… maybe my eyes were secretly scanning the crowd.

I tried not to hope. Not too much.

But when I turned a corner, there he was.

Bucky.

He stood near one of the craft stalls and he looked… good. Like, really good. He wore dark jeans, a navy henley that stretched a little too nicely across his chest and arms, and a casual jacket tossed over his shoulder. His hair was a little messy, like he'd run a hand through it a few too many times, and his metal arm gleamed when it caught the sunlight. Alpine was perched in his arms like a queen surveying her kingdom, completely unbothered by the chaos around her.

Our eyes met.

A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it. His own mouth curved in that slow, heart-melting way he had.

I walked toward him, feeling a little stupidly giddy.

"You came," I said, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

"Couldn't let you have all the fun," he said, shifting Alpine a little so he could offer me a crooked smile.

We started walking together, weaving through the stalls. Alpine occasionally batting at floating balloons with her paw. The day buzzed around us — children squealing with laughter, the smell of popcorn and fresh flowers filling the air, soft music threading through it all.

It felt easy. It felt… right. Domestic and sweet, like a life I hadn't realized I missed until now.

"You ever been to this thing before?" I asked, glancing over at him.

He shook his head. "Nah. Crowds aren't really my thing."

I nodded, understanding more than I could say.

"Back in the day, though," he said, a glint of something — nostalgia, maybe — in his voice, "I used to go to the Stark Expo."

"Stark Expo?" I asked, curious.

"Yeah. Howard Stark — he used to host these big tech exhibitions. New inventions, flying cars..." He chuckled under his breath. "Stuff that sounded crazy back then."

He said it so simply, like it was just yesterday. Like it was normal to talk about something eighty years ago like it was last summer.

I didn't push. Didn't have to. There was an understanding between us, unspoken but solid. He knew I knew who he had been, who he was, and neither of us felt the need to lay it all out loud. Some things didn't need explaining. We both had our pasts—heavy, painful—and we both carried them quietly, letting each other shoulder the weight without asking for the details.

I smiled. I could picture it: Bucky in a sharp 40s suit, a mischievous grin, weaving through crowds with a girl on each arm. The image made something warm settle in my chest.

"Guess I'm picky about my crowds now," he added.

"Understandable," I said softly. "Want to try and win a prize?" I teased as we passed a shooting gallery.

He smirked. "Sure."

I watched—half amused, half swooning—as Bucky casually picked up the pellet gun and knocked down every single target with ridiculous ease.

The booth guy blinked at him. "Uh… pick any prize you want, man."

I pressed my lips together, trying and failing to swallow a laugh. The poor guy had no clue he was dealing with someone who could probably knock the wings off a gnat at fifty paces if he wanted to. I mean, here was Bucky Barnes — former assasin — looking like a regular small-town mechanic with a fluffy white cat in his arms, absolutely hustling the ring toss like it was his job.

Bucky glanced at me, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knew exactly what I was thinking. His eyes sparkled with something close to mischief, and honestly? I wasn't prepared for how much it made my heart stutter.

The booth guy, still a little starstruck over Bucky's ridiculous aim, waved a hand toward the wall of prizes. Bucky shifted Alpine carefully under one arm — she let out a small, offended meow but settled against him anyway — and plucked the fluffiest, stuffed cat—white, like Alpine—and handed it to me.

He turned and held it out to me.

"For the new girl," he said, a little too casual, like he wasn't trying to kill me with cuteness.

I felt my face go warm. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and accepted the cat, trying to act normal while internally combusting.

"Thanks," I said, my voice wobbling dangerously close to flustered.

"Least I could do," he said with a smirk. "You're practically a regular at the garage now."

I laughed, tilting my head at him. "At this rate, you're gonna start charging me rent for loitering."

He chuckled, a low, warm sound that made something flutter in my chest. "Could always work something out. You're good at handing me the right tools, after all."

I grinned, feeling bold. "Careful. I might start asking for an employee discount."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Consider it a done deal."

For a second, we just stood there, the late afternoon sun casting long, golden shadows around us, Alpine purring lazily in his arms like she had all the time in the world. Somewhere nearby, a kid shrieked with laughter. A soft breeze stirred the scent of fresh grass and cotton candy through the air. And right there, in the middle of a town square decked out in balloons and flowers, I found myself smiling so hard it actually hurt a little.

Maybe new beginnings weren't so bad after all.

Chapter Text

The sun started to sink lower, casting the town in a soft, golden glow that made everything look a little more magical — like the world had been dusted in honey. The band from earlier packed up, and a small stage was set up at the center of the square, where a few volunteers were getting ready for a little evening performance.

I shifted the stuffed cat in my arms, hugging it close as I glanced at Bucky. "Wanna stick around?"

He shrugged, easy. "Sure. I don't got anywhere else to be."

And just like that, we found a spot near the stage — him crouching down to let Alpine settle comfortably in his lap, me sitting cross-legged beside him, my dress pooling around me. The air had cooled just enough to be refreshing, and the scent of fresh flowers and kettle corn swirled together every time the breeze picked up.

The performance started. Some local kids first — a group of them clumsily but adorably playing a folk tune on mismatched instruments. The crowd clapped along, laughing when one of the boys dropped his bow and had to scramble after it. It was chaotic and imperfect and real.

And then — a little while later — a girl, maybe a teenager, sat down at the worn, slightly out-of-tune piano that had been dragged onto the stage.

The second her fingers touched the keys, everything else faded.

The notes floated through the square, soft and hesitant at first, but growing stronger with each passing moment. It wasn't perfect. Some notes stumbled. The timing was a little off. But there was something about it — raw, unpolished, honest — that hit me harder than any polished symphony ever could.

I hugged the stuffed cat tighter against my chest, feeling a strange ache curl low in my stomach.

Leia would've loved this.

God, she would've dragged me up there to play, insisted on making a fool of herself dancing barefoot in front of everyone just to make me laugh. She would've spun me around and around under the garlands until we both collapsed in the grass, dizzy and breathless and happy.

For a long time after losing her, music had only sounded like heartbreak. Every key, every melody felt like reopening a wound I'd tried so hard to stitch shut.

But now — sitting here with Bucky, the evening warm around us, Alpine purring like a tiny motorboat, laughter and life buzzing softly on the air — it didn't hurt so much.

It didn't feel like loss anymore.

It felt… like something was waking up inside me.

A spark.

Small, tentative. But stubborn.

I snuck a glance at Bucky — at the way he sat there quietly, head tilted a little to listen, a soft look on his face — and for once, I didn't feel like I was the only person carrying the weight of memories too heavy to speak out loud.

Maybe… maybe it was okay to carry them.
Maybe it was okay to live with them.
Maybe it was even okay to make new ones.

The final note from the piano lingered in the air like a held breath. And when the crowd burst into warm applause, I found myself clapping too — feeling something close to hope blooming quietly in my chest.

Maybe it was just the spring air.
Maybe it was just Bucky Barnes, sitting beside me like he belonged there.

Or maybe, just maybe — it was both.

As the last note faded, the crowd's applause washed over us, but I barely heard it. My mind was still caught up in the soft music, the way it had unraveled something inside me. Something I hadn't realized was so tightly wound.

Bucky shifted beside me, and I glanced up at him. He had that look again — that quiet, contemplative gaze that made me wonder what was going on behind his eyes.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low and soft, like he didn't want to disturb the stillness that had settled between us. He shifted, gently moving Alpine into his arms, and turned to face me fully.

I nodded, but I felt the weight of his gaze. He didn't need me to say it. He understood. There was no need to put everything into words when you had someone who just… got it.

"I didn't expect it to hit me like that," I admitted, the vulnerability in my voice creeping out before I could stop it. "It's been a while since I've felt… anything, really. That raw."

He smiled a little, like he was proud of me. "It's okay to feel, you know," he said, his voice gentle. "You don't always have to be strong."

I blinked, caught off guard by how easily he said it. He made it sound so simple, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But for me? It felt like a revelation.

His eyes softened, and there was something in his look — something I couldn't quite name, but it settled like warmth in my chest. "I think you're starting to find your way again," he said, his voice thick with something deeper. "And that's more than most people ever get."

I couldn't help but smile, the corners of my lips pulling up before I could stop them. The way he said it… like he believed it. Like he really believed in me.

"Thanks," I said quietly.

Bucky nodded, his fingers brushing the tips of mine, casual but intentional. His touch sent a little jolt of warmth up my arm. "Anytime," he replied. And then, his voice dropped to a playful lilt. "Now, what do you say we get out of here before I get roped into another ring toss competition?"

I laughed, the sound lighter than I'd expected. "Only if you promise not to win me another stuffed animal."

He smirked. "No promises."

As we stood up, the sun started to disappear completely. It felt like the whole world was exhaling with me. The town, the air, the spring breeze — it all felt like a new beginning, as cheesy as it sounded.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so present — so connected to everything around me.

And it had nothing to do with the event, or the flowers, or even the music.

It was Bucky.

The street was quiet now, the sound of footsteps mingling with the occasional rustle of leaves as we made our way back to my house. The sun is gone, leaving behind the soft glow of streetlights casting long shadows along the sidewalk. I hugged the stuffed cat to my chest, still feeling the warmth of the evening, but the coolness of the night was starting to settle in.

Bucky was walking beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed every so often. Alpine was curled up in his arms, her tiny paws tucked under, and I found it hard to focus on anything else but the way he seemed so natural with her, so… grounded.

It was quiet between us for a few moments before I broke it.

"You know," I started, my voice quieter than I intended, "Leia would've loved tonight." I felt my chest tighten at the thought, but I kept going. "She would've insisted I get up there, make a fool of myself playing something. She would've probably danced too, barefoot, no shame at all."

Bucky's gaze softened, his expression a mixture of understanding and something gentler. "Sounds like she was a force," he said, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "I bet she would've kept you laughing every day."

I nodded, my throat tight. "Yeah, she would have." I swallowed, then continued, "I think... I think I've been trying to outrun the memories. That's why I came here. I needed a place where she didn't haunt me every corner I turned."

The words came out before I even realized I was saying them aloud, and I almost regretted it. I had never really opened up about why I'd chosen this town—just a vague excuse about wanting peace. But with Bucky, it felt like the truth would be received gently, like I could say it without breaking apart.

But it wasn't until I spoke that I realized how wrong I'd been. I stopped walking for a moment, the weight of the realization settling in my chest.

“I thought... I thought that by coming to a place where she'd never been, I could escape it all. Escape her. But it doesn't work like that.” I gave a shaky laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “I still see her everywhere. In the way people smile, the music, even the way the light falls in the afternoons. I see her in everything.”

Bucky didn't say anything for a moment, just walked beside me in the quiet, letting me speak. I appreciated that. He didn't rush to fill the silence with words that would've felt empty.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low but steady. "You're right, you know. You can't escape someone you love like that." He paused, glancing over at me. “I've learned that too."

I looked up at him, curious.

He smiled softly, eyes distant for a moment. "When Steve left... he made a choice to go back. To live the life he never got to have. I didn't understand it at first. I didn't get why he’d choose to be with Peggy instead of staying in the world we had here. I felt like I was losing him all over again."

He shifted the weight of Alpine in his arms as we kept walking. "But eventually, I realized that what he did—what he chose—was for himself. And that's something we all have to do at some point, even if it hurts. He understood that, in the end. It took time, but he found peace with it."

I walked in silence for a few steps, taking in what he said. "So, he didn't feel like he was running away?" I asked, unsure how to phrase it.

“No,” Bucky replied, the simple answer wrapped in years of experience. "He was choosing to live. Just like you are now. With time, we make peace with the choices we make. You don't need to outrun Leia, you just need to learn to live with her in a way that doesn't break you."

I felt a lump in my throat, but this time, it wasn't from the sharp ache of grief. It was a soft kind of ache, a reminder that the healing process had already started, even if it was in the most unexpected ways.

"You really think so?" I whispered, glancing up at him.

"I do," he said simply, giving me a small, encouraging smile. "You're here. You're feeling. That's the first step, right? You're not running from the past anymore. You're letting it live beside you."

I let his words settle over me, something in them sinking deep into my heart, making it ache in a way that felt… gentle. Healing. Maybe not completely healed, but a step closer.

We continued walking, the night around us quiet and peaceful, and I realized that, for the first time in a long while, I didn't feel alone in this. There was a weight to the world, but it wasn't unbearable. It felt more manageable now.

When we reached my house, I paused at the door, my hand still wrapped around the stuffed cat.

“Thanks, Bucky,” I said softly. "For everything."

He nodded, giving a small, almost shy smile. "Anytime. You know where to find me."

There was a brief pause before he added, his tone casual but warm, "I'll keep working on the car, so you don't have to worry about it. You can swing by on Monday if you want. Maybe you'll learn a thing or two about how to fix a car."

I laughed softly, the image of me trying to work on the car giving me a little bit of a confidence boost. "I'm pretty sure I'd end up making it worse."

He smirked, the playfulness in his eyes still there. "You never know. You might surprise yourself."

I smiled. "Thanks, again," I said, feeling lighter with every word.

Bucky gave a small nod, his eyes meeting mine for a moment before he turned, his boots tapping lightly against the sidewalk. "Goodnight," he called back over his shoulder, his voice warm but quiet.

"Goodnight, Bucky."

And with that, I watched him walk away, back into the night, leaving me with the warm feeling of understanding lingering in the air. Something about the evening, the words we'd shared, and the quiet connection felt like a small, significant step forward.

I stood there for a while after Bucky disappeared around the corner, just letting the night air settle around me. The world felt softer somehow, like the sharp edges had been sanded down.

Eventually, I unlocked the door and slipped inside. The house greeted me with its usual hush, the kind that used to feel oppressive. Tonight, though... it just felt still. Peaceful.

I set the stuffed cat on the kitchen counter, next to the chipped coffee mug I never bothered replacing, and toed off my shoes with a sigh. My feet ached pleasantly from walking, from standing, from existing a little more than usual.

For a second, I just stood there, feeling the weight of the day finally catch up to me — the good kind of tired. The kind that said you lived today.

Alpine's absence was weirdly noticeable. I glanced around like maybe she'd appear out of thin air, yowling for attention. Nope. She was off having a sleepover with Bucky. I smiled at the thought — her tiny paws tucked against his chest, her whole small self trusting him without question.
Yeah. I understood the feeling.

I wandered into the living room, flopping onto the old couch with a graceless sigh. Staring up at the ceiling, I let my mind wander.

Monday, I'd go see him. About the car. About... whatever. And I realized — with a jolt of both excitement and terror — that I wanted to. Not out of obligation. Not because I needed to. But because something inside me was shifting. Pulling me toward him.

Not just toward Bucky, but toward life again.

That tiny stubborn spark from earlier — it hadn't gone out. If anything, it was burning a little brighter now, fed by the easy way he smiled at me, the way he listened without trying to fix anything.

Maybe on Monday, I'd learn something new. Maybe I'd laugh again. Or maybe, I'd live a little more.

I closed my eyes, letting the thought settle over me like a warm blanket.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn't scared of tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The dream blooms around me before I even realize I'm asleep.

I'm at the piano—the old one, the one with the chipped ivory keys and the coffee-stained wood. My fingers move like they remember what my heart can't say. Each note drips out slow and heavy, painting the air with color: A minor is misty blue, D major glows like molten gold.

Leia's there.

She's sitting cross-legged on the floor, smiling at me like I'm some kind of magician. Her eyes catch the lamplight, and I can almost feel the sound of her laugh. She's so real here. So alive.

I'm playing the song I wrote for her—the one I finished back when she was still alive. She heard it once, half-written, told me it sounded like hope and heartbreak braided together.

Now, in the dream, it's complete. It spills out in soft waves, untouched by grief. Just love. Pure, stubborn love.

The dream stretches, warm and aching, before it unravels into the dark.

I wake up slow, like dragging myself up from underwater. The house is quiet. My heart feels heavy, aching in that old, stubborn way grief never quite lets go of. Morning seeps into the room, soft and slow.

Coffee. Coffee first.

I shuffle to the kitchen and slap my ancient coffee machine awake. It coughs to life, making a series of pathetic groans before sputtering out a weak, lukewarm brew. I sip it anyway, grimacing. Poison builds character.

My phone buzzes on the counter.

Bucky: "Morning. Got your car up on the lift. It's giving me hell but I'll win. Should be ready for you tomorrow. Hope you're doing okay."

I read it twice, a stupid little smile creeping onto my face. I roll my eyes at myself. "Get a grip," I mutter.

There's something about the way he checks in without prying, like he's tossing me a life vest and pretending he didn't notice me drowning.

The day limps by. In the middle of the afternoon, my phone rings. Unknown number. Same old area code. I let it ring out. Heart thudding stupidly.

A voicemail pings in. Curiosity wins the cage match.

I press play.

A gushing voice spills out. Some famous event planner, big name, practically foaming at the mouth, offering a "discreet" gig. Exclusive. Elegant. They're hyping me like I'm some mythical creature, a once-in-a-lifetime spark they have to capture.

"We need your magic," they say. "You're unforgettable."

I stare at the silent phone afterward, the world outside my window turning blurry and too bright.

But I'm not ready. Not for glittering ballrooms. Not for champagne smiles. Not for pretend normalcy.

I silence my phone and turn it face down.

Out of sight. Out of mind. Out of heart.

Restlessness itches under my skin until I can't breathe. I throw on a jacket and escape into the evening, walking nowhere in particular.

The town's sleepy streets feel like stepping into an old postcard, corners dusted in gold. Eventually, I stumble onto a side street I don't recognize.

That's when I see it: a tiny, glowing bar tucked between two old brick buildings, fairy lights dangling across the windows, music humming low and inviting from inside.

Impulse wins. It usually does these days. Before I can talk myself out of it, I push the door open.

Inside, the place smells like old wood, beer, and something sugary baking in the back.

I order a soft drink—the carbonation hissing comfortingly—and settle into a booth tucked into the corner.

The bar is alive in that easy, slow way. Old men hunched over beers, a group of women laughing loudly near the jukebox, a couple in the corner bickering about something dumb but harmless. I sip my drink and watch.

A guy notices me.

He's got that "I'm harmless but kind of hoping not to be" smile. He slides into my orbit, asking basic questions: What's your name? Where you from? New around here?

"Yeah," I say, stirring my straw around. "Just moved. Needed a change."

"Bet you're from the city," he says, grinning. "You've got that..." he waves vaguely, "not-from-here look."

"Thanks?"

He laughs. It's not terrible, but he leans in a little too much, his cologne trying too hard.

And then—the door creaks open. The energy in the room shifts—crackles. I glance over my cup and my whole stupid body reacts before my brain catches up.

Bucky.

Leather jacket, messy hair, that dangerous kind of beautiful that feels like it should come with a warning label.

His eyes find me immediately.

His gaze flicks to the guy hovering too close to me, and something sharp edges into his jawline. Bucky strides over, all slow and casual in a way that makes it more intimidating, not less.

"Hey," he says, voice low and steady. His eyes don't leave the guy's face. "You okay?"

Not a question. A warning dressed as one.

The guy mutters something, excuses himself, and basically evaporates into thin air.

I blink up at Bucky, heart hammering against my ribs. He's still watching the guy until he's out the door. Then he looks down at me, and just—softens. A slow smile tugs at his mouth.

"Didn't think I'd find you hiding out in a place like this," he teases, sliding into the booth across from me.

"Hiding? Please." I sip my drink dramatically. "I'm observing. Very scientific."

"Right, right. Important research."

I can't stop noticing how the dim light slides across his jaw, how the black leather clings to his shoulders, how the dangerous glint in his eye fades into something warmer when he looks at me.

Trouble. Delicious trouble.

He orders a beer, leaning back like he owns the whole place. The light catches the silver glint of his dog tags under his shirt.

"Rough day?" he asks.

"Just... restless."

He nods like he gets it. Maybe he does.

"What's your escape plan then?" he asks.

I twirl my straw. "I don't know. Might fake my own death. Move to a remote island. Learn how to tame seagulls."

He chuckles, low and warm. "Sounds like you've thought about this."

"You have no idea."

A beat passes. Comfortable. Familiar.

"We already ran once," I say, swirling my straw again, softer this time. "But if we really wanted to disappear..."

He smirks. "I'd pick a cabin in the woods."

"Of course you would. Very broody of you."

His smile tilts a little, a glimpse of something old and bittersweet slipping through. "Times are different now. Used to be, I'd have picked a big city. Noise, crowds. Somewhere to disappear without anyone noticing."

I prop my chin on my hand, studying him. "And now you just want trees and silence?"

"Guess so." He shrugs, but it's a heavy kind of shrug, the kind that says more than words ever could. Like he's carrying the weight of old lives on his back, ones he can't quite shake off. "Noise used to be a shield. Now it just feels... loud."

I nod, the kind of nod that's more feeling than movement. I get it. Too much.

He leans back, letting his fingers drum lightly against the table. "People used to run toward the fight. Now they run away."

There's something in his voice—not regret, exactly. More like a memory that's bruised around the edges.

I tilt my head, smirking. "Bet you were the town heartthrob back then, huh?"

He actually laughs—full and surprised. "Back then, huh?"

"Don't deny it." I grin. "You probably had girls writing you love letters in perfect cursive."

"Maybe," he says, pretending to think. "Might still have a few stashed away somewhere."

"Scandalous."

He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head like the idea's absurd. "I wasn't exactly around much to enjoy it."

I snort into my drink. "Tragic. All those poor girls fainting into their corsets."

He grins at that, quick and crooked. "You would've broken a few hearts yourself."

I roll my eyes dramatically, but my stupid heart still does a little somersault. "Please. I was more of a 'stare-at-the-wall-dramatically-and-write-bad-poetry' kind of kid."

"Dangerous combination," he says, voice low and teasing. "Broody and poetic. No one's safe."

The words hang there between us, light but threaded with something warmer, heavier. Like maybe neither of us is running anymore.

Eventually, he glances at the clock and stretches. "Come on. Let me get you home."

When we step outside, I expect him to walk me home like a gentleman.

Instead, he jerks his chin toward a gleaming black motorcycle leaning against the curb, sleek and black and sinfully beautiful under the streetlights.

"Hop on," he says, grinning.

I blink. "You're joking."

He is very much not joking.

He pulls a second helmet from the handlebar and steps into my space. Gently—so gently it makes my throat tighten—he fits it onto my head, adjusting the strap under my chin.

His fingers brush my jaw, lingering for half a second longer than necessary.

"Hold on tight," he murmurs, voice rough like gravel smoothed by the tide.

I don't even hesitate.

I climb on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. Tentative at first. Then tighter when he revs the engine and the world blurs into motion.

The smell of leather and his cologne surrounds me, the roar of the engine vibrating through my bones. The cool night air stings my cheeks, but Bucky's heat bleeds into me, steady and alive.

I press my forehead against his back, laughing breathlessly.

Freedom.

Wild, reckless freedom.

After a few minutes, Bucky pulls up in front of my place and kills the engine. The world feels too quiet without the motorcycle's low roar still rumbling in my bones.

I swing my leg off and pull off the borrowed helmet, hair tumbling down in a messy wave. Bucky's already hopping off, that effortless grace somehow making him look both dangerous and safe at the same time.

He walks me up to my porch, one hand casually tucked in his jacket pocket, the other steady at my lower back—light, not pushing, just... there. Gentleman mode: fully activated.

The porch light buzzes above us, casting a warm, flickering halo around his head. It'd be stupidly romantic if I wasn't busy pretending my knees weren't made of jello.

He stops at the bottom step, like crossing onto the porch itself would be too much. Too close. He glances at me—at my lips, for just a second—then quickly back up to my eyes.

"Get some rest," he says, voice a little rough. A little too gentle. "You're starting to get that 'bout to start a bar fight' look."

I snort, covering up how my chest tightens. "Wow. Thanks. Nothing like a compliment that makes me sound like I'm about to bite someone."

He chuckles, low and warm. "It's a good look. Suits you."

For a heartbeat, I almost say it. Stay.

The word perches on my tongue, feathers ruffling, ready to fly out—

But I swallow it down. Tuck it into the hollow of my throat where all the other reckless things live.

Bucky watches me for a second longer. There's a knowing softness in his eyes, like he heard the word anyway. Like he's choosing to pretend he didn't.

He taps two fingers lightly against his temple in a little salute. "Night, trouble."

I smile, a real one this time. "Night, Buck."

I watch him walk back to his bike, the leather of his jacket gleaming under the streetlights, the night swallowing him up little by little.

Only once he's gone do I slip inside, shutting the door softly behind me, like sealing up something fragile before it can spill out.

I kick off my shoes, peel off my jacket, and beeline for the shower.

The water is hot and sharp against my skin, but it doesn't wash away the way he made me feel tonight—the way the world tilted slightly when he smiled at me.

And later that night, I dream of him.

I was so exhausted I barely remember crawling into bed. The hot shower helped, washing off the grime of the day and some of the weight clinging to my bones. Sleep took me faster than usual—a small mercy. For once, when my mind slipped into dreaming, it didn't drag Leia's voice with it. Or the nightmare images of my family disappearing one by one.

Instead, I dream of him.

Soft at first.

He's in my kitchen, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, fiddling with something under the sink. A streak of grease smudges across his cheek, and he's muttering under his breath—something about "shoddy craftsmanship" and "people not knowing a damn thing about proper tools."

I'm leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with an amused smile tugging at my mouth.

"You sure you know what you're doing, Fix-It Felix?" I tease.

He flashes me a mock glare, which only makes me laugh. The sound is easy, unguarded—a sound I haven't heard from myself in too long.

As I step closer to hand him a wrench he's blindly reaching for, his fingers brush mine. Just a whisper of a touch. Rough and calloused, a small spark against my skin. The dream tilts, slows. That simple contact feels heavier than it should, stretching time thin and golden between us.

He looks up.

And God, the way his blue eyes catch mine—it's like a punch to the ribs. Soft and devastating all at once.

Suddenly, we're closer. Too close.

The counter presses into my back, but I don't care. His hands bracket my waist now, like he’s not sure if he's holding me there or just needs the grounding himself. His breath fans warm across my cheek, and I can smell leather, soap, and something distinctly him.

Neither of us moves. Not really. Just a glance. A lean. The gravity between us shifts, tilting me toward him like it’s inevitable.

His nose brushes mine. His lips hover a heartbeat away. My fingers bunch the front of his shirt, desperate and reckless, but I don't—can't—close the gap.

The air crackles. My heart stutters.

And then—

The dream sharpens into heat. Desperate touches. His hands sliding under my shirt, thumbs sweeping across my ribs, my skin burning everywhere he touches. His mouth, when it finally brushes mine, is clumsy and sweet and hungry all at once.

A low sound rumbles in his chest when I kiss him back like I'm starving.

It's almost too much.

Right before it spirals further—before I can lose myself completely—I jolt awake.

Gasping. Sheets tangled around me. Face burning so hot I could probably light up the whole damn room.

I flop back into the mattress and immediately pull the pillow over my head, groaning into it like some lovesick teenager straight out of a bad romcom.

"I am so doomed," I mumble against the fabric.

"How am I supposed to look him in the face now?" I mumble into my pillow, which is now fully complicit in my emotional crimes.

After a solid ten minutes of dramatic groaning, I drag myself up and make a plan: Operation Pretend Nothing Happened.

Step One: Dress extra cute.

I pick out jeans that make my legs look a little longer and a soft, cropped sweater that shows just enough collarbone to be "oops" but not "HELLO." I even put on mascara. Mascara, for god's sake. "I dress like this every day," I tell my mirror, which blinks back at me judgmentally. "I'm totally normal."

At exactly 9:00 AM, I head out, pretending I have my life together.

Pulling up to Bucky's garage feels a lot like walking into the lion's den, if the lion was tall, broad-shouldered, and had eyes that made you want to commit felonies. And the metal arm— actually, let me not go there.

He's already there, wiping his hands on a rag, grease smudged on his fingers and the sleeves of his henley shoved up to his elbows. Honestly, it's rude. He should come with a warning label.

"Morning," he says, giving me a little half-smile that's almost lethal.

"Morning," I squeak—I mean, say. Casually. Like a fully functioning adult.

The car repair goes smoothly. He explains everything he's done, and I nod along, understanding exactly none of it but pretending I'm fascinated. Then he tosses me the keys.

"Wanna give it one more test drive?"

"You asking me to take her for a victory lap?" I tease, spinning the keys once around my finger.

He grins, this slow, easy thing that kicks my stomach sideways. "Only way to be sure."

I do, and miracle of miracles, the car purrs like Alpine does when she's stealing Bucky's spot on the couch. Smooth. No weird clunks, no suspicious rattles.

I pull back into the garage with a triumphant grin.

"You, sir, are a genius."

He shrugs, but there's a little proud glint in his eye. "Just needed a little love."

Danger. Red alert. Abort mission.

"Alright," I say, reaching for my bag. "How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing," he says, way too casually, leaning back against the workbench like he's got all the time in the world.

I blink. "Excuse me?"

He shrugs again, stuffing his rag into his back pocket. "Call it a welcome gift. Plus, you paid for the new pieces."

"Absolutely not," I say, hands on hips like a cartoon character ready to duel.

He lifts an eyebrow, amused. "Gonna fight me over it?"

"Maybe," I mutter, already scheming. Then, inspiration strikes like a bolt of very sexy lightning. "How about this: I cook you dinner."

He raises both eyebrows now, clearly surprised. "You cook?"

"I've been practicing," I say, dead serious. "My air fryer and I are in a committed relationship. I'm feeling confident."

He laughs—actually laughs, low and warm and unfairly attractive. "Alright," he says. "Deal."

"Perfect." I beam at him, pretending I'm not one minor glance away from spontaneous combustion. "Tonight?"

"Tonight," he agrees, that damn smirk creeping back onto his face.

Before I walk away, I point a finger at him like I'm issuing a royal decree.

"And bring Alpine," I add, lowering my voice like it's a secret. "I've got a little something for her."

He squints at me, suspicious. "You're bribing my cat now?"

"Absolutely," I say, grinning. "I'm playing the long game."

He chuckles, tossing the rag onto the workbench, and for a second, I swear he gives me a look — the kind that says he knows I'm not just talking about the cat.

But he doesn't call me out on it.
Gentleman mode: activated.

As I drive away, the car humming happily beneath me, I catch a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror, standing there, wiping his hands and watching me go.

Oh I am so catastrophically doomed.

I get home with just enough smugness to think, I've got time.

A bold, bold lie.

The moment I step through the door, it's like my house suddenly develops sentience and starts judging me. Dust? Everywhere. A stray sock on the couch? Check. Three empty coffee mugs forming a shrine to my poor life choices? Absolutely.

"Oh my God," I groan, kicking the door shut behind me. "I can't have him thinking I live like a feral raccoon."

Operation: Make My House Look Like I Have My Life Together commences at once.

I speed-clean like my soul depends on it—vacuuming, wiping down counters, lighting a candle so it smells like "Cozy Cashmere" instead of "Lonely Panic." I shove miscellaneous clutter into drawers with all the grace of someone hiding a body. At one point, I even stand in the middle of the living room, just spinning slowly, trying to figure out what else could make me look "effortlessly charming and not at all unhinged."

My eyes land on the photo of Leia tucked into a simple frame on the shelf. It's one of my favorites—both of us mid-laugh, her arm slung around my shoulders like she owned the world.

"You'd tease me so bad right now," I whisper, a soft smile tugging at my lips. "You'd say this's basically a date."

For a second, I consider moving the frame, tucking it away. But then I shake my head. No. She stays. I'm not hiding the people I love.

By the time I'm done, the place looks…shockingly decent. Livable, even. Martha Stewart would still cry, but maybe just one single tear.

Now onto the main event: Dinner.

I march into the kitchen like a woman with a mission and pull out my trusty air fryer, my holy grail, my ride-or-die. Thank you Leia.

I'm halfway through prepping some air-fried chicken and a decent-looking batch of seasoned vegetables when the panic starts to creep back in.

What if he hates it?
What if he thinks I'm trying too hard?
What if I accidentally poison him and Alpine inherits his cabin and lives a life of luxury without me?

"No," I say out loud, smacking my cheeks lightly. "You're fine. Normal. Cute. You can do this."

I focus on the chopping board with laser intensity, trying not to imagine Bucky sitting in my kitchen, probably in that stupid leather jacket, probably smiling that stupid smile, probably making me want to grab him by said stupid collar and—

"Focus!" I hiss, nearly chopping a carrot into oblivion.

I set the table too, because I'm apparently auditioning for "Perfect Domestic Goddess: Unhinged Edition." A little candle, nothing too romantic (right???), just…warm lighting. Cozy.

I glance at the clock. Thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes until Bucky Barnes, human personification of emotional damage and jawlines, shows up at my house.

I sprint to my bedroom.

Outfit crisis: activated.

"Okay," I mutter, yanking open my closet. "Something casual. Cute but not 'I spent an hour crying over this.' Which I absolutely am not doing."

The weather has been a mess lately, that's April for you, but tonight is perfect for a dress.

I rifle through hangers like a woman possessed. Too formal. Too baggy. Too "please validate my existence."

Finally, I settle on a soft, floral wrap dress—simple, airy, pastel blue with little white flowers scattered across it. It's the kind of dress that says "spring is here and so is my desperate need for external validation," but in a charming way.

I throw it on and inspect myself in the mirror.

Light, flowy, flirty but not aggressive. The dress cinches just enough at the waist to look effortless, and the neckline is sweet without being "hello cleavage." It brushes just above my knees. Perfect for a cozy, casual dinner that's maybe-not-a-date.

Mascara? Still intact.

Lip balm? Swipe swipe. Done.

Hair? I finger-comb it into loose waves and pray to all deities that it stays decent for the next few hours.

I stand back and nod. "Totally normal. Absolutely thriving."

(If you ignored the slight tremor in my hands.)

I spritz a little vanilla body mist because I'm a menace and apparently want Bucky to think I bake cookies and smell like safety.

Every few minutes, I find myself glancing at the clock, heart pounding harder each time.

Tonight. He's coming over. With Alpine. And a smile I'm not entirely sure I'll survive.

There's a knock at the door and I jolt so hard I almost knock over the candle.

"Okay," I whisper to myself, smoothing down my dress like it personally offended me. "Cool. Chill. Normal."

I double-check the mirror by the door. Hair: acceptable. Dress: cute. Face: only mildly panicked. Nailed it.

Taking a deep breath, I open the door.

And promptly forget how to function.

Bucky stands there, leather jacket and all, looking so stupidly handsome it should be illegal. His hair is a little messy, like he ran his hand through it on the way here, and he's got Alpine tucked under one arm like she's royalty.

"Hey," he says, a little lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. "Brought dessert. And her." He lifts Alpine slightly.

Alpine, in her usual diva fashion, blinks at me like she's assessing whether my house is up to her standards.

"Hey, princess," I coo, reaching out to scratch behind her ear. She grants me a single, gracious purr. A high honor.

"Come in," I say, stepping aside.

Bucky moves past me, and suddenly my cozy little living room feels tiny. He smells like leather and soap and something warm and familiar that I can't name without blushing.

He sets Alpine down, and she immediately begins her royal inspection, tail high, as if the house is hers now and I'm just a humble tenant.

He glances around like he's trying to memorize every corner. "Wow," he says, a little awed. "Place looks...nice."

"Thanks," I say, pretending I didn't scrub every surface like my FBI background check depended on it.

Alpine sniffs the air fryer like she's evaluating my cooking skills. She seems to approve, because she immediately flops onto the floor and starts grooming herself.

"She, uh, likes it here," Bucky says, a little sheepish.

"High praise," I deadpan. "Would you like to see her gift now or after dinner?"

He tilts his head, curious. "Gift?"

"I picked up something at the spring festival," I say. "For Alpine. Not you. You get dinner."

He laughs—that warm, low sound that short-circuits my brain—and says, "After dinner. That way she doesn't get too spoiled too fast."

"Fair," I say, leading him into the kitchen where everything is, miraculously, still standing.

"Smells amazing," he says, pulling out a chair. "You weren't kidding about being committed to that air fryer, huh?"

"Ride or die," I say solemnly, plating the food with as much grace as I can muster under the pressure of being watched by someone who looks like he bench-presses small cars for fun.

Bucky watches me for a second, something soft flickering behind his eyes.

"You didn't have to do all this," he says, voice quiet.

"I wanted to," I reply, setting his plate down in front of him. "Consider it part of my master plan to make a good impression."

He huffs a soft laugh, glancing up at me through those stupidly pretty lashes. "Mission accomplished."

My heart does a full somersault off a cliff.

I sit down across from him, pretending I have any chill left.

"Eat," I order, pointing at his plate. "Before Alpine gets ideas."

Bucky chuckles and digs in, and for a while, it's easy—the two of us eating, laughing, Alpine occasionally butting her head against Bucky's boots like a tiny dictator demanding tribute.

And somewhere between the third laugh and the second helping, I realize I'm smiling so much my cheeks hurt.

God help me.

We finish eating, and by some miracle, I don't spill anything, pass out, or burst into spontaneous combustion. High score.

Bucky leans back in his chair, looking dangerously comfortable, like he could sit here all night. And some dark, secret part of me kind of wants him to.

I clear my throat and push my chair back. "Stay right there."

He raises an eyebrow, amused, as I disappear into the living room.

From behind a stack of mail, I pull out a small paper bag—inside is the ridiculous little toy I picked up at the spring festival: a knitted mouse with a feathery tail and some weirdly fancy organic catnip sewn into it. Top-tier bribery.

I walk back and hold it up dramatically. "Behold, her royal highness's gift."

Bucky chuckles low in his throat. "You're gonna spoil her rotten."

"She deserves it," I say, tossing the toy onto the floor.

Alpine, who has been pretending not to pay attention this whole time, instantly materializes next to the mouse like a fuzzy little shadow. She bats at it with a paw, sniffs it aggressively, then flops down to roll around and attack it with pure, unhinged glee.

We both laugh, watching her.

While Alpine commits mouse-murder, Bucky drifts closer, standing beside me. His gaze, slow and lazy, sweeps across the shelves tucked along my living room wall.

He pauses.

His eyes land on the framed photo—the one of me and Leia, mid-laugh, young and alive in a way that feels almost sacred now.

"Is that…?" he asks softly, tilting his head.

"Yeah," I say, voice a little thinner than before.

He steps closer, studying it like it's a piece of art. "She looks like she gave you hell."

I let out a watery laugh. "She did. Constantly. Thought it was her job, honestly."

He glances over at me, something unspoken flashing across his face. "She was your best friend?"

"The best," I say, my voice catching just a little.

For a second, it's like the room tips sideways, full of all the things I could say. All the ways Leia saved me without ever trying. All the nights we stayed up too late, and the mornings we swore we'd grow old side-by-side. All the sharp, shining moments I keep locked in the tenderest parts of me.

Instead, I just say, "She would've loved this. You being here. Alpine turning my living room into a war zone."

Bucky smiles, a real one, soft and a little crooked. "Sounds like she had good taste."

"She would've terrorized you," I add, a grin tugging at my mouth. "Teased you until you begged for mercy."

"I can take it," he says with mock seriousness.

I snort. "You say that now."

We fall into a comfortable silence, watching Alpine ruthlessly kick her toy across the floor. Bucky shifts a little closer, just enough that our shoulders almost touch. Almost.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him looking at me—not just glancing, but really looking. Like he's seeing all the messy, hidden parts I usually keep wrapped up tight.

It's terrifying and exhilarating.

Then, Bucky's gaze drifts higher—and catches on the row of vinyl records.

"You got records?" he asks, a little spark lighting up his face. It's such a boyish kind of curiosity it knocks the air right outta me.

I nod, brushing my hands on my jeans. "Yeah. Mostly classical, some jazz, old stuff. You into vinyl?"

He moves closer, flipping through a few with that careful way of his, like everything deserves to be handled like a bomb he doesn't quite trust not to go off.

Then he stops and pulls one out.

Harry James. It's Been a Long, Long Time.

He stares at it for a second, and the whole room feels like it shifts with him. Like it slows down to let him catch up to something old and buried.

His thumb brushes the edge of the cover like it's something sacred. "Haven't seen this in..." he trails off, his voice quieter now, faraway. "...used to listen to this. Back before the war."

He swallows, glancing at me, and there's this flicker of vulnerability, raw and unguarded.

"Steve used to hum it sometimes. We'd sit around after the bars closed, still half buzzed, makin’ plans about what we were gonna do once the world wasn't fallin’ apart."

His smile is small. Ache and fondness tangled up together.

"Funny. Never thought I'd hear it again. Not like this."

I don't even think before I blurt, "You wanna hear it properly?"

He raises an eyebrow, slow and teasing. "You got a player for all these, or you just collect 'em to flex?"

I snort. "Watch it, Barnes. I can still revoke your air fryer privileges."

That gets a full, genuine chuckle out of him. God, it sounds like home.

I scramble to set up the record player—because no way am I letting this moment slip by—and after a few crackles and pops, the first slow, honey-warm notes start filling the room.

Bucky leans back against the wall, his head tipped slightly like he's letting the music wrap around him, sinking into memories I can't even begin to imagine.

I stay still, not wanting to break whatever spell we accidentally summoned.

"I used to think..." he says after a beat, almost too soft to catch, "if I ever made it back...this'd be the song playin'."

He gives a small, almost embarrassed shrug.

"Didn't turn out that way."

Not back then, he means. Not when he was supposed to. Not when it would've mattered to everyone who loved him.

But now—here, in my living room, with a half-mauled feather toy on the floor and Alpine snoring dramatically on the couch—he's here. He's here.

"Maybe," I say, just as soft, "it's not about when you hear it again. Maybe it's about who you hear it with."

Bucky looks over at me then. Really looks. And for a second, there's nothing else in the world but this music, this moment, and the two of us — standing here like maybe, just maybe, we found something worth staying for.

The song winds down, the last bittersweet notes lingering like the ghost of a goodbye.

The silence after the music ends feels too big, too heavy, so before I can overthink it, I shuffle over to the records and start flipping through them.

His gaze follows me—curious, a little guarded, like he's wondering what I’m doing.

I pull out a different vinyl.

He raises an eyebrow, playful now. "You got somethin' else planned, sweetheart?"

"Maybe," I say, and it comes out half a dare, half a promise.

I set the new record on the player. The soft, smooth opening chords of ‘Let's Stay Together by Al Green’ pour into the room, syrupy and warm, melting away the last of the tension like butter on hot bread.

Bucky straightens up slightly, a slow grin threatening at the corner of his mouth. "This what the kids call a mood, huh?"

I don't answer. I just step toward him, heart hammering somewhere around my ears, and offer my hand.

Palm open. No expectations. Just a quiet ask.

Wanna stay?
Wanna be here with me?

For a second—just a heartbeat—he hesitates.
Then, almost shyly, he slips his hand into mine.

It's warm. Calloused. Gentle in a way that shouldn't make sense for someone who could crush concrete like a soda can.

He lets me pull him in close, one hand finding my waist with tentative care, like he's afraid if he holds too tight, I’ll disappear.

We sway, slow and clumsy at first, neither of us really leading, just...moving. Breathing. Existing. The world gets smaller. Quieter.

It's just us, wrapped up in the soft croon of Al Green and the kind of silence that feels like a conversation without words. And for the first time in a long, long time...
Bucky Barnes lets himself stay.

After a few steps, Bucky leans in slightly, voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial rasp.
"You're dangerous, y'know that?"

I blink up at him, startled.
"Me?" I laugh. "You're the one with the metal arm, buddy."

He chuckles — soft, raspy, like it got pulled straight from his chest.
"You make it real hard to wanna leave."

My heart stumbles hard against my ribs.

I don't get a chance to respond — mostly because my brain short-circuits — and Bucky, either missing my internal meltdown or pretending to, grins and gives me a little, awkward spin.

I yelp, half-tripping, half-laughing as I stumble back into his chest.

He catches me easily, steady hands and that damn smile.
"Not bad, trouble. Maybe we coulda shown up Rogers and his two left feet after all."

I huff a laugh against his shoulder, feeling the rumble of his answering laugh vibrate through me like a second heartbeat.

I stay close, swaying lazily to the music, the world shrinking down to just the two of us, the song, and the way he holds me like I’m something precious.

The song fades out, the last notes hanging in the air like a sweet memory. Neither of us makes a move, both of us still swaying lightly to the rhythm that's left behind.

Bucky looks down at me, eyes soft, his hand still resting lightly on my waist, keeping me close. His thumb traces the fabric of my dress, a small, absent movement that makes my breath hitch ever so slightly.

"That was nice," I murmur, suddenly a little breathless in the stillness of the room.

"Yeah," Bucky replies, his voice low, barely above a whisper. His gaze drops to my lips, just for a second, before flicking back up to my eyes. There's something there — something unspoken, but heavy. His jaw tightens, like he's fighting the urge to say something.

I can feel the space between us narrowing, every inch of air charged, thick with the quiet possibility of… something.

Then, as if on cue, Alpine decides she's had enough of the quiet moment and plops herself down between us with a meow that could only be described as exasperated. She eyes us both with a disdain that only a cat can master, tail flicking back and forth.

"Well, there goes that," I murmur, breaking the spell with a soft laugh, and step back, not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Guess she's not a fan of the romance." He gently scoops Alpine up, holding her to his chest like she's the most precious thing in the world. She doesn't protest — too busy giving me a look that clearly says, I'm in charge here.

I roll my eyes. "I think she's trying to tell us something."

"Yeah," he agrees, his voice a little rougher now, the moment of tension passing as he gives me a knowing look. "She's definitely the boss."

We both share a quiet laugh, the moment stretching out until the sound of Alpine's soft purring fills the space between us. The air's still charged with something more than just a cat, some unspoken connection that's harder to ignore the longer we both stand there.

"Guess we should finish this night before she decides to overthrow the whole operation," I say, my voice more playful now, trying to ease the little ache in my chest.

Bucky smiles, the flicker of something deeper still lingering in his eyes. "Lead the way."

And with that, the two of us, still in the afterglow of a song and a dance that felt like so much more, finally step away from the music and into the quiet of the evening, the world outside waiting patiently for whatever might come next.

I walk him to the door, my hand still lightly resting on the small of his back as I open it.

"Thank you for dinner," he says, his voice quieter now, something more vulnerable in the way he says it. "It was... more than I expected."

"Anytime," I reply, my voice a little breathier than I intended. My heart's racing again, the energy between us still crackling despite the casualness of the words.

He takes a step closer, just a little, like he's not quite ready to let the moment end. "I'll see you soon?"

I nod, my heart jumping in my chest. "Yeah, I'd like that."

He gives me a smile — that lopsided one that always gets to me, like he's not sure what's going on but is willing to ride it out. "Take care of yourself, alright?" His voice is softer, but the underlying meaning of his words hits me like a wave, making my chest tighten.

"You too," I say quietly, stepping back slightly. "Goodnight, Bucky."

As he opens the door, the night air rushes in, cool against my skin, and I watch him step out, Alpine's soft meow the last sound I hear before he closes the door behind him.

As I stand there, leaning against the doorframe, I let the silence settle around me. The cool night air brushes against my skin, but it doesn't really reach the heat still lingering on my chest. That moment with Bucky — the soft tension, the quiet vulnerability between us — it feels different, in a way I can't quite put into words.

It's not the anxiety I used to feel when things got too close, too real. It's... almost comforting, in a strange way. I'm not scared. I can't be scared of this — whatever this is.

I swallow hard, pushing myself away from the doorframe. The feeling of his hand on my waist still lingers there, like a brand, but I don't feel the need to pull away from it. Instead, I let it settle into me, let the weight of his presence in my life become a bit more solid. I want to let myself be close to someone again. To allow this to happen.

I step back into the living room, glancing around at the space that's become my sanctuary in this strange, quiet town. The stillness of the house feels different now. Less lonely. I can almost hear the echo of his voice, his laughter, still hanging in the air.

It's strange, but it feels like this was the first step, like maybe I could start opening up again, little by little. The thought makes me uneasy, but in a way that feels right, not terrifying. I can still feel the trace of his warmth in the way he touched me, but it's not a pressure. It's a quiet invitation.

I walk to the kitchen, my hands a little shaky, but not from fear. From something else. I start to clean up the remnants of dinner, the simple act grounding me. But even in the silence, I can't shake the feeling that something has shifted — something inside of me, something with Bucky. It's too soon, I know that, but it's there, hanging between us, undeniable.

Maybe it's just the beginning of something, and maybe that's all I need right now. I'll let it unfold on its own.

As I finish cleaning, my mind drifts back to him. To his smile, the quiet concern in his eyes, and the way his touch felt more like a promise than anything else. It's a strange thing, to want to allow someone in after everything that's happened. But with Bucky, I feel like I can. Like I'm not risking everything.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe it's okay to lean into the connection we've started. Maybe it's time to see where this goes.

I take a deep breath, glancing toward the door one more time, as though I could still feel him standing there, waiting. And then, I let it go — just a little. Let myself look forward to seeing him again, to seeing where this thing between us might lead.

For once, I don't feel the need to guard my heart. I'm just... letting it happen. And that, in itself, feels like a victory.

Chapter Text

The dream slips in so gently, I don't even notice I'm asleep until I'm standing there, back in a world I thought I'd buried.

It's golden-hour light, the kind that stains everything soft and nostalgic, and my best friend is sitting cross-legged on the hood of my old car, waving a crumpled sheet of music at me. She's laughing, that laugh that always sounded like she was getting away with something. I can hear it so clearly, it cracks something open inside me.

"You're late," she teases, swinging her legs playfully. "Some things never change."

I want to say so much. I want to apologize, to tell her how sorry I am for trying to move on, for living when she isn't. But when I open my mouth, all that comes out is a choked laugh.

"I'm trying," I whisper instead.

She smiles, soft and understanding in a way only she could be. "I know."

I take a shaky breath. The dream feels kinder than I expected. No anger. No guilt pressing down like it used to. Just... acceptance. The quiet kind. The kind that feels like a hand on your back, guiding you forward without pushing.

"It's okay," she says, hopping off the car and brushing imaginary dust off her jeans. "You're allowed to be happy."

My throat tightens. I don't know if I'm ready. But maybe readiness isn't the point. Maybe it's just trying.

She leans in, pressing a kiss to my forehead like she used to when we were being dramatic idiots at 2 A.M. And then, just like that, the dream starts to fade—like a record slowing down, the edges of everything blurring into the early morning light.

When I wake up, there are tears drying on my cheeks, but I'm smiling too.

The house is still and quiet, save for the distant chirp of birds waking up with the sun. For the first time in a long time, the emptiness doesn't feel like it's swallowing me whole. It just feels… spacious. Ready.

I hug the blanket tighter around my shoulders and sit there in the soft morning light, letting myself feel it all. The ache. The warmth. The strange, tentative hope curling up in my chest like a sleepy cat.

Maybe I can stop surviving?

Maybe I can start living again?

Coffee was the first order of business. My little kitchen felt too quiet without him standing there, too empty without Alpine trotting around like she owned the place. I tried not to let the hollow ache take root.

I wrapped my hands around the coffee mug, staring out the window. For once, the idea of staying locked inside all day didn't appeal. No. I wanted to move. To do something.

I wanted to see him.

Before I could overthink it, before I could talk myself out of it like I usually did, I grabbed my keys and pulled on the first jacket I could find.

The coffee buzz was already hitting my bloodstream by the time I shoved open the front door and stepped into the morning. The town was still stretching itself awake, the air crisp and the sun throwing lazy streaks of gold across the street.

I headed straight for his garage, my heart doing a ridiculous little stutter the whole way there.

Only—

The place was closed.

I stopped short on the sidewalk, blinking up at the "CLOSED" sign swinging lazily in the breeze. For a second, I just stood there, holding my keys like an idiot and feeling weirdly... lost.

"Looking for James?"

I turned. An old man—baseball cap, big glasses, the whole "small-town grandpa" starter pack—was shuffling past with a paper bag tucked under one arm.

"Yeah," I said, scratching the back of my neck. "Uh, Bucky."

He smiled, a little crooked. "He don't live far. You just follow this road down, past the diner, take a left by the old oak tree—you can't miss it. He's usually sittin' out front this time of day."

I thanked him, nerves fluttering somewhere under my ribs, and started walking.

The houses thinned out until it felt like the town gave way to open desert, a few stubborn trees clinging to life around weathered houses. And then—

I saw him.

Bucky.

Exactly like the old man said. Lounging outside a cabin—a weathered little place that looked stubborn in the best way—legs kicked up on a battered wooden table, a pen stuck between his teeth as he scribbled something on a pad of paper. His motorcycle sat nearby like a loyal dog, glinting under the rising sun.

He looked... peaceful. I hovered for a second, just taking him in.

And then—before my brain could remind me that this was a bad idea—I walked up.

"Hey," I called softly.

Bucky jerked in surprise, almost knocking the chair over in his scramble to sit upright. The pen clattered to the ground.

"Jesus," he huffed, running a hand through his hair when he saw me. A slow smile spread across his face. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Yeah," I said, smiling back shyly. "Me neither."

I tucked my hands into my jacket pockets, feeling a little sheepish. "I actually showed up at the garage first. It was closed."

He chuckled, stretching his arms behind his head lazily. "Decided to take a day off."

I laughed under my breath. "On a random Tuesday?"

He grinned, all easy and unbothered. "Perks of being the owner."

He leaned down, picked up the pen, and tapped it against the pad awkwardly. "I, uh… I'm not good at this."

I tilted my head, trying to see what he'd been working on.

"Sketching," he said, a little sheepish. "Steve… he was always drawing, y'know? Little doodles, sketches in the margins of stuff. I guess I picked it up from him."

Something warm and achy bloomed in my chest.

"Can I see?" I asked.

He hesitated—then, after a beat, he turned the pad around.

It was rough, sure. But there was heart in it.

A sketch of Alpine, sprawled out with her paws over her eyes. And under that—a second sketch.

Me.

I looked up at him, feeling something soft and weightless lodge itself under my ribs.

"It's not finished," he said quickly, like he needed to defend it. "I— I was just… I dunno."

I smiled.

"I love it."

He flushed—actual pink blooming across his cheeks—and suddenly the morning didn't feel so empty anymore.

I nudged my foot against his lightly. "So, this is your place, huh?"

He glanced around like he was seeing it through my eyes for the first time and shrugged. "Yeah. Not much, but it's mine."

"I like it," I said. "It's… very you."

He laughed—a rough, breathy sound that made my heart do another dumb flutter. "What, stubborn and kinda beat-up?"

"Comfortable," I corrected, grinning. "And a little rough around the edges."

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding behind his head, looking absurdly pleased with himself. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should."

For a moment, we just sat there, the easy silence stretching out between us, filled with sunlight and the soft rustle of the breeze.

"So, you came all the way out here just to see me?" he teased, one eyebrow hitching up.

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling too much to sell the act. "Don't let it go to your head, Barnes."

"Too late," he said, grinning.

I sat down next to him, my hand reaching out for the pad of paper he'd abandoned, flipping it over absently in my hands. "So... is Alpine your usual muse, or am I just special?"

He flushed again—that same pink creeping up his neck—and scratched behind his ear.

"You're special," he muttered, not meeting my eyes.

Something inside me did a little flip.

I set the pad down carefully, my fingers brushing his for just a second. A tiny, accidental touch—barely anything.

But Bucky froze like I'd lit a match between us.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze to mine. His blue eyes were darker now, like a summer sky just before a storm.

The world tilted a little.

I swallowed, my voice suddenly a whisper. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't," he said, voice low and rough.

And God help me—I believed him.

The silence stretched, thick and buzzing.

Finally, he leaned back again, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he needed to physically stop himself from saying something.

"You wanna stay for a while?" he asked casually, but there was a roughness to it, a hope he couldn't quite hide.

I smiled—small, sure.

"Yeah," I said. "I'd like that."

And I meant it.

Bucky pushed himself out of his chair, offering me a small, lopsided grin. "Alright, I guess a tour's in order then."

I stood, following him as he led me inside the cabin. The door creaked on its hinges as he opened it, and I found myself stepping into a space that, despite its humble size, felt... welcoming. There were plants tucked into windowsills, soft blankets draped over old but comfortable-looking furniture, and the faint scent of something woodsy, like pine or cedar.

"Not much to it," Bucky said, voice almost sheepish as he gestured toward the living area, "but it gets the job done."

I smiled as I looked around, letting my eyes wander over the worn leather couch, the wooden shelves full of books and trinkets. It wasn't glamorous, but it was real—his life, laid bare in a way that made me feel like I could settle into it without fear of disturbing anything.

"You've got a lot of plants," I commented, stepping closer to a cluster of small, leafy ones near the windows. "You've got a green thumb."

Bucky scratched his chin, clearly proud of his little collection. "Steve gave me a couple before he left. They're harder to kill than I thought."

My eyes caught on a small wooden shelf by the far wall, and I couldn't help but make my way over. There, nestled in a small glass-fronted cabinet, were a collection of... tiny things. Trinkets, little ceramic animals, and among them, something that made me pause.

An Alpine shrine.

It was impossible to miss—a collection of little items that looked like they'd been handpicked with care. A delicate silver collar, a small velvet pillow where Alpine probably likes to nap, and several framed pictures of her. There was a tiny porcelain cat figurine that matched her coloring, and a crocheted blanket she must have used to curl up on.

It hit me somewhere deep in my chest—the quiet, devoted love he has for her. His cat, his companion. And, it seemed, his muse.

I turned to Bucky, unsure if I should comment, but his eyes had already softened, watching me.

"I know," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I’m not exactly a pro at... keeping things simple. She's been with me for a long time, y'know?"

I nodded, my heart swelling with a warmth I hadn't expected. "It's beautiful," I said softly, my voice almost reverent as I leaned in closer to the little shrine. "You really love her."

"Yeah," he said, voice low, "I do."

I glanced at him again, this time catching something in his expression—something raw and almost vulnerable.

"C'mon, let me show you the rest."

He led me through the space with ease, showing me the little kitchen with its chipped mugs and mismatched plates.

"I'm not much of a chef," Bucky explained, giving a small shrug as he gestured toward the kitchen.

I smiled at that. Neither was I, but I could fool people now thanks to my soulmate, my precious Air Fryer.

As we made our way to the back of the cabin, I felt the weight of the moment settle on me—everything was soft and calm, the kind of space that seemed to belong to no one but him.

"Alright," Bucky said, his voice a little more gruff as we stopped in front of a door. "This is the—uh, bedroom."

I raised an eyebrow, glancing up at him. "You sure you want this to be part of the tour?"

His eyes flickered, but the hint of a grin was there. "You've seen everything else, might as well" he muttered, pushing open the door with a small shrug.

It wasn't much, but it was undeniably him. A low bed, scattered with clothes and an old leather jacket draped over the back of a chair. The walls were bare except for a few pictures of Steve and some military memorabilia—a life he had left behind but couldn't forget. The only sign of softness was a frayed quilt, probably one he uses when Alpine curles up next to him at night.

I didn't say anything at first. Instead, I simply took it in. The mess, the imperfections, the way everything seemed to have a story of its own. It wasn't perfect, but in its quiet way, it felt deeply personal.

Bucky stood beside me, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "It's not much, I know."

"It's perfect," I said softly, glancing over at him. "It's you."

His eyes softened, and for a moment, we just stood there, letting the words settle between us like they were supposed to.

And then, just as I thought I might say something else, Alpine made her entrance, her little meow cutting through the stillness as she trotted into the room, her paws clicking softly against the floor.

I couldn't help but smile. The little cat had the sweetest, most unapologetic presence. She hopped onto the bed like she owned the place, curling up with an exaggerated stretch.

Bucky sighed, shaking his head in mock disapproval. "See what I mean? She's the queen of the castle."

I couldn't help but laugh, my eyes softening as I watched the two of them. "Seems like it."

And for a moment, everything felt simple again. Simple, and just... right.

The soft rumble of Alpine's purr filled the room, and for a second, I found myself just watching her, her white fur glowing against the warm light coming through the windows. Bucky leaned against the doorframe, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, his eyes still on me.

“You hungry?” he asked suddenly, his voice low, casual.

I turned toward him, startled at how normal the question felt—like we were simply two people passing time, no history, no heavy undertones. It was... nice. "Yeah, actually. What's on the menu?"

He pushed off the doorframe and glanced over at the kitchen. "I was thinking about making something simple. Sandwiches or something."

I raised an eyebrow. "Grilled cheese?"

He smirked. "You remember that, huh?"

I grinned, leaning back against the bed. “Hard to forget. You made the best grilled cheese I've ever had.”

“Well, if it ain't broke,” he said, walking toward the kitchen, “let's fix it.”

I followed him, my footsteps light, as if there was no rush. No reason to hurry through any of this.

The kitchen was tiny but cozy, just like the rest of the cabin. A small wooden table sat by the window, a couple of chairs pulled out as if someone might join at any moment. Bucky moved around the kitchen with ease, pulling out bread, butter, and cheese from the fridge with an almost practiced hand.

I leaned against the counter, watching him, a small smile tugging at my lips. “You cook a lot?”

“Mostly simple stuff,” he said, already buttering the bread. “Grilled cheese, eggs, whatever I can throw together quickly. But… I've got a couple things in the back of my head for when I've got time to mess around.”

“Yeah?” I asked, leaning in a little, curious. “What's your specialty?”

He paused for a second, then shot me a teasing look over his shoulder. "Well, if you wanna know the truth, I make a mean pasta. But you didn't hear that from me."

I chuckled, feeling the ease of the moment settle deeper in my chest. “Pasta, huh? I might have to hold you to that.”

“Oh, I'm serious,” he said, grinning. “I could make you some when we've got time. Maybe next time you're here.”

The “next time” hanging between us felt more important than any other words exchanged. It was something I could hold onto.

I watched him for a few moments, his focus entirely on what he was doing, the soft scrape of the knife against the cutting board as he sliced the cheese just right. I felt strangely peaceful just standing there, taking him in.

“You really know your way around the kitchen,” I said, my voice light, teasing.

Bucky glanced up at me, giving me that smile of his, the one that made me feel like we had some kind of secret.

“Only when it counts,” he said, a slight glint in his eye. “Grilled cheese? It counts.”

I laughed, the sound filling the room, and it felt... right. This felt right.

“So,” I said, watching him flip the sandwiches with ease, “what's your favorite kind of cheese? You look like someone who knows his cheeses.”

He looked over at me, considering, then shrugged. “I'd say Swiss. Something about the holes, I guess. Feels like it’s got room to breathe. You?”

“Gouda,” I said without thinking. "A little smoky, a little sharp. Like it's got its own personality."

Bucky nodded approvingly. "Good choice. We could add that in next time."

We stood there for a while, the conversation drifting easily between us, as the sandwiches cooked. There was something deeply intimate about it—the slow, unhurried rhythm of the task, the quiet, the simple exchange of details that didn't seem to matter in the grand scheme of things but felt important in the moment.

The sandwiches sizzled, and after a while, Bucky plated them, setting them on the table by the window. He grabbed two glasses of iced tea from the fridge, and then we both sat down, the sunlight filtering through the window, catching the dust motes that floated lazily through the air.

“You sure you're okay with simple?” Bucky asked, eyes twinkling. “I didn't go overboard, but it'll do the job.”

I took a bite, and my eyes lit up. “This is perfect,” I said, between bites. “This is exactly what I needed.”

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Glad I could deliver."

I nodded, still chewing, the warmth of the sandwich filling me up. But more than that—it was the warmth of the moment, the quiet shared between us, the fact that we were sitting here like it was something as natural as breathing.

“So,” I said after a few more bites, “this is a pretty cool place, Bucky.”

He leaned back in his chair, his own sandwich halfway to his mouth, eyes steady on me. "Yeah? You know, for a long time I thought I was the only one who could ever call it home. It's nice to have someone else around, even if it's just for lunch."

I looked up at him then, my heart giving a little jolt. The words hung there, simple but laden with meaning.

“Well,” I said, “if you're offering a place to crash for lunch, I'll take it anytime.”

Bucky smiled, a little softer now, and for a moment, we just sat there, eating our sandwiches in comfortable silence, the sun casting long shadows on the floor.

I took another bite of my sandwich, the comfortable silence stretching on, and then, without really meaning to, I asked, “So, do you always sit outside your cabin like that?”

Bucky froze for a split second, his sandwich halfway to his mouth, before he set it down with a soft thud. He tilted his head, a slow grin creeping onto his face. "Sitting outside? Most mornings, yeah. Why?"

I leaned back in my chair, feeling a little playful as I nudged my foot against his under the table. “Well, I happened to run into the old man this morning. You know, the one with the baseball cap and glasses?”

His eyes flickered with recognition, the corner of his mouth lifting higher. “Mmm, Pops. Yeah, I know him.”

“He told me where to find you,” I continued, feeling a little mischievous. “Said you were usually out here around this time. Just sitting around.”

Bucky's grin softened into something a little more thoughtful, and he leaned back in his chair, looking out the window, his eyes narrowing slightly. “He's not wrong. I like the quiet. Keeps me grounded, you know? Hard to come by a spot that still feels like you can just… breathe.”

I nodded, watching him, suddenly curious about this side of him—the quiet, introspective Bucky. The one who seemed to find peace in the simple things. "Yeah, I get that," I said quietly. "It's not something you find easily."

He glanced back at me then, his smile returning, but this time it was softer, like he wasn't just showing me the surface. "I guess the old man knows more than I thought."

I chuckled, shaking my head. "Makes you wonder what else he knows about you."

Bucky's lips twitched, but his eyes stayed steady on me. "Probably a lot more than I'd care to admit," he said, voice low, like there was a hidden meaning behind the words.

A meaning I felt like I will hear about soon enough.

I smiled faintly but warmly. And just like that, we slipped back into the comfort of being two people who didn't need to fill every second with words.

Bucky cleared his throat softly, his gaze flickering from the table to me. “I can walk you home if you want," he offered, his tone just a little too casual, like he wasn't sure if I'd accept.

I raised an eyebrow, surprised by the offer. "I'm not that far," I said, but something in his look made me pause. It wasn't the typical offer of politeness. There was something protective in his gaze, a hint of care that hadn’t been there before.

“I don't mind,” he said quietly, stepping closer. “I like the walk. And you shouldn't be out there alone.”

For a moment, I stood still, weighing his offer. But something about the way he looked at me—like he wasn't just offering to walk me home, but something more—made me nod. "Alright," I said softly. “Let's go.”

Bucky's pace was steady beside me, not too fast, not too slow. It was as if he knew the rhythm of this quiet walk, matching the pace of my thoughts, unhurried, unbothered. We didn't speak at first, just the soft crunch of our footsteps on the gravel path and the occasional rustle of leaves in the night air. It felt... easy, like it had always been this way between us. The world seemed to disappear with every step, leaving just the two of us and the quiet hum of the evening.

The lights from the streetlamps cast long shadows on the pavement, and for a moment, I caught a glimpse of Alpine nestled in Bucky's jacket, the cat's head poking out like a tiny, judgmental overseer.

"She's spoiled," Bucky said with a quiet chuckle, sensing my gaze. He leaned over slightly, his voice lowered. "I think she's taken a liking to you."

I laughed softly, the sound of it mingling with the night’s stillness. "She doesn't look convinced."

"That's Alpine," Bucky responded, a teasing glint in his eyes. "She's got standards."

We reached the turnoff to my place, the quiet house standing like a small sentinel at the end of the street. I hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to keep the moment going or let it drift away like so many other quiet evenings before.

"You didn't have to walk me all the way back," I said, glancing up at him.

Bucky just shrugged, his hand brushing lightly against the side of my arm. "You're not the only one who enjoys the quiet. Besides, it's safer this way."

I smiled, touched by the thoughtfulness in his voice. It wasn't just the protective tone. There was something else there, something softer, hidden beneath the layers. It was as if walking me home was more than just an act of chivalry—it was a way to keep me close, even if just for a little longer.

We reached my door, and I stopped, turning to face him. "Thank you," I said, my voice quiet but sincere.

"Anytime," he replied, his eyes soft. "Anytime."

There was a pause, a moment of hesitation where neither of us knew what came next. But before I could make up my mind, Bucky spoke again, his voice low, as if he was trying not to break the spell of the moment.

"Get some rest," he said, giving me a small, almost imperceptible smile. "I'll be around."

As he spoke, his hand reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. The warmth of his fingers lingered against my skin, a gentle touch that sent a small shiver down my spine. His hand stayed there for just a moment, a quiet, unspoken promise hanging in the air. The touch wasn't just casual—it felt intentional, as though he wanted to leave something behind before walking away.

And with that, he turned and walked back toward his house, leaving me standing by the door, watching the soft glow of his retreating figure disappear into the night.

As I stepped inside my quiet house, I felt a strange warmth settle in my chest. Something I hadn’t realized I'd been missing. And I wondered, not for the first time, just what it was that made Bucky Barnes so difficult to forget.

Chapter Text

I dream of Bucky again.

It starts with our dinner two nights ago, the low hum of old music, the clink of our glasses, the way we swayed together like the world was shrinking down to just the two of us. He laughs into my hair, warm and close, and my hands fit against his shoulders like they were carved there. We almost kiss—almost—but the dream cheats me, skips ahead to yesterday, to the slow walk home.

He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, and his fingers linger, feather-light and searing all at once. I tilt my face up, aching, needing.

I want him to close the distance.

His metal hand cups my jaw so tenderly it steals the breath from my lungs. His voice, low and careful, says my name like it's the only thing he knows anymore.

I wake up tangled in sheets and regret.

The ceiling blurs in my vision. My heart is thrumming like I've outrun a storm, every pulse echoing with the ghost of him. My chest tightens, loosens, tightens again, like the tide dragging me under and spitting me back out. I squeeze my eyes shut, chasing the fading dream, but it slips through my fingers like smoke.

God, what am I doing? When did he start taking up all the empty corners inside me?

I drag myself out of bed, stumbling through my morning rituals like I'm wearing someone else's skin. Wash my face. Brush my teeth. Breathe. Pretend the ghost of his touch isn't still burning a map across my cheek.

I'm halfway through making coffee when my phone buzzes. I almost don't check it. Almost.

Another voicemail.

Same event planner. Same breathless excitement, her words practically tripping over themselves in a rush. Only this time, something inside me doesn't flinch. I actually… listen.

She's offering another discreet event. Smaller. Softer. A roomful of quiet souls instead of glittering crowds. No champagne smiles. No pretending I'm still the polished dream they remember.

And for the first time, I don't feel the automatic urge to run. I consider it. Just for a second.

Once upon a time, I was a rising star in the world of classical music—not a headline celebrity, but a coveted name whispered in high-end circles. Exclusive galas. Private séances for the elite. Charity events that demanded grace and gravity.

It started when I was four. Not with a tiger parent breathing down my neck, but with a dusty old piano tucked away in my grandmother's attic. I taught myself by ear, plucking out lullabies and movie themes with sticky fingers and a stubborn kind of pride. Later, Juilliard came knocking. I slammed the door in their face. I didn't need their rigid scales and gold-plated nods. My music lived in the raw spaces—in color, in emotion, in the delicate chaos between structure and silence.

It bought me luxury. Independence. A life that looked perfect from the outside.

Until it wasn't.

Because when Leia died, it was like someone reached into the chest of everything I loved and ripped the heart out. Every note felt wrong after that. Every stage, every glittering room, every carefully curated smile—they all blurred together into something hollow. Like playing songs for ghosts.

The piano, the thing that had always saved me, started to feel like a betrayal. A lie I couldn't keep telling.

So I quit. I packed up the version of myself that knew how to smile at the right people, charm the right rooms, survive under the spotlight. I buried her somewhere deep, under all the noise and grief, and I ran.

I thought if I got small enough, quiet enough, the world would stop asking me to pretend.

But maybe it's not about pretending anymore.

Maybe it's about finding a way to play for myself again. Just the music. No chandeliers. No velvet applause. Just breathing.

...Or maybe, playing for the right person again.

I set my coffee cup down with a soft thud, the sound oddly final in the quiet kitchen. I drag a hand through my hair, shake off the fog curling around my thoughts.

I need groceries. That's the excuse I give myself when I head into town.

But somehow—"somehow"—I end up standing in front of the music shop again.

The bell jingles softly when I push the door open. The shop smells the same as it did before: wood polish and cinnamon, like it's been holding its breath, waiting for me.

The piano's still there. Dark wood, worn around the keys. Waiting.

This time, I don't just hover. I sit.

I lay my fingers against the keys. They tremble—not with fear, but with something rawer. Like hope.

A breath. And then the first note.

It spills out—the piece I wrote for Leia. Stitched from the threads of hope and heartbreak, gold and blue. It wavers at first, fragile, but it’s real. Alive.

The shop owner looks up from his crossword, his eyebrows lifting with something like wonder.

"That's beautiful," he says, voice warm and steady. "Never heard that one before."

I swallow around the ache climbing up my throat. "It's… an original."

His smile softens even more. "You should play more often."

Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn't feel like drowning.

It just feels… like breathing.

The music lingers in my chest even after I step out of the shop, a soft hum threading through my ribs. The sun feels gentler today, like it's noticed something shift inside me.

I stroll down the street, toes a little lighter against the pavement, and push open the door to the local vegetable shop. A little brass bell overhead gives a cheerful chime. Inside, it smells earthy and sweet—fresh carrots, ripe tomatoes, a hint of mint somewhere near the door. Wooden crates are stacked neatly, overflowing with vibrant colors: deep green zucchinis, sunset-orange peppers, plump berries winking like jewels.

As I'm picking through a basket of strawberries, my phone buzzes.

BUCKY: "How's the car? Still rolling or should I grab the fire extinguisher?"

I snort, thumb flying over the screen.

ME: "Rolling like a dream. No smoke, no dramatic explosions yet."

BUCKY: "Damn. And here I had a cape ready."

I grin, stuffing the phone back into my pocket, heart lighter than it's been in ages.

Groceries gathered, I swing by my house to drop them off, resisting the urge to linger. Before I can overthink it, I'm back in the car, steering toward the garage.

I don't tell him I'm coming. Maybe a little selfish part of me just wants to see what he looks like when he doesn't have time to prepare.

I spot him before he sees me.

He's crouched by a beat-up truck, sleeves shoved up his forearms, metal hand glinting under the lazy afternoon sun. There's a smudge of grease on his cheek, and his hair is tousled, unruly in that way that makes you want to reach out and smooth it. His T-shirt clings in all the right places, low-slung jeans riding his hips.

My heart forgets how to beat properly.

My body reacts before my brain can catch up, a flutter low in my stomach, a tightening in my chest like a pulled bowstring. I swear, even my damn bones are leaning toward him.

Then—he turns. Not because he hears me. No, he turns like he feels me. Like some invisible thread between us gave a sharp tug.

His eyes find mine instantly, and for a second, we just stare.

He grins, slow and warm, the kind that makes my knees a little unreliable.

"Hey, stranger," he says, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into his pocket.

"Hey," I manage, stepping closer. "You miss me already?"

"Maybe a little," he says, teasing, but there's an edge of truth there that makes me want to melt into the floor.

Alpine appears like the queen she is, sauntering out from under a workbench, tail high. She circles my ankles with a chirp, and I laugh, bending to scratch behind her ears.

"Betraying your own dad, huh?" I murmur to her.

"Traitor," Bucky grumbles, but he's smiling.

We talk for a while—flirting, joking, teasing in that way that feels dangerously easy. Like slipping into warm water. We talk about everything and nothing: how his truck's starting to act up, how I don't trust the new bakery on Main Street, and how Alpine always seems to pick the worst places to nap, like the middle of the garage floor where Bucky keeps tripping over her.

"You'd think she'd move, but nope," Bucky mutters with a grin, running a hand through his hair. "She's got the nerve to act offended when I almost crush her with a wrench."

"Maybe she just likes the attention," I tease, raising an eyebrow. "Or maybe she's just better at being chill than you are."

"Ha," he says, rolling his eyes. "If I was as chill as that cat, I'd be working on a yacht in the Bahamas right now."

I laugh, the sound easy between us, like we're already in sync.

He picks up a wrench from the workbench, fiddling with it absentmindedly. "Honestly, it's been nice. Not having to deal with the world, you know? Just me, the garage, and the cat."

"I hear the cat does most of the work," I joke, reaching down to give Alpine one more scratch under her chin. She purrs, content in the attention.

Bucky shoots me a sidelong glance, lips twitching like he's fighting a smile. "Hey, she's a pro. You can't just throw anyone into this kind of life."

I lean back against the workbench, arms crossed, watching him. "You don't have to do this alone, you know."

His gaze flickers toward me for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes before he glances away, rubbing the back of his neck like he's not sure how to take that.

And that's when it shifts. He stops fiddling with the wrench, and there's a softness in his expression that wasn't there before. The playfulness is still there, but now it's mixed with something deeper—something almost… hesitant.

He clears his throat, his voice rougher when he speaks, almost like he's bracing himself for something.

"Listen," he starts, his words slow and unsure, "I was... uh... thinking." He pauses, clearly trying to figure out how to word it. "If you're free tomorrow, maybe I could… take you somewhere?"

My stomach flips, but I force myself to act like it's no big deal, even though my heart is doing this ridiculous little dance inside me.

Bucky Barnes. The man who could probably dismantle a tank with one hand. The man who walks like a wolf and looks like a war.

Shy.

Asking me out.

I blink a couple of times, trying to hide the shock that's almost too much to contain. "Oh?" I manage, my voice coming out steadier than I feel. "And where would this 'somewhere' be?"

He shrugs, the motion almost too casual, but I can see the slight tension in his shoulders. "It's a surprise," he says, tapping the side of his nose like he's keeping a big secret. "But I promise it'll be worth it."

A smile threatens at the corners of my lips. "You sure you're not just trying to take me to some underground mechanic fight club?"

"Not my style," he says with a wink, voice low. "I like my dates a little less... bloody."

I lean in slightly, my curiosity getting the best of me. "Well, if you're not going to tell me, I guess I'll just have to hope you don't end up leading me into a trap."

He grins, but there's a slight pinkish hue to his cheeks. "I promise, no traps."

I think for a second, still processing the fact that this giant, intimidating man is asking me out, all shy and awkward, and it makes something inside me melt a little.

"Will Alpine be coming?" I ask, teasing him, knowing full well she's practically attached to him at the hip.

He chuckles, the sound rough and genuine. "Nope. Just us. No cat chaperones."

I can't help the grin that tugs at my lips. "Fine, but she better not hold it against me."

Bucky laughs under his breath, rubbing his hand over his face like he's embarrassed but not quite sure why. "Trust me, she'll survive."

We stand there for a moment, the air thick with something unspoken, something that's been building since that first conversation in the garage.

I nod slowly, my heart still racing from his shy confession. "I'll be there," I say, voice soft but sure.

His shoulders relax visibly, and the tension seems to melt from his posture. "Good. It's a date then," he says, his grin returning, his voice light, but his eyes warm with something deeper. "I'll come pick you up at three."

I pause, noticing that he said "it's a date" again, and a small flutter of excitement runs through me. He really means this. The shy way he said it, the way he didn't hesitate to say... it makes my stomach do that little flip again.

A date. With Bucky Barnes.

"Tomorrow," I whisper to myself as I walk back toward my car, the word still lingering in the air between us. The excitement is almost overwhelming. I feel a smile spreading across my face that I can’t quite stop.

Tomorrow.

The drive home is a blur, my mind racing a mile a minute. I'm already panicking about what I should wear tomorrow. I mean, he didn’t say where we're going, and I have no clue what would be more appropriate. Something casual? Fancy? I just can't decide, and every possible outfit runs through my head in a dizzying loop. I feel like I'm drowning in options, the pressure building as I imagine each one of them being completely wrong.

When I get home, I can't sit still. I start cleaning, my hands moving almost on autopilot. It's the only way to calm my nerves. My place never looks cleaner than when I'm trying to distract myself. I wipe down counters, fluff the pillows, make sure the laundry's in the basket, even though I know full well I won't be looking at it for a while. I'm cleaning for the sake of cleaning, but really, I'm cleaning my mind.

Once I finish cleaning, I take a shower, the water washing away the tension of the day. It feels good, but it's still not enough to calm the storm inside. Afterward, I make myself dinner, using the air fryer like it's some magical appliance that will cure my anxiety, even though I know deep down it's just a meal, nothing more.

Dinner's a quiet affair. I clean as I go, my mind wandering, unable to focus fully on anything except Bucky and tomorrow. The anticipation is like a pressure building in my chest. What if I mess this up? I shove the thought aside, flicking the TV on for background noise, but it's useless. All I can think of is him.

I fall asleep later than I should, too wound up to drift off quickly. No specific dreams this time—just a vague sense of excitement that keeps me from settling down completely.

The next morning, I wake up ridiculously early, heart pounding with anticipation. I can't believe I'm doing this. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, taking extra care in the shower. I smell good. I look good. But the outfit... The outfit is still a problem.

I open my closet and begin rifling through it. The pressure’s on.

I mutter to myself, like I did when I invited Bucky for dinner the first time. "Something casual. Cute but not 'I spent an hour crying over this.' " I almost laugh, but it's more from nerves than anything else.

I try on a few options, each one feeling too casual or too much like I'm trying too hard. But then, my eyes catch something—an off-white, flowy linen dress with a subtle, delicate floral print in shades of pale green and blush. It's light, breezy, and perfect for spring. Not too much, but still something that feels... put-together. I pause, taking in the softness of the fabric, the way it hangs just right.

I slip it on and stand in front of the mirror, letting the fabric settle. It's comfortable and elegant at the same time, just what I want to feel today. I take a deep breath, almost relieved.

This is the one. This is the outfit.

The sound of a motorcycle revving outside makes my heart leap. I hurry to the window, and sure enough, there's Bucky, pulling up on his bike. I chuckle to myself, shaking my head. Of course, he'd pick his motorcycle. He must've known it would make my heart race even more.

I grab my purse, take a deep breath, and step outside.

"Nice ride," I say, already grinning, my nerves melting away just a little.

Bucky smirks, adjusting his helmet before pulling it off. "You didn't think I'd show up on anything else, did you?" His gaze meets mine, warm and mischievous.

He's wearing a fitted, dark green henley shirt that stretches over his broad shoulders and a pair of well-worn jeans that fit just right. There's something effortlessly rugged about him, the way the soft fabric clings to his frame, paired with the scuffed boots that look like they've seen a thousand miles. His leather jacket hangs loose around his shoulders, like he's just stepped out of some cool, vintage movie.

His hair's messy in that perfect way, and when he pulls off his helmet, he runs a hand through it like he doesn't care how it looks—but it still somehow makes my stomach do a little flip.

He's looking at me with that same warm, almost shy glint in his eyes that's been there ever since we met. He doesn't say anything at first, but there's no need to. The way he looks at me makes it clear that he knows he's already made the day a little better.

"You look amazing." he says with the softest voice

Heat floods my cheeks, but I don't know if it's from the compliment or the sight of him on that bike, looking even more handsome than usual.

I climb on behind him, my hands resting against his waist, and we take off. The ride is smooth, the air cool on my face, but all I can focus on is how my hands rest against him, how close we are, how my heartbeat syncs with the rumble of the engine beneath me.

We arrive at a park, and I can't help but be a little surprised. I wasn't expecting this at all. It's not what I imagined when he said he had a plan for our date. I figured it'd be some fancy spot, but a park? That wasn't on my radar.

The moment we pull in, I feel the intimacy of the place. It's quiet, peaceful, almost as if the world has forgotten about it. The grass is soft underfoot, the trees gently swaying in the breeze. There's something calming about it, like it's our own little secret.

"Wow," I whisper, taking it all in, surprised by how perfect it feels here.

Bucky looks over at me with a small smile, almost like he's been waiting for this reaction. “I wanted to bring you here,” he says, his voice quieter now. He pulls the bike to a stop and dismounts, starting to unload the gear he's brought with him. “It's one of my favorite places. Not many people know about it. It's... peaceful. I figured it'd be the right spot for a picnic.”

I raise an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “You've got a thing for quiet, hidden spots, huh?”

He shrugs, giving me a sheepish grin. "Something like that."

I can't help but notice how at ease he seems here, in this little corner of the world. He clearly knows this place like the back of his hand, and that makes me feel even more drawn to him.

He starts laying out a blanket on the grass, and I'm impressed by the spread he's brought with him on his bike. Sandwiches, fruit, even some pastries—He'd thought this through, and I'm touched. He's got a way of making everything feel special, even the simplest things.

We share a few laughs, talk about random things. There's an easy chemistry between us, but also this... spark. Everything's shifting, and I don't want to stop it.

“Can I ask you something?” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

“Sure.” Bucky's voice is low, but there's a softness to it that makes my stomach flutter.

“Why the motorcycle?” I laugh a little, feeling silly for asking, but I'm genuinely curious. “Why not a regular car?”

He looks at me for a moment, eyes narrowing playfully. “It's more fun this way.” He shrugs like it's the simplest answer in the world.

“But, uh, doesn't it get... cold?” I tease.

“Not when you're as warm as you are,” he says, a smirk tugging at his lips.

I can't help but laugh, the warmth in my chest spreading. “Smooth.”

He grins. “I try.”

We finish the last of the pastries, the sun beginning to dip lower, casting a golden glow over the park. The air is crisp now, but not cold—just enough to make you appreciate the warmth of being close to someone. Bucky folds up the blanket with his usual methodical ease, and I help him pack away the rest of the food.

"Ready to head out?" he asks, glancing at me with a small, knowing smile.

I nod, standing up and brushing the grass from the back of my dress. "Yeah, let's go."

We walk back to his bike, the peacefulness of the park still lingering in the air as we gear up for the next part of the night. He hands me the helmet with that same gentle smile, and I slip it on, letting the snug fit offer a small sense of comfort. I hop on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist as we start the engine.

The ride to town is smooth, the wind rushing past us as we take the winding roads. The moment feels effortless—just two people, riding together into whatever comes next.

As we pull up to a cozy diner, I feel a small thrill of surprise. The place is simple, with a neon sign that flickers a little but still gives off a warm glow. The windows are steamed up, and the lights inside spill out into the darkening street. It looks... inviting. There's something endearing about it, and I can't help but smile.

We stop, and as Bucky kills the engine, I glance at him. He meets my eyes, his own filled with that quiet excitement that matches my own. We share a moment of unspoken understanding, both of us smiling as we take in the charm of the place.

“This where you were taking me all along?” I ask with a playful grin as I slip off the bike.

He laughs, offering me his hand. “I thought you could use something a little more... low-key after the park. Besides, this place has the best pie.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Pie, huh?”

“You'll see,” he says with a wink, guiding me toward the door.

Inside, the diner has a nostalgic vibe, with checkerboard floors, vintage booths, and an old jukebox in the corner. The hum of conversation and clinking silverware fills the air, creating a cozy, intimate atmosphere. We're led to a booth by a waitress who gives us a friendly smile.

Bucky slides into the booth first, making sure I'm comfortable before sitting down beside me. He slides the menu across to me, his hand brushing mine in the process.

“So, what are you getting?” I ask, trying to act casual, though I’m definitely more curious about the pie now.

“Well,” Bucky says, his eyes glinting with amusement, “I'm pretty sure the pie is the star here. But I might also get the meatloaf. It's... surprisingly good.” He grins, and I can't help but laugh. “What about you?”

I scan the menu, my finger trailing down the list of comfort foods. “Honestly, I'm not sure. Meatloaf sounds good, though. Guess I'm in the mood for something hearty.”

“Look at you,” he teases. “All tough and ready for meatloaf.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Hey, I can be tough when I need to be.”

The waitress returns to take our orders, and after we both order, the conversation shifts to lighter things. We talk about silly little things—like how I'm still getting used to riding on a motorcycle, and Bucky shares stories of some of his adventures on the bike over the years. It's easy to get lost in the conversation, the teasing and flirting flowing as naturally as the laughter.

Somewhere between a story about him getting caught in the rain on a long ride, he leans back in his seat, a softer look crossing his face.

"I always loved bikes," he says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "When I was a teenager, back in Brooklyn, I used to mess around with the neighbor's old motorcycle. Never rode it far, just up and down the street, trying not to kill myself."

He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. "My sister Rebecca used to watch me and think I was the coolest thing in the world. She’d sit on the sidewalk with her chin on her hands like I was some big-shot daredevil."

There's a fondness in the way he says her name, like even after everything—after all the years and the weight he's carried—she's still a bright spot in his mind.

"She sounds like she adored you," I say, smiling.

Bucky chuckles under his breath, a little shy. "Yeah, she did. Used to brag to everyone that her big brother could beat up anyone who messed with her. She was a scrappy little thing, but I was worse."

I laugh, picturing a tiny, fierce Rebecca and an even fiercer little Bucky ready to take on the world for her

"You talk about her like she's still right there," I say gently.

For a second, a shadow passes behind his eyes, but he hides it quickly with a little shrug. "Feels like she is sometimes. She had this way of making everything feel bigger than it was. Even a junky old bike sputtering down the block." He smiles to himself, and it's a smile that carries a hundred stories. Stories that maybe one day I'll get to hear about.

I reach out without thinking, brushing my fingers lightly over his. Just a quiet little 'I'm here' gesture.

There's a flicker of something heavier behind his eyes, but he doesn't linger on it. Instead, he smiles and nudges my foot under the table lightly, shifting the mood back to something playful

“So, what's your secret?” I ask suddenly, leaning in slightly. “How do you make something as simple as a park picnic feel like... well, a date I won't forget?”

Bucky grins, his eyes softening a little. “Maybe it's because I actually listen to what people want. But also... I think it's about the little moments. The ones that matter.”

I smile, feeling something warm bubble up inside me. “You're good at this, you know that?”

He shrugs casually, though there's a faint blush creeping up on his neck. “I try.”

The waitress brings our food just as we're getting lost in the conversation, and we both dig in. The food is exactly what you'd expect from a diner—comforting, hearty, and undeniably satisfying. We keep chatting between bites, the mood light and playful. Every now and then, Bucky's gaze lingers a little longer on me, something unspoken passing between us.

As we finish up, the waitress returns to clear our plates, and Bucky catches her eye. He says, his voice smooth. “I think we're both ready for a slice, don't you think?”

I laugh. “Absolutely. I've been waiting for it.”

We both order a slice, and when it arrives, it's everything Bucky promised—perfectly sweet, warm, and just the right amount of comfort. We dig in, not rushing, savoring the moment.

Finally, when we're both leaning back, sated and relaxed, I smile at him, feeling more at ease than I have in a while.

“Thanks for tonight,” I say, my voice quieter now, the playful tone still there but mixed with something deeper. “It was... perfect.”

Bucky meets my gaze, his smile soft and genuine. “Glad you liked it,” he replies, his voice low and warm. “I had a good time, too.”

We sit there for a while longer, talking and laughing, the night winding down slowly, but neither of us rushing to leave. Just two people enjoying the simplicity of each other's company.

After we finish eating, we get up to take a walk. As we pass the music shop, something inside me shifts. I stop, my fingers itching to do something. I glance up at Bucky, a playful grin forming on my lips. "Come on," I say, grabbing his hand and leading him inside.

He raises an eyebrow but follows without question. There's no hesitation in him. Not with me.

That cinnamon smell of the shop wraps around me like a blanket, calming my nerves. I feel like I'm walking into a dream, and I head straight for the piano, my fingers already itching to touch the keys. Bucky follows closely, his presence steady behind me.

I sit down at the piano, taking a deep breath. The first note is a whisper, and then I dive in, playing a piece I haven't touched since Leia passed. It's from the 30s, a song that always made me feel something deep. The music fills the space between us, and I can feel Bucky's eyes on me, the silence hanging heavy as I play.

When I finish, I look up at him. He's staring at me, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide. He's speechless. I don't know whether to be nervous or flattered, but I don't want to break the moment.

He clears his throat, his voice rough when he speaks. “That was... I haven't heard that in so long. You—” His words trail off, like he's trying to find the right ones.

I don't say anything, just watch him, my heart beating faster.

Finally, he meets my gaze again, his voice a little stronger now. “You're amazing.”

I smile, the praise making me feel warm. "Thanks," I reply softly, unsure how to take the compliment but grateful for it.

He shakes his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “When you first told me you played the piano, I thought you were being humble. I didn't know you could do that.” His voice softens. “You were definitely selling yourself short.”

The words catch me off guard, and for a second, I don’t know how to respond.

We leave the shop, walking back toward where Bucky parked the motorcycle. The night air is cooler now, but it doesn't matter. We're together, and there's this unspoken understanding between us.

Bucky speaks up again, his voice quieter than usual. “That piece... it hit me harder than I thought it would. Hearing it like that, from you... It's like you took me back, you know?” He looks down, his gaze dropping as if he's not sure if he should have said that.

I squeeze his hand, offering him a small, reassuring smile. "I'm glad it meant something to you."

He looks at me again, a little more serious now, but his warmth hasn't faded. “I didn't expect to be so... moved.” He runs a hand through his hair, clearly a little embarrassed, but there's something raw in his honesty that makes my heart race.

I don't know what to say, so I just lean in closer to him, letting the moment settle.

The ride back to my place is quiet but comfortable. It's like there's this new layer between us, something deeper, something unspoken that wraps around us like the soft hum of the motorcycle.

When we reach my doorstep, the world slows down. We stand there for a moment, unsure of what to say, but neither of us wanting to let go. The day has been everything I hoped for and more—peaceful, full of moments that felt like they were just for us.

“Thanks for today,” I say quietly, my voice soft but sincere. “I really needed this. You... you really know how to make a day special.”

Bucky looks at me, his eyes soft, like he's taking in the weight of my words. There's a brief pause before he speaks, his tone just as genuine. “I'm glad you had a good time. I've been wanting to do something like this for a while now... with someone who actually gets it.”

He shifts his weight, still standing close, and I feel the air between us shift just a little, like we're both realizing this moment doesn't need to end so quickly.

Bucky glances down at me, his eyes full of something I can't quite place—something raw, something vulnerable. I can feel the tension building, thick in the air, and my heart races a little faster, unsure of what's coming, but not entirely afraid.

Finally, he takes a step closer, closing the distance between us, and his hand gently cups my face. The touch is tender, his thumb brushing lightly over my skin, like he's trying to memorize the feeling. His voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks, the words slow and heavy. “I... I think I've wanted this for a long time.”

My breath catches, the weight of his words sinking into me. There's a vulnerability in his voice that cuts through the air like a soft knife, making my heart beat even faster.

I don't say anything. I don't need to. I just lean in, letting the space between us dissolve. His lips meet mine, tentative at first, like we're both testing the waters, unsure but aching to dive deeper.

The kiss deepens slowly, as if we're both giving each other permission to feel this—to feel everything. The world outside disappears. It's just him and me, and the soft press of his lips against mine, the heat of his touch, the way our breaths start to sync up. I feel the weight of the day, the laughter, the quiet moments, everything we've shared, wrapped up in this single moment.

His hand moves from my face, sliding down to my waist, pulling me in closer, but he doesn't rush. It's gentle, like he wants to savor this, and I let him. My own hands find their way to his chest, fingers pressing lightly against the warmth of him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric.

It's slow, it's careful, and it's perfect.

We pull back just slightly, our foreheads resting together, both of us breathless, not ready to let go but knowing we need to. The air between us is charged, heavy with unspoken things, and I realize we've both just crossed a line we can't uncross.

And somehow, I know that's exactly what we wanted.

Our eyes meet, and I can't help the small smile that spreads across my face. Bucky mirrors it, his lips curling into a soft, almost shy grin. We're both a little breathless, still caught in the magic of the moment, the world outside us suddenly seeming so far away.

He lets out a quiet chuckle, his eyes warm and full of something soft I can't name. “Well, that was... a hell of a good night,” he says, his voice still low, like he's savoring the words.

I laugh softly, shaking my head, not quite believing what just happened. “Yeah, it really was,” I reply, my heart still fluttering in my chest, the lingering warmth of his kiss making it hard to think clearly.

“Well,” he says, glancing down at the ground for a moment before meeting my eyes again, “guess I should get going. But I'm really glad you let me take you out.”

I nod, my chest feeling full, and give him a soft smile. “I'm glad you did. This was... amazing. Thank you, Bucky.”

He seems to hesitate for a second, almost like he wants to say more, but then he just nods, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer. “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

The words come with an easy affection, but there's a tenderness to them that makes my heart skip a beat. He steps back, and I watch as he walks toward his bike, his steps slow but steady. He doesn't turn around, but I can feel the weight of his gaze still on me, even as he pulls his helmet back on and gets ready to leave.

I stand there, watching him go, feeling something stir in me that I can't quite name—something that makes the world feel a little more full, a little more hopeful.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” I whisper to myself, even though he's already out of earshot.

And then I close the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment, my heart still racing as I replay the kiss in my mind.

Chapter Text

The warmth of the night lingers as I drift into sleep, a soft, contented feeling spreading through me like I'm wrapped in a warm blanket. The day with Bucky—his gentle words, the intimacy of the park, the way he made everything feel like it mattered—sinks deeper into my bones, leaving me feeling a quiet joy I haven't experienced in a long time.

I dream of his kiss.

It's vivid—his hand cupping my face, his lips tender and sure against mine. The moment feels as if time has stopped, allowing us to hold on to each other, just for a while longer. When our lips part, I can still feel the warmth of him there, the weight of the world shifting, and all the little things that go unspoken.

I wake up with a smile, the memory of the kiss still warm on my lips, like it’s imprinted there.

But as my eyes flutter open, and I blink away the remnants of sleep, I instinctively reach for my phone. The bright screen cuts through the quiet of the room, and I scroll through the notifications. And then my heart drops.

Leia's birthday.

The date flashes at me in the calendar notification. I freeze, the breath in my lungs hitching, like I've been hit with a wave of cold, sharp air. The happiness I felt moments ago vanishes in an instant, replaced by a crushing weight on my chest.

I've been so caught up in everything lately—in this strange, quiet town, with Bucky, in trying to heal—that I didn't even notice the day creeping up on me. I didn't notice her day.

Guilt surges in waves, washing over me, suffocating me. My stomach twists in knots. I promised myself I wouldn't forget her, but here I am—forgetting her. How could I? She was my best friend. The one who kept me together when everything felt like it was falling apart.

I sit up slowly, my hands trembling as I run them through my hair, my thoughts scattered and frantic. I want to cry, but the tears won't come. The pain inside is a different kind of ache, one that clogs my throat and suffocates my lungs.

I crash back into bed. The covers feel too heavy. The light from the window is too bright. The entire room feels off, like it's not mine anymore.

Hours slip by as I lie there, motionless, the weight of the day pressing down on me, thick and heavy. I don't even notice the time passing or the notifications piling up on my phone. I don't notice Bucky's texts until much later, until it’s well into the afternoon and the silence in my house is deafening.

I usually texts back right away—always quick with a response. But today, I've let it all slip by without responding. And I know he must be worried.

By the time the sun is low in the sky, I hear a knock on my door.

I freeze.

When I open it, Bucky's standing there, his figure filling the frame, his face creased with concern. His eyes soften when he sees me, and before he can say anything, he offers a small, teasing smile.

“Guess you finally decided to ghost me,” he says, but his voice is laced with something else, a quiet worry that I can feel hanging in the air.

But then he sees my red eyes. The ones that have been welling with tears that I haven't let fall. His smile fades, and his brows furrow, his expression shifting from lighthearted to serious in the span of a second.

“What's wrong?” he asks softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

I don't know how to answer. All I can do is break.

The tears spill over in an instant, silent at first, then harder, uncontrollable, like the floodgates have been ripped open. I slam into his chest, burying my face against the fabric of his shirt as the sobs wrack through me. His arms immediately wrap around me, pulling me in close.

For a long while, neither of us says anything. He doesn't need to. He just lets me cry, the raw, unfiltered grief pouring out of me as I press myself into him. It's as if my body knows he's a safe place to let everything go.

When I finally manage to pull back enough to breathe, we walk inside the house and I sit on the couch, my head resting against his shoulder. He doesn't move, just stays next to me, his presence steady and grounding. I don't look at him at first, my eyes fixed on the floor, but I can feel him there, waiting, giving me the space I need.

I finally speak, my voice quiet, shaky. “It's Leia. It's her birthday. And I didn't even realize.”

Bucky stays quiet for a long moment. I glance up at him, and his expression is soft—sad, even. It feels like he understands. The weight of what I'm saying doesn't need to be explained in full.

“I've been so caught up in everything, in trying to heal and move forward,” I continue, my voice barely audible. “And I feel like I'm forgetting her. Like I'm... leaving her behind.”

Bucky turns to face me, his hand brushing over my hair in a soothing gesture, the touch tender. He doesn't interrupt. He lets me spill the words out, even though I can tell it's difficult for me.

“You're not leaving her behind,” he says, his voice low and steady. “You're carrying her with you, every single day. You don't forget someone like that. Grief doesn't work like that.”

I nod, the tears still flowing, though the pain is different now. Not as sharp, but still deep. I don't know what I expected from him—maybe that he'd just tell me everything would be okay. But he doesn't. He lets me feel it. He doesn't try to fix me. He just listens.

“Sometimes, the hardest thing is just to keep going,” he adds after a moment. “But you don't have to do it alone.”

I let out a shaky breath, wiping my eyes. I want to say something, but the words feel tangled, like they're caught in my chest.

Bucky shifts beside me, his eyes glinting with something that's hard to read. After a long pause, he speaks again, this time quieter, like he's revealing something to me he hasn't told many people.

“There's something I never told you,” he says, his voice almost distant, like he's working through the past in his mind. “The real reason I ended up in this town...”

I turn my head to look at him, my curiosity piqued.

“Pops, you know, the old man with a baseball cap and glasses. He... his father was someone I killed. A long time ago, when I was still the Winter Soldier.” His voice trembles slightly, though he tries to keep it even. “I came here to make amends, to... face the person I was. The old man understood. I didn't understand how or why. If I even deserved it. But he didn't hate me. He saw the change in me.”

I feel the weight of his words, the vulnerability in them. I can see how much it cost him to say it, but I know there's more to this story, more that he's trying to share.

“He came by a few times after that,” Bucky continues. “He saw I wasn't going anywhere. I wasn't ready to leave the house, and he just checked in on me. After a while, he gave me the courage to stay. To actually settle here. To start over.”

I'm quiet for a moment, letting it sink in, the enormity of what he's shared.

I don't have any words to give him in return. Just the quiet gratitude of someone who understands, even when the hurt is still so fresh.

Bucky shifts a little on the couch, adjusting so that we're sitting closer, like he needs to anchor himself too. His arm is still draped around me, solid and warm. I can hear the way his breath catches slightly, like he's debating whether to keep going.

He does.

"When Steve..." he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair. His vibranium fingers catch the light for a second before disappearing into the dull shadows of the living room. "When Steve went back to the past, he didn't come back."

He says it simply, but the weight of it is heavy, almost unbearable.

"Everyone said it was his happy ending. And I guess it was. For him." Bucky lets out a soft, humorless laugh. "But for me? It felt like... like I'd just gotten him back. After everything. After decades of being lost, of being used, of fighting my way out of who they made me... I finally had my best friend again. And then he left."

My heart twists painfully in my chest. I can't imagine the loneliness he must have felt. I edge closer instinctively, my hand brushing against his where it rests on the couch.

"It wasn't like he died," Bucky continues, voice rough, eyes distant. "It was worse. He moved on. He found a life. And I was still here. Stuck. Trying to figure out how to be a person again. How to live in a world that moved forward without me."

I don't say anything. There's nothing I could say that would fix that kind of pain.

"I know what it feels like," he murmurs after a beat, voice quieter now. "To feel like you're being left behind. To feel like you're supposed to be happy for someone you love... but all you feel is the ache they left behind."

Tears prick at my eyes again, but they're different this time. Not just grief—understanding. Connection.

Bucky finally looks at me then, really looks, his blue eyes impossibly soft. "You're not forgetting her," he says again, voice steady and sure. "You're just learning how to live with the part of her that's still here. In you."

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak. So I just nod, leaning into him, feeling the quiet strength he offers so freely.

We sit like that for a long time, two broken souls stitched together by shared scars, saying nothing, needing nothing more than the simple truth of each other's presence.

After a while, Bucky shifts again, and his thumb brushes absentmindedly along the curve of my shoulder, like he’s grounding both of us.

"Y'know," he says, voice low and thoughtful, "that was how I felt right after he left. Like the world had moved on without me. Like I'd been left behind... again."

He turns his head slightly so he can look at me.

"But time… time gives you a different perspective. Now, I see it differently. Steve didn't abandon me. He chose to live—and he wanted me to do the same. It hurt like hell back then. But he trusted me to find my way. To build something for myself."

He offers a small, crooked smile, so full of a quiet kind of strength it nearly undoes me.

"You're not stuck," he says gently. "You're not moving on without her. You're just… living. And that's what she would want for you. Just like Steve wanted that for me."

A tear slips down my cheek, but this time, it feels a little lighter. Less like drowning, more like breathing.

I shift against him, tucking myself closer like maybe if I stay here long enough, the world will stop hurting. His hand is slow, steady, rubbing circles against my shoulder. He doesn't push me to talk — just waits. Patient. Present.

After a long while, my voice cracks the silence. "She died in her sleep," I whisper, staring at the wall across the room like it holds all the answers I've been chasing.

"Leia."

Bucky's hand pauses for a second, then keeps moving.

"She was perfectly healthy. No warnings. No signs. Nothing."

I feel the way my throat tightens, but I force the words out anyway, like pulling thorns from my chest one by one. "Doctors said it was a heart attack. Just... one of those things that happen."

I laugh, but there's no humor in it. Just bitterness and confusion and all the unanswered questions that still gnaw at me. "One of those things that happen. How the hell am I supposed to make sense of that?"

Bucky doesn't speak. Doesn't try to fix it. Just listens, his presence solid and real.

"I spent so long trying to understand it," I murmur, wiping at my eyes. "Trying to find a reason, something I missed. Something I could've done. But there wasn't anything. She was just... gone."

The finality of it hits all over again, like a punch to the gut.

"And I don't..." I pause, the words tangling up in my chest. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to grieve her."

The confession slips out, raw and broken. I half expect to feel stupid for saying it out loud, but Bucky just shifts, resting his head lightly against mine.

"There isn't a right way to grieve," he says quietly, like he's telling me a secret. "No guidebook. No map. Just... whatever keeps you breathing."

I close my eyes, feeling the sting behind my lids.

"When Steve left," Bucky continues after a beat, his voice low and rough, "at first, I hated him a little for it. I didn't want to. But I did. I felt abandoned. Lost. I kept asking myself why I wasn't enough to make him stay."

He exhales slowly. "But with time... I realized he wasn't leaving me. He was choosing something he needed. Choosing life. It took me a long time to understand that."

He pulls back just enough so I can see his face, his blue eyes clear and steady.

"When I say it now—that I'm at peace with it—it's because I had to work through all that hurt first. I'm not pretending it didn't break me for a while. It did."

I watch him, heart cracking open at the vulnerability in him.

"You're not wrong for feeling lost," he says, softer now. "You're not wrong for being angry, or confused, or... just tired of hurting."

I swallow hard, blinking fast.

"You're surviving," he says. "And someday—not tomorrow, not all at once—but someday... it won't feel this heavy."

The dam inside me finally gives. I press my forehead against his chest again, tears slipping out, but this time they're quieter. Less violent.

We stay like that, two people stitched together by pain and understanding.

After a few minutes, he shifted again, pulling back just enough to look at me. His gaze was serious but gentle.

"I can stay," he offered quietly. "If you want. Just... keep you company."

The thought of waking up alone, of stewing in my own head all night, made something deep inside me ache.

I nodded, too choked up to say anything.

He smiled softly, like he understood exactly what I couldn't say out loud. "Alright, Scoot over."

We rearranged ourselves on the couch, the blanket pulled up around us. Bucky stayed close, an unmovable, steady presence beside me. He didn't push, didn't ask for anything more than what I could give. He just stayed.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the heavy grief inside me felt a little less impossible. A little less lonely.

Maybe healing didn't have to happen alone, either.

The room stayed wrapped in a thick, heavy quiet, the kind that made you hyper-aware of your own breathing. I shifted against Bucky, my head still resting on his shoulder, and without a word, he reached for the remote and turned the TV on. He kept the volume low, just enough to fill the silence with something other than the fragile beating of our hearts. Some random old black-and-white sitcom flickered to life on the screen, casting a soft, broken light across the room.

The low murmur of dialogue and background music felt comforting somehow, like a shield. Neither of us really watched, but it gave the world a little less weight.

I stared at the screen for a long moment, feeling the tension finally start to drain from my body. After everything I'd unloaded, after everything he'd shared, the quiet was no longer suffocating. It felt... safe.

I swallowed, suddenly feeling the need to break the stillness before I sank too deep into it. "Hey," I said, my voice rough from crying. Bucky glanced down at me, a silent encouragement in his eyes.

"An event planner called," I mumbled, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. "Well, twice, actually."

He arched a brow, giving me his full attention now.

"They want me to play at some private event," I said, letting the words tumble out in a rush.

Bucky didn't say anything right away. He just looked at me, the way he always did—like he was seeing through all the clutter in my head and straight into the heart of it.

"Are you thinking about saying yes?" he asked eventually, voice careful, like he didn't want to push.

I shrugged, still tugging at the thread. "I don't know. Now It feels… huge. And scary. And part of me thinks I'm not ready."

He squeezed my shoulder gently. "Maybe that's the point."

I let out a shaky laugh. "You're turning into quite the motivational speaker, Barnes."

He chuckled, low and warm. "Don't tell anyone. I got a reputation to uphold."

The corner of my mouth lifted in a tired smile. Despite everything—the sadness still clinging to the edges of the night, the grief that hadn't magically disappeared—I felt a little lighter. Just enough.

Bucky watches me carefully, the flickering light from the TV casting soft, shifting shadows across his face.

"You should do it," he says after a moment, his voice steady and sure. "I think you want to. Even if part of you's scared."

I twist the fabric of the blanket between my fingers, nervous energy crackling under my skin. "I don't know if I can. I don't even know if it's right."

Bucky shifts, turning more toward me. His vibranium arm gleams faintly in the low light. "It is," he says gently. "It's not wrong to keep living. To still have dreams."

I swallow, hard. He must see the hesitation still in my eyes because he reaches out, his hand warm and grounding as it covers mine.

"Leia would want you to," he says softly. "She wouldn't want you to lock yourself away. She would've wanted you to play, to do what you love."

My chest tightens, the lump rising back up into my throat. Because he's right. Leia would have pushed me—hard—to take the chance. She'd have showed up at my door, all wild energy and bright smiles, practically shoving me toward the stage whether I was ready or not.

I close my eyes for a second, letting his words sink in, trying to breathe through the storm in my chest.

When I open my eyes again, Bucky's still there, patient, solid, unwavering. Waiting for me to find my footing.

And maybe, just maybe, I'm ready to try.

Bucky's hand stays warm against mine, his thumb brushing soft, slow circles against the back of my hand, like he's wordlessly telling me he's here. No matter what.

He leans back slightly, giving me enough space to breathe, but not pulling away. "If you decide to take it," he says, his voice low and steady, "I'll drive you."

I blink up at him, surprised.

He gives me a half-smile, the kind that's a little crooked and all heart. "Or ride you there," he adds with a playful lift of his brow, nodding toward where his motorcycle is probably parked outside. "Either way. You won't be doing it alone."

The lump returns to my throat, but this time it's not from sadness — it's something else. Something softer. Grateful and aching and warm all at once.

"Bucky…" I start, but words fail me.

He shakes his head, squeezing my hand a little tighter. "You don't have to say anything," he murmurs. "Just think about it."

I lean my head against his shoulder again, letting out a slow breath. For a moment, we just sit there, wrapped in the kind of silence that says more than words ever could.

My eyes sting again, but I smile through it, because somehow, hearing him say that makes it feel a little bit more possible. Like I don't have to do this alone. And maybe moving forward doesn't mean leaving Leia behind. Maybe it means carrying her with me, into every new beginning.

We stay curled up together a little longer, the low hum of the TV filling the room, letting the moment breathe without shattering it. There's something comforting about the simple noise, the background murmur of other lives, other stories, reminding me that the world keeps moving even when it feels like mine has stopped.

Eventually, I shift a little, wiping at my face and taking a deep breath. "I should probably reply to that event planner before I change my mind," I mumble, my voice a little hoarse from crying.

Bucky pulls back just enough to look at me, his thumb brushing gently over the back of my hand. "You don't have to rush anything. But if you're ready..." He smiles a little, something warm and sure in his eyes. "I think you should."

I nod slowly, feeling the tiny flicker of motivation inside me, small but alive. "Leia would've said something like, 'You're not allowed to rot away, you dramatic little shit.'" I laugh wetly, scrubbing at my face again.

Bucky chuckles too, his hand squeezing mine. "Sounds like she was smart."

"She was," I whisper, blinking quickly.

"Then honor her," Bucky says simply. "Play. Let yourself move forward. Not away from her. With her."

His words settle something deep in my chest. Like he's just tied me to the ground and the sky all at once.

I reach for my phone, the screen lighting up too brightly in the dim room. The message from the event planner is still sitting there, polite and hopeful. I type back a short, simple reply: I'd be honored to play at your event. Thank you for your patience.

Before I can overthink it, I hit send.

Bucky watches me, a proud little smile on his face. "There you go."

I set my phone down, feeling weirdly light. Scared, yeah. Sad, definitely. But lighter too.

"Thank you for being here," I say, leaning into him again.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says easily, resting his chin on the top of my head.

And for the first time in a long, long time, I believe it.

As the soft sound of the TV fills the silence, I can feel my body growing heavier with every passing minute. Bucky's warmth beside me is a comfort, his steady presence grounding me, keeping the darkness at bay. My eyes flutter, exhaustion settling in after the whirlwind of emotions today. Slowly, my eyelids start to close, my head tilting toward his shoulder without thinking.

“Hey,” Bucky's voice is soft, barely a whisper. “It's okay, you know.”

I nod quietly, not trusting my voice. I can feel him there, so close. And for the first time in a long while, I let myself relax into the moment.

The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against mine, the steady beat of his heart—it's calming, a lullaby I didn't know I needed.

I drift, my head still nestled against his shoulder, my hand resting on his chest. The last thing I hear before I fall asleep is the sound of his voice, low and warm, murmuring something like, “You're safe.”

Chapter Text

After Steve disappeared, it felt like my world shrank. The noise stopped. The missions stopped. The only thing left was silence—and me, trying to fill it with something that didn't remind me of what I used to be. So, I found myself in a town that nobody would remember. I was just here to fix things—cars, bikes, broken hearts if that's what it comes to. The quiet suits me.

I live alone now, with Alpine, of course. She's the one who rules the place. I keep to myself. The weight of the past doesn't disappear just because I want it to. But the grief... the emptiness left from the people I lost—it doesn't hurt as much anymore. It's just part of me now, buried beneath layers of grease, sweat, and the hum of an engine. The Avengers aren't needed anymore. No more missions. No more battles. Just silence. I don't talk about my past. Not the Winter Soldier. Not Wakanda. Not the war. And I sure as hell don't mention Steve. Hell, I still hear him sometimes—his voice, his laugh. The loss cuts deeper than I let on. But I've learned to live with it. Just keep my head down, keep the tools in hand. Fix cars, let the memories fade into the background.

Until she walked in.

I don't know what it was about the way she stood there, uncertain and a little dusty from the road. Maybe it was the fact that she didn't seem afraid of the garage, or that she stared at my arm like she'd seen enough weird stuff to not question it. Most people reacted... differently.

I felt it. How she tried to figure out what it was, how it moved so effortlessly. It was a weapon as much as it was a tool. But she didn't flinch. Didn't back away. She looked at it the way someone looks at a mystery, like she wanted to understand but wasn't sure how. I liked that. I didn't need anyone to feel sorry for me. Hell, I didn't need pity from anyone, especially someone who was probably just passing through.

She looked... new. The way she carried herself, the way she moved—it was all tentative, like she was just trying to find a spot in this town that wouldn't swallow her whole. Or maybe that's just how I felt about her. She didn't seem like she was from here, and maybe she wasn't. There was a kind of quiet about her, the kind that was either comfortable or unsettling.

And then there was the way she looked. Pretty, in a way that caught me off guard. Not in that perfect, put-together kind of way—more like she had a softness about her that made everything around her feel less harsh. Her hair was a little messy from the road, like she'd been traveling for a while, but it only seemed to add to how real she looked. Her eyes... I don't know. They were full of something that didn't belong here—some kind of deep thought or quiet sadness. Maybe both. But when she smiled, even just a little, it was like the whole garage warmed up, and for a second, I couldn't look away. It was the kind of smile that made you feel like you weren't just looking at someone, but like you were seeing a little piece of who they really were.

She didn't seem like trouble. Not yet. She seemed... tired. Worn in a way that made her stand out. Grief, maybe. Or just the weight of being on her own. It wasn't my business, though. I didn't pry.

When she sat at the counter while I made her grilled cheese, I couldn't help but feel a little... at ease. There was something about the way she looked at the food I made, like she wasn't used to someone doing something small like that for her. Maybe I was wrong, but I didn't think I was.

It was weird, but she felt like she belonged here. Even in that garage, surrounded by the smell of oil and metal, she felt like part of the puzzle I hadn't known I was missing. She asked about my cooking, and I teased her. She had that playful spirit I hadn't seen in a while, but she also had that quiet sadness about her that made me want to be... gentle.

It had been a long time since I'd had someone in my space who didn't expect anything from me. No questions about my past, no pity for what I'd lost. She was just there, eating grilled cheese and talking about music.

I wasn't sure where it was going, but for the first time in a long time, I wasn't trying to figure it out. Maybe that was the most dangerous part of it all.

It's strange, thinking back now, how easy it was to talk to her. I didn't expect it. But there was this... ease. A calm, the kind of quiet that didn't make me feel like I had to keep talking to fill the space. Maybe it was because her silence was comfortable, like she didn't need to fill it with words either. She had that same look, that same weight in her eyes that I'd seen so many years ago when Steve left—like she knew what it was to lose someone. And I think, maybe, she did. I didn't need to ask, but I could tell. There was something in the way she carried herself, like she was always just a little bit more careful with the world, like she was still figuring out how to exist in it after a piece of her had been ripped away.

She didn't ask me questions I didn't want to answer. There was no probing, no expectation. We just... existed. And that was enough. It wasn't uncomfortable, just... natural. There were days where we would sit in that garage, the air thick with the hum of silence, and it never felt awkward. It was the kind of silence I could live with, the kind where you don't need to fill it with pointless words. It was like we both understood something about the quiet—how it doesn't need to be filled, not if you don't want it to be.

She wasn't like the others. They wanted to fill every second of silence, to make me talk when I didn't have the words. But with her? No. She just... let me be. Let us be. And that was the first thing I appreciated about her. That was the first thing that made me feel like I could be myself again.

I never talked about Steve. Never. Not to anyone. It wasn't something I could bring myself to say, to relive. But then, in the garage, when she mentioned her close friend... something broke. I didn't expect to say it, didn't mean to. But the words just came out before I could stop them, like they were long overdue. And again during the spring festival, she opened up again and I could see it, see the pain in her face that mirrored my own. It was the same kind of pain. The kind that never really goes away.

I didn't have to ask her about her loss, not really. I already knew. The way she spoke about her friend, the weight in her voice, the heaviness of the words... I could feel it. I didn't want to talk about Steve, but I did. The words were out before I could catch them. And when I said his name, it was like the floodgates opened—things I hadn't even realized I was carrying inside me started spilling out. Talking about Steve felt strange, raw... but it didn't feel like it was coming from a place of weakness. It felt like it was coming from somewhere deeper, somewhere I hadn't let myself go in a long time.

I assumed right, though. She'd lost someone too. That's why she was so quiet. That's why there was so much between us, even when we didn't speak.

It was funny, how it wasn't just the silence between us that made everything feel so real. It was the way we could share something without needing to say anything at all. It was like there was an unspoken understanding between us—one I didn't have with anyone else. One I didn't know I was looking for until she walked into that garage.

It wasn't obvious at first, but I began to notice it. Every time she dropped by the garage, there was this... feeling. I couldn't explain it, but I could sense her presence even before I saw her—like some invisible thread was pulling me to her. A soft tug, barely noticeable, but always there. It was subtle, like an instinct more than anything, something I couldn't quite name, but I always knew when she was near. She was like a quiet storm. You couldn't hear it, but you could feel the air shift just before it hit.

I think that's when I started realizing how much she'd gotten under my skin, even before I was fully aware of it. I remember the first time it really hit me—how out of place I was with my thoughts and reactions. I wanted to grab a drink one night to unwind after a long day. And there she was. She hadn't seen me yet, and I hadn't planned on bothering her, but I saw her across the room with some guy... some asshole, I don't know, got a little too close. He leaned in a little too much, said something I couldn't hear, but the way she stiffened told me everything I needed to know.

Something in me snapped. It was like a switch flicked inside my head, and without even thinking, I was at her side. My brain barely had time to process what was happening. I just saw him, saw her, and reacted. One moment, I was standing by the door, and the next, I was pushing past him to stand in front of her.

“Hey, you okay?” I remember asking, but I don't even know if I spoke the words right. My tone was sharp, more protective than I meant, but I didn't care. I didn't even care if she thought I was being too forward.

And that's when I knew. I was too screwed. She already had a hold on me, even if she didn't realize it. I started calling her “trouble” after that. It was half-joking, half-serious. She had a way of making everything more complicated than it needed to be, but in the best way.

Then there was that night. The one I'll never forget. She'd invited me over for dinner after I refused her payment for fixing her car. I don't know why she did it. Maybe she felt sorry for me, maybe she thought she owed me, but I didn't care about the reasons. I just cared about the fact that she wanted to spend time with me.

I remember walking into her house, feeling a little out of place but somehow... at home. And as we ate, we laughed. We laughed so easily, like we'd known each other for years. It felt so natural, like the years of silence I'd kept in my own life didn't matter with her. Like I could be real. I could be myself.

Then, she asked me to dance. It was ridiculous really—I haven't danced since 1943—But I didn't care. She was there, and that was enough. When I held her, my heart... it started beating in a way it hadn't in years. We moved together, swaying, and everything else just melted away. It was just us, in that moment.

And god, I almost kissed her right there. I wanted to. So badly. But I didn't. I didn't want to rush things, didn't want to spook her. I didn't know if she'd feel the same. What if I was going too fast? What if I was wrong? The fear of losing her because I moved too fast held me back. But I was burning up on the inside, desperate to feel her lips against mine, to know what it would be like.

That night, I went to bed thinking about her. And when I closed my eyes, it was like I couldn't escape. She was there in my dreams, in a way I hadn't expected. I dreamt of her, of kissing her. And in the dream, everything felt right. So when I woke up, I was a little disoriented, not sure how to face her the next time we saw each other. What if she wasn't feeling the same pull I was? What if I made things awkward between us?

But, when she passed by again, I caught myself. I was sketching her face in my sketchbook. I didn't mean to—it wasn't intentional, but it felt like the only thing I could do to try to hold onto her. To capture her somehow. I wasn't even sure why. It felt intimate, like I was trying to keep her with me in a way that words couldn't.

I didn't know if she'd think I was a creep for drawing her like that. Hell, I wasn't sure what I was doing. But when she saw the sketch, she didn't say anything right away. She didn't laugh or tell me I was being weird. Instead, she looked at it, really looked at it, and just... smiled. It wasn't the kind of smile I'd expected, but it was enough to let me know I hadn't completely freaked her out.

Then came the moment. The one that had me second-guessing everything, questioning every choice I'd made up to that point. I decided I wanted to ask her out. A proper date. Not just dinner, not just casual hanging out. I wanted something real. Something more.

I texted her first. I thought I'd try to be smooth, you know, play it cool. So I sent the message. “How's the car? Still rolling or should I grab the fire extinguisher?”

I cringed just thinking about it. I could feel my face heat up as soon as I pressed send. What the hell was I thinking? It was awkward, weird, and completely not what I had intended. I immediately regretted it, but I let it sit there, half-expecting her to never respond. I gave up on asking her out, and just like that, I felt like an idiot.

But then, she showed up at the garage. She didn't even acknowledge the awkwardness of my text. She just walked in like it was any other day. And there, in the middle of that damn garage, I finally gathered the courage to ask her properly.

And the next day, I remember exactly how I felt when I saw her. It's like everything slowed down for a second, just long enough for me to take it all in. She stepped out of her house, and I don't know what it was, but something about the way the light hit her—like the world shifted, just for her. That linen dress she wore, soft and light like a spring breeze, the delicate floral pattern in shades of green and blush... it was like she was made for that moment. She looked effortlessly beautiful, but there was something else in her too, something that caught me off guard.

It wasn't just the way she looked, though, though that definitely hit me harder than I expected. It was the way she held herself, like she was both present and somehow... not entirely here. Like she'd stepped out of her own world just for me. There was this quiet confidence in the way she moved, but also this vulnerability, like she was still finding her place. And damn, did she have a way of making me want to be the one who made her feel like she belonged.

I can still hear my breath catching in my throat when I saw her. She wasn't too much, but she wasn't trying to hide either. She was just... her. And in that moment, I couldn't help but wonder what she saw when she looked at me. Because me, standing there, trying not to make a fool of myself, trying not to think too hard about how much I wanted to reach out and pull her closer—yeah, I was definitely more than a little lost in the moment.

When she smiled at me, that little flicker of warmth in her eyes, I knew right then: she had no idea what she was doing to me.

Later that night, It was just the two of us at the music shop when she sat down to play. Her fingers glided over the keys, and I knew the piece before she even played the first note. It was a 30s piece—Moonglow by Will Hudson and Irving Mills— I recognized it instantly, the melody striking something deep inside me. I thought it would make me nostalgic, remind me of lost time, but instead, it felt warm. It felt... right. Because she was there. Because she was playing it for me. And god, the way she played it, like the music had become a part of her.

I was frozen, not in sadness, but in something else. Something warmer. Something I didn't even know I was missing until that very moment.

And then, at the end of the night... when we kissed. I swear, it was like the world stopped. Her soft lips, the way she sighed into it like she couldn't believe it was real. Like I had just rocked her entire world, and god, I wanted more. I wanted to hold her and never let go.

But I knew I couldn't push. Not yet. But I also knew one thing for sure. I wasn't going to walk away from her. Not now, after I laid every piece of me bare in front of her and she didn't run away, not ever.

As we were getting to know each other, I didn't know if she'd ever feel the same, or if she even knew the kind of space she'd carved out inside me. But somehow, with her, the silence didn't echo. The ghosts didn't scream as loud. It was like... she made room for them. For me. For all the pieces I usually keep buried.

She looked at me like she saw all of it—what I'd done, what I'd lost—and didn't flinch. Like maybe, just maybe, she understood the way grief claws into your bones and never really lets go. And still... she stayed. Still, she smiled at me like I wasn't just the sum of the worst things I've done. Like I was worth staying for. And for the first time, I didn't feel like a haunted man. I just felt like a man.

Chapter Text

The sound of soft footsteps on the hardwood floor rouses me from my sleep. I blink, squinting as the early morning light filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. A quiet hum of movement fills the air, and I remember with a jolt that I'm not alone.

I look around, only then noticing the blanket tucked around me, the fabric soft against my skin. My eyes search for Bucky, and I spot him in the kitchen, his broad back to me as he stands over the counter, fiddling with something. From the sound of it, I'd guess it’s the coffee machine. I can hear him muttering under his breath in frustration, the slight clinking of metal parts as he tries to figure it out.

I stretch, groaning softly as I sit up, letting the blanket fall away. My body still feels a little warm from the comfort of the couch, the lingering presence of him next to me a soothing memory. I shuffle toward the kitchen, the scent of something—probably a sandwich—reaching my nose, and I smile at the thought of him making breakfast. The smell is... homely, grounding.

As I enter the kitchen, I see Bucky still battling the coffee machine like it's some kind of adversary. The sight makes me laugh, a soft chuckle escaping my lips before I can stop it. His brow is furrowed in concentration, and his hands are moving a little too quickly for the machine’s own good.

“Yeah, it does that,” I say, stepping closer. He freezes for a split second before turning to look at me, and I can't help the laughter that bubbles up.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by my reaction. “Yeah, figured,” he mutters, brushing his hand through his hair in mild frustration. “I think I've got it, though. Don't want to break it completely, but it's giving me a hell of a time.”

I shake my head, still smiling. “Let me show you,” I offer, stepping forward to take over the machine, nudging him out of the way. It's a familiar, almost comforting task. "It's all about the settings," I explain as my hand smacks the old machine.

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. “Right, definitely the settings,” He leans back against the counter, folding his arms. "I'll bring my tools next time."

“I forgot I had my very own Mr. Fix-it." I say, smiling as I take out a couple of mugs.

Bucky huffs out a soft laugh, tilting his head. “Mr. Fix-It, huh? Might have to put that on a business card.”

We share a quiet moment after that, the machine working in the background as I prepare breakfast. I pour the coffee, hand it to him, and set out the sandwiches he'd started making. There's a quiet warmth in the air — like nothing had broken, like he still saw me the same. I breathe easier because of it.

We settle into a comfortable silence, eating and sipping our coffee. His presence is just... right. Easy. Like we've done this a thousand times before.

Finally, I break the silence. "So, where's Alpine?" I ask, curiosity itching at me.

Bucky looks over at me with a soft smile. "I left her with Pops," he says, his voice warm and full of affection. "They're probably out on a morning walk right now. Just hanging out."

"That sounds nice," I reply, smiling at the thought of Alpine and Pops together. It settles something in me, a quiet little knot I hadn't even realized was there.

I chuckle lightly, the moment slipping into something more natural. "Makes me think maybe I should've asked Pops to babysit my coffee machine, too."

Bucky snorts at that, clearly amused. "If Pops can fix that thing, I'm handing over my toolkit."

I laugh, shaking my head. "I'm sure he's got it covered."

There's a pause, and for a moment, I feel like we're just... here. No expectations, no drama — just the soft hum of the morning and the warmth of his presence.

I finish the last of my sandwich and look up at him, thinking about the day ahead. "Hey, I need to head to town for groceries. Want to come with me?"

He glances at me, his expression thoughtful for a moment, but then his eyes soften. "Sure. I could use the ride."

I smile, grabbing my jacket and heading toward the door. It's a simple outing, but with Bucky by my side, it feels like something more. We walk outside, and I spot my car—still old, but less beat up—thanks to Bucky's magical hands.

The drive into town is easy, the kind of comfortable silence that feels like its own conversation. On the way, we talk about everything and nothing—small bits of life. He makes a joke about the state of my car, and I tease him right back about his old truck.

He grins, throwing me a sideways look.
"Hey, at least mine doesn't sound like it's coughing up a lung every time we hit a bump."

I snort, unbothered.
"Bold words for a man who needed five minutes to figure out a coffee machine, Barnes."

He laughs, a real one this time, the sound slipping between us like sunlight through a crack. It's easy, natural, and yet... there's something else in the air between us.
Something new.

We pull into the parking lot, and I head straight to the grocery store. Bucky walks with me, sticking close but not hovering. I grab what I need, filling the cart with a mix of basics and a few things I wouldn't normally splurge on. Bucky helps by carrying the heavier bags without a word, and I can't help but feel a little lighter with him there.

Afterward, we make a quick stop by the hardware store — Bucky picks up a few tools I don't quite understand the need for but don't ask about. Maybe it's the mechanic in him, or maybe it's just part of who he is. I don't mind either way.

With the errands done, I feel a strange sense of satisfaction. It's the kind of day that should feel ordinary, but with him beside me, it's anything but.

We head to the music shop next. As we step inside, the familiar scent of cinnamon, wood, and polish fills the air, and my eyes immediately lock onto the piano. It's a little crazy, really. I hadn't planned on buying it, but after everything last night—the offer to play at the event, the way it felt to play again—I know I need it. This piano... it's the one I've shared a piece of myself with already, the one that feels like home now.

My fingers brush the keys, the notes filling the air. It feels right.

After a moment, I turn to look at Bucky, who's been watching me quietly from behind. “I'm getting it,” I say simply, already making up my mind. I turn to the shopkeeper, arranging the details.

Bucky watches me, eyes soft. Understanding. A look that could break me open. No push, no questions. Just... pride. Like he knew I'd get here eventually, and he never doubted it. He just nods. “I'll go get my truck. I'll help you with it,” he says, a playful glint in his eyes. "You know, I could just lift it to your house with my arm and my super-soldier strength. Might save us a lot of time."

I laugh at the idea, shaking my head. "We don't need the attention, Bucky," I tease. "Let's keep it low-key."

He gives me a grin and a nod, heading off to get the truck. I'm left with the piano, feeling the weight of the decision settle into me like the music that's been playing in my heart all along.

I walk around the piano, letting my fingers trail over its smooth surface. It's a quiet moment, just me and the piano. The shop around me fades into the background, and for a second, it feels like time has stopped. I imagine it in my living room, the sound filling the empty spaces in my life that I've been trying to fill with so many other things.

But then my thoughts drift to Leia, and I can't help the sharp pang in my chest. She's the reason I left everything behind. The reason I'm here, trying to rebuild. I think about the way she used to sit next to me while I played, always so supportive, so encouraging. Her laughter always in the background, like the harmony to the melody I played.

I can almost hear her voice in my head, teasing me about my perfectionism, telling me that whatever I play will be beautiful because it's mine. I know she'd be here, cheering me on in this moment if she could.

With a soft sigh, I give the keys one last touch before turning back toward the door. I can't keep living in the past, but a part of me will always carry her with me. This piano is a step forward, but it's also a way to honor the pieces of her I don't want to forget.

But something else stirs in my chest, unexpected and almost unnoticed. It's not just the piano. It's the town. The thought of settling here, staying here, feels less like a temporary escape and more like a quiet possibility. When I first came, I never imagined myself sticking around. I just needed space. But now, without even thinking about it, my heart has already started to make its home here.

I glance around the shop again, taking in the familiar, cozy atmosphere. It's funny how little by little, this place has started to feel like it belongs to me, just as much as my little house does. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that this town is slowly becoming more than just a place to hide. It's a place I could actually build something in.

Maybe I could buy it.

When Bucky returns with the truck, I'm already standing by the piano, my mind made up. It feels like more than just an impulsive purchase. It feels like the first step to a new beginning.

Bucky swings open the door to the back of his truck, the bed already cleared for the piano. It's a tight fit, but the truck's sturdy enough. I lift my hand to push back a strand of hair that's fallen loose in the breeze, my eyes catching the way Bucky stands with a quiet confidence, surveying the scene like it's the most natural thing in the world.

“You sure you're not going to break my piano, Barnes?” I ask, the teasing edge in my voice a little more playful than I expect.

He shoots me a sideways glance, that signature smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “Only if you try to lift it without me.”

He makes it look easy—loading it into the truck, lifting the heavy piano with the grace of someone who's done this a hundred times. His vibranium arm moves fluidly, and I can't help but wonder just how much of that strength he hides behind his easygoing demeanor.

I grab the front edge, helping him guide it into place.

He looks back at me over his shoulder, his eyes soft, a little teasing. “Ready for the next step?”

I nod, my heart beating a little faster than it should, and as he climbs into the truck, I catch the small tension in his shoulders, the way he adjusts to make space for me beside him.

We set off, the road winding through the sleepy streets of town. It's a peaceful drive, like it always is with Bucky. I glance over at him, the sun filtering through the trees and catching in his hair, the way his focus stays ahead, steady, like the world could fall apart around us and he'd just keep driving. It's the quiet between us that makes it feel so easy, so... normal. Like there's no rush, no pressure. I could get used to this—being in this moment, in this space with him.

I shift in my seat, adjusting to the feeling of his presence beside me, the comfort of it settling in my chest.

After a few minutes, we pull up to my house, the tires crunching over the gravel. After a brief pause, we move to unload the piano.

The old thing creaks under the weight as we shuffle it carefully along the sidewalk, past the quiet houses. Bucky's hand rests on the side closest to me, and every time it brushes against mine as we adjust our grip, I feel a little spark, like it's a touch I've been waiting for, even though it's casual.

His movements are smooth, like he's not even trying, and I can tell he's handling more of the weight without making a big deal out of it. He's just being... Bucky. But I know he could easily carry this thing by himself, no problem.

“I know you can handle it,” I say, my voice softer than I mean it to be, but I can't help it. “I want to be part of this step, though.”

Bucky glances at me, his lips twitching in that way that tells me he's holding back a smile. He doesn't say anything for a moment, but I feel his hand adjust, his fingers brushing mine more deliberately this time, as if acknowledging my quiet declaration.

“Yeah?” He asks, the hint of a challenge in his tone. “Not just 'cause you wanted to make sure I don't show off my super-soldier strength?”

I roll my eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but my heart is doing that stupid little skip again. “Maybe,” I tease. “I'm just trying to keep up.”

He chuckles, his voice low and warm. “Well, guess you'll have to keep that grip steady then, huh?”

I try to focus on the piano, to keep my breathing steady, but with every brush of his hand, every subtle shift of weight, it's like we're not just carrying a piano anymore. We're building something—slowly, carefully—and for some stupid reason, that thought makes my chest feel too full.

Together, we place it in the living room. I stand there for a moment, just looking at it. The piano, the space, the light coming in through the windows. I feel like I’m ready. Ready to start again.

Ready to move forward.

Bucky's right there with me, and it feels like nothing else matters. Not the past, not the pain—just this.

As I step back, my eyes lingering on the piano for a few more moments, I hear Bucky's footsteps behind me. He clears his throat softly, catching my attention.

“I'm gonna head over to my garage,” he says, his voice steady but something else lingers in his tone, an underlying hesitation. “Still got a truck and a car to fix. I'll probably be there most of the afternoon.”

I nod, understanding that he needs to work, and I turn to face him, my eyes meeting his. There's a quiet moment between us, the air thick with unspoken words. He's standing a few feet away, his broad frame framed by the door, the light from the window catching the edges of his face. His expression is unreadable, but I catch the softness in his eyes, the way they shift over me, like he's studying me, like he's trying to decide something.

It's one of those moments where everything feels charged, like a single word or action could change everything.

I can feel the tension, the way my heart is beating just a little faster, the anticipation hanging in the air.

Bucky doesn't move immediately. Instead, he takes a step closer. His gaze drops to the floor for a brief second, and then, without a word, he leans in. His lips are barely a breath away from my forehead as he presses a kiss there, slow and gentle. It's like he's treating me like something fragile, something precious that he doesn't want to break.

The warmth of his lips on my skin sends a ripple of something through me, something soft and fluttering, like I'm being touched in a way that’s both tender and unfamiliar. His breath is warm against me, and for a moment, time feels like it stops. The kiss is light, a whisper of a gesture, but it feels so... full of meaning. Like he's sharing a piece of himself with me in that simple, quiet act.

As Bucky pulls back from the kiss on my forehead, the world feels a little quieter, like the air has shifted just slightly. His smile is soft, shy in a way I didn't expect, and it catches me off guard. There's a warmth there that I can't help but respond to. The moment lingers between us, stretched and full of something unspoken.

His eyes are still on me, studying, like he's weighing his next move. And that unspoken tension thickens again. It's a quiet thing, but it's there—his gaze lingers, and there's a weight to it. I can feel my heart picking up speed again, like it's trying to catch up with the rhythm of everything happening between us.

He's trying to take things slow. I can see it in the way he hesitates, in the careful distance he keeps, even after the kiss he just gave me. Even after the kiss we shared after our date. He's holding back, like he's giving me the space I need, but the truth is, I don't need space right now.

I step forward, not giving myself a chance to second-guess it. My hand reaches out, gently cupping the side of his face. His eyes widen just a little, surprise flickering across his features, and in that moment, I kiss him.

It's slow at first, tender, but then something shifts. I feel the pressure of his lips against mine, warm and familiar, and I let myself fall into it. The kiss deepens, and it's everything—the way his hand reaches up to my waist, pulling me closer, the way the world seems to shrink down to just this. Just us.

His breath catches, a soft gasp against my lips, and I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. There's a spark in them now, that same uncertainty, but also something else—something warmer, something softer. He's caught off guard, I can tell, but there's no hesitation when he looks at me.

I give him a little smile, a mix of hope and reassurance. “I'm okay, Bucky,” I whisper, my voice steady despite the way my heart is hammering in my chest. “I'm okay because of you.”

The air between us shifts again, and it's like he's letting go of whatever restraint he'd been holding onto. He leans in once more, his lips finding mine again, but this time, it's different. There's no hesitation, just a quiet certainty between us. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like everything is starting to make sense again.

When we pull away, Bucky's eyes are softer than before, and the smile he gives me is more confident now, like he's found something steady between us.

“Guess I'll go fix that truck,” he says, his voice still a little rough from the kiss, but there's a hint of warmth in it now. He steps back, but not too far, and the space between us doesn't feel like a distance anymore.

“I'll be here,” I say, already knowing that whatever happens next, we'll face it together.

With a final, lingering glance, he heads out, leaving me standing by the door, a warmth in my chest that matches the kiss.

For a moment, I just stand there, and then turn towards the piono. It sits in the living room like it's always belonged — like it had been waiting for me.

I step closer, almost wary, like if I breathe too hard, it'll vanish.
My fingers brush the keys. Cool. Smooth. Familiar.

I sit down.

For a long, long moment, I just... sit. Hands hovering, heart rattling like a moth against glass. I've touched a piano since Leia died — in the shop, once just for myself, once for Bucky.

Little sparks.

But this feels bigger. This feels like opening a door I've been too scared to touch.

I press a key.

It's a small sound — thin and a little clumsy — but it blooms into the room anyway.
So I press another.

And another.

The first few notes stumble out like a baby deer on ice. But then... something catches.
Muscle memory, old and patient, rises up from the dust inside me.
The song takes shape under my hands, finding its footing.
It's tentative at first — delicate, like breathing after a long cry — but it grows.

It grows.

And suddenly, it's like I never stopped.
Like the music had just been waiting, curled up inside my ribs, ready to unfurl when I was.
I lose track of time. Lose track of the world.

At some point — somewhere between the third song and the fourth — I swear I can feel her.
Leia.
Not as a ghost or a dream, but as a presence.
Warm. Weightless.
Like she's sitting cross-legged on the floor, chin in her hands, grinning that stupid grin she always saved just for me.

"There you are," I imagine her saying.
"Took you long enough."

My chest tightens, but it doesn't crack.
I keep playing.
For her. For me.
For all the things we never got to say.

It's not just sound; it's feeling.
It's grief, stitched with hope.
It's every goodbye I've ever choked on.
It's every new beginning I didn't know I deserved.

When the last note fades into the evening light, I'm still sitting there, hands trembling just a little. But I'm smiling. Really smiling.

I get up slowly, the warmth of the music still clinging to my skin like a second sweater.
I change — something casual, something easy — and before I can overthink it, I grab my keys and head toward the garage.

Toward Bucky.

Chapter Text

I head out the door and toward Bucky's garage, the evening air cool against my skin. There's something about it, about this town, that still feels like it's holding its breath. I wonder if he feels it too — that pull of something unsaid, something waiting to happen.
The wind rustles through the trees, but all I can hear is the beat of my own heart. Loud and steady.

Bucky's garage looms ahead, the flickering yellow light spilling out into the yard.
I don't know why I'm nervous.
I've been here before, stood in the quiet warmth of this space while he tinkered with his tools. But tonight feels different.

Maybe it's the music, the quiet confidence that's still humming in my blood from the piano.
Maybe it's the way he looked at me when we carried that piano in together, that soft, almost proud look. Like he knew. Like he always knew.

I knock gently on the doorframe, not sure what I'm expecting, but something like an invitation forms in the air between us when he looks up from under the hood of a car he's working on. His eyes flicker, then soften, that same look that makes my chest feel tight, like I'm holding something precious.

"Hey," I say, trying to sound casual. "I, uh, figured I'd stop by. Wanted to... thank you for helping me with the piano earlier."

He wipes his hands on a rag, that half-smile tugging at his lips. "I'm just glad I didn't break it."

"You're lucky I like you," I tease, stepping into the garage fully now. I let the words fall between us, easy and familiar. Just like the jokes we've been sharing.
"Otherwise, I might've had to kick your ass for all the muscle you used to carry it in."

His laugh rumbles low, and I feel that smile pulling at the corners of my mouth.
"I'll keep that in mind," he says, crossing his arms. His gaze softens as it runs over me. Not in the way it did when we first met. This is different. Something in his eyes flickers like a flame, not in the way of desire, but more like... respect. Like he sees me.

And for the first time, I don't feel like a mess of broken pieces anymore.

I move closer to him, feeling the weight of everything unsaid, everything that has built up between us, but tonight... tonight it doesn't feel heavy. Not in this moment.
His voice breaks through the silence, warm and steady. "You good?"
I nod, swallowing the lump that's formed in my throat. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Really good, actually."

He steps closer, the space between us shrinking until I can feel the heat of his body. For a second, everything is quiet. Except for the sound of my heartbeat and his steady breathing.
And then, like some invisible thread is pulling me toward him, I reach up, my fingers grazing the soft fabric of his shirt, brushing against the warmth of his arm. It's an almost instinctive move—like I need to touch him, like the space between us is a gap that needs to be closed.

His eyes drop to where my fingers linger, and I feel the shift in his body, the way he tenses ever so slightly, almost as if he's been waiting for me to make the move. His gaze stays on my hand for a moment, and when he looks back up, there's something new in his eyes—softness mixed with the kind of intensity that makes my pulse pick up. It's the way I always hoped he'd look at me, but I didn't know if I'd ever have the courage to ask for it.

I don't think either of us says anything. Neither of us needs to. The air between us has thickened, charged with something more. A hunger. A need. A recognition of this connection we've been building without even knowing it.

Then, he leans in. Just enough to close the distance, just enough that I can feel his breath against my skin, soft and warm. And in that moment, everything feels like it's slowing down. Like time is stretching out between us, holding its breath.

His lips brush mine, barely a touch, but it's electric. A spark that ignites something deep inside me. His hand, strong and gentle, cups the side of my face, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a slow, deliberate movement. I feel the heat of his palm, the roughness of his touch, and it grounds me in a way nothing else has.

I close my eyes, leaning into him, my heart racing as his lips press a little firmer, a little deeper, testing, asking for permission. It's everything I've been holding back, everything I've been afraid of. And yet, in this kiss, there's no fear. Only release.

The kiss deepens, slow and purposeful. His other hand moves to my back, pulling me in closer, the press of his body against mine feeling like the perfect fit. It's warm. Safe. Like coming home to a place I didn't know I'd been searching for.

His lips move against mine with a quiet intensity, as if he's trying to say everything that words can't touch. And I respond, my hands threading into his hair, holding him close, not wanting to let go. Every brush of his lips, every shift of his body, sends a wave of warmth through me, like I'm finally letting go of all the years of holding myself back.

When we finally pull apart, it's only because the air between us has grown impossibly thick, and we need to breathe. But neither of us goes far. He rests his forehead against mine, his breath coming in ragged little bursts, his chest rising and falling with the same frantic rhythm as mine.

For a moment, neither of us says a word. I don't think there's anything left to say.

We're both exactly where we need to be.

Bucky's breath is warm against my skin when we finally pull back, just a few inches, but it feels like we're worlds apart. His eyes meet mine, soft and steady, like he's trying to gauge the exact moment where I might pull away.

I won't pull away, I think, and for once, it feels like the truth.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice low, rough in a way that makes my pulse quicken.

I nod, swallowing, still lost in the warmth of him. Yeah. I'm okay.

He watches me for a moment longer, his gaze steady and unwavering. It's as though he's searching for something inside me, and when he doesn't find any signs of hesitation, a small, almost imperceptible smile curls on his lips.

I want to smile back, but the moment feels too fragile.

Then, just as the world seems to still, Alpine trots into the garage, her dainty paws padding softly against the concrete floor. She pauses, glancing between us, as though assessing the situation with a critical eye.

"Princess," I murmur softly, my lips curling into a grin. I squat down, extending my hand toward her. "You've got impeccable timing, you know that?"

Bucky lets out a small laugh, the tension easing from his body, his focus shifting to the cat with a warmth that's entirely different from the intensity we just shared.

"She always knows when things get too serious," he says, his voice lighter now. He steps over to her, his hand finding the top of her head and rubbing gently.

I watch them, my heart a little lighter than before. Something about the way Bucky interacts with Alpine—so tender, so patient—makes my chest tighten with something I can't quite explain.

I rise to my feet with Alpine in my arms, brushing off the small amount of dust that's settled on my pants. I take a breath, steadying myself. "So, what's next, Barnes?"

The air between us is still thick with everything unspoken, but there's no hurry now. No rush. Just us.

His eyes flick to mine, a glimmer of mischief sparking in their blue depths. "Well... how about dinner? I did promise you pasta, didn't I?" he says, voice low and playful. "Figure it's about time I made good on it."

I laugh, the sound bubbling up easily between us. "Finally cashing in on that big promise, huh?"

He grins, the kind of grin that feels like it wraps around my ribs and tugs. "Better late than never. C'mon. Let me impress you."

I lift an eyebrow at him, a playful challenge dancing in my voice. "Alright, Chef Barnes," I say, shifting Alpine in my arms, "lead the way."

He laughs, the sound low and easy. "That's Mr. Chef Barnes to you."

I let out a dramatic gasp. "Apologies, Your Culinary Majesty."

He grins, already taking a few steps ahead. "Try to keep up, will ya?"

I adjust my hold on Alpine, cradling her gently against my chest as we fall into step together. The evening air is cool, the town sleepy around us, and the only sounds are the soft pad of our steps and the occasional contented purr from the cat.

Bucky glances at me, his mouth pulling into that familiar, teasing grin. "Y'know," he says, "Alpine usually doesn't let people carry her like that. She's picky."

I grin, pressing a kiss to the top of Alpine's soft head. "That's because she knows royalty when she sees it."

He snorts, throwing me a playful side-eye. "Royalty, huh? Remind me to start bowing when you walk into a room."

I flash him a wicked smile. "It's not too late to start practicing, Barnes."

He chuckles low in his throat, and it does things to me — warm, fluttery, dangerous things.

He glances over again, mischief sparking in his blue eyes. "Keep talking, sweetheart. See if I don't add extra chili flakes to your pasta just to teach you a lesson."

I pretend to consider it, tapping a finger against my chin. "Spicy pasta, dinner with you... sounds like a win-win, honestly."

That earns me a heavier, slower look — the kind that makes my heartbeat skip a step. His voice dips low, smooth and rough all at once: "Yeah, trouble... it does."

As we reach his porch, he jogs ahead to open the door, giving a half-bow as he gestures for me to enter first. "After you, Your Highness."

I roll my eyes, but my cheeks burn with something dangerously close to giddiness as I step inside, Alpine still purring happily against me.

As I step inside, the warmth of his home wrapping around me instantly — all woodsy scents and something faintly spicy, like he'd been cooking earlier. Alpine wriggles in my arms until I set her down, and she pads inside like she owns the place. Classic.

Bucky glances at me from over his shoulder, that same mischievous glint in his eye. "Make yourself at home, princess. Just don't judge me if the pasta makes you fall in love."

I let out a short, surprised laugh — but there's something in the way he says it, something in the way his eyes linger on me, that snags my heart right where it's still sore and mending.

"Guess I'll just have to risk it," I murmur, smiling back at him.

And maybe it's already too late for me — not that I'm about to tell him that.

I toe off my shoes by the door, following the smell of simmering garlic and something rich and herby drifting from the kitchen. Bucky's already moving around like he owns the space — which, okay, he does — sleeves shoved up his forearms, a pot bubbling on the stove, Alpine weaving between his feet like she's giving him performance anxiety.

I spot a small stack of plates on the counter and lift an eyebrow at him. "Need a hand, Chef Barnes?"

He shoots me a glance over his shoulder, that infuriatingly attractive smirk already locked and loaded. "You offering to set the table or take over stirring so I don't burn the place down?"

I grab the plates, grinning. "I'll set the table. Don't trust you near open flames and multitasking."

He chuckles low, and I swear the sound curls itself right around my ribs. "Smart girl."

I busy myself laying out plates, glasses, silverware — the works — at the small wooden table sat by the window. It's simple here, cozy in a way that feels untouched by the outside world. Like him. No pretense, no noise. Just real.

I glance up and catch him watching me again, a faint softness in his gaze like he forgot to guard it.
"What?" I ask, smoothing my hands over the tablecloth even though it doesn't need it.

He shakes his head, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Just... you fit here. Better than I thought someone could."

My heart stutters, but I cover it up with a teasing grin because if I let myself sink into that tenderness too fast, I might drown.

"Careful, Barnes," I say lightly, "keep talking like that and I'll start charging rent."

He laughs again, a little breathless this time, before tossing a towel over his shoulder and checking the pasta.
"Fair warning," he says without looking back, "I make enough for leftovers. Hope you're hungry."

I slide into a chair with a dramatic sigh.
"I guess I could suffer through a second helping. For the sake of being polite."

He throws me a look — that look — and mutters, "You're gonna suffer, alright."

And damn if the stupidly innocent act of making dinner together doesn't feel like it's just the beginning — like a fuse quietly sparking, burning down toward something we can't stop. Something we don't want to stop.

Not tonight.

The atmosphere settles into something warm and easy, the kind of cozy that seeps into your bones and makes you forget the rest of the world exists.
Bucky moves around the kitchen with a casual confidence, stirring a pot on the stove, grabbing some seasoning from the counter, humming under his breath — and every now and then, he flashes me one of those small, easy smiles that feels like it was carved just for me.

I watch him, elbows resting lazily on the table, Alpine curled at my feet. And just for a moment, I let myself breathe it all in. and just... watch. Watch him. Watch this life I never thought I'd get to touch.

A year ago, I was somewhere else entirely — a different city, a different house, a different version of myself, stitched together by grief and stubborn hope.
Back then, nights like this felt like a fantasy: sitting in a kitchen that smells like garlic and tomatoes, heart steady, chest full, laughter tucked into the corners of the walls.

But here I am. Here we are.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, it doesn't feel like I'm running from something.
It feels like I'm running toward something.
Toward him.

Bucky plates the pasta with an exaggerated flourish, sliding a dish in front of me with a wink. The rich smell of garlic, tomato, and something spicy hits me instantly, making my stomach growl in appreciation.

"Well," he says, resting his hands on his hips and surveying his work like a proud artist, "I told you, I make a mean pasta. Not bad for a mechanic, huh?"

I pick up my fork, twirling the noodles with a little smirk. "I might have to get the recipe... though I'm not sure I can trust you with any more of my secrets."

He leans against the counter, crossing his arms, his grin all teeth and trouble. "I'll let you keep your secrets... for now."

The first bite is heaven — spicy, rich, perfect. I let out a little hum of approval, and when I peek up, Bucky's watching me like I'm the only thing in the room worth looking at.

His lips curve into the softest, most self-satisfied grin, like he's just won some unspoken challenge. He leans back in his chair a little, arms crossed, just soaking in the sight of me enjoying what he made. It's almost like he's memorizing it — this moment, this look on my face. And somehow, that makes my heart trip over itself harder than the food ever could.

He then lets out a soft chuckle, a little more to himself than to me. "Glad you like it."

It makes my cheeks heat, but I don't look away. I take another bite and give him a pointed look, as if to prove I'm not just flattering him. "You definitely weren't lying about the pasta."

He grins, clearly pleased with himself. "I told you I wasn't."

Dinner flows easy. We talk about everything and nothing: how Alpine apparently has a vendetta against the neighbor's dog, how Bucky once tried to fix a blender and ended up nearly setting his kitchen on fire. I tease him about it, and he just rolls his eyes good-naturedly, flashing that boyish smile that makes it impossible to take him seriously — not when he looks at me like that.

"You're really making me regret not seeing you fail at more kitchen appliances," I say with a playful grin, leaning back in my chair.

"Careful," he warns, eyes narrowing teasingly. "You might get an encore if you're not careful." He leans toward me, voice lowering. "Though, for you, I'd consider putting down the chili flakes and offering you something even better."

I raise an eyebrow, feeling that familiar warmth rush through me. "Is that so?"

He just smiles that slow, dangerous smile that makes my pulse race. "Yeah, doll. Trust me."

A soft shiver runs down my spine at the way his voice drops, and I can't help but bite the inside of my lip, my mind momentarily clouded by the intensity of his gaze. There's something in the air between us, thick and heady — a quiet tension I can't quite place but feel all the way through me. It's like a storm waiting to break, but neither of us says a word to acknowledge it.

I try to shake off the warmth spreading through my chest, the fluttering nerves in my stomach, but it's harder than I expect. Instead of answering, I take another bite of pasta, focusing on the familiar taste to ground myself. The rich spice lingers on my tongue, but it's not enough to mask the way his eyes follow every movement I make.

When I look back up, he's still watching me. Not in the teasing way from earlier, but with something a little more... serious. And it makes everything feel a little more real, a little more dangerous in the best way possible.

After we finish eating, the playful mood returns as we clean up together, washing dishes and tidying the kitchen. There's something so domestic about it, so comfortable. We move around each other with ease, passing plates, wiping counters, all in perfect sync, like we've done this before.

The close proximity allows for quiet, soft moments where we're both aware of the other's presence — the warmth of his hand brushing mine, the sound of his low chuckle when I make a sarcastic comment. There's no rush, no pressure. Just... us.

When we finish, I lean back against the counter, my eyes drifting to Bucky as he rinses the last of the dishes. The quiet feels heavier now, like something's shifted between us. The moments we've shared tonight feel like they've brought us closer — and not just in a physical sense.

There's something deeper here. Something real.

I open my mouth, almost without thinking, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

"You know..." I start softly, my voice quieter than it's been all evening, "you're mine now. My boyfriend."

The words catch us both by surprise. I blink, unsure of where they came from, but when I look at Bucky's expression, it feels right. It feels... true.

Bucky freezes for a second, as if processing what I just said. His eyes soften, and he smiles, a slow, content smile that tugs at something deep inside me. "Yours," he repeats, his voice low, thoughtful. "I like the sound of that."

I smile, as if confirming it again for myself. Yeah... I do want him to be. I want all of it.

His smile widens, and I can see the hint of relief in his eyes. The weight that had been lingering between us lifts, and it's replaced with something lighter. Something easy.

For a moment, we both just stand there, letting it sink in, a quiet understanding settling between us. There's no need for a big speech, no grand declarations. The truth is simple, and it's enough.

The kitchen is quiet now—only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock filling the space between us. But the silence isn't empty. It hums with tension, thick and humming beneath our skin.

Bucky dries his hands with a dish towel, and for a second, he just stares at me. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes… they're soft, like I've just handed him something delicate and sacred.

I lean back against the counter, watching him toss the towel aside. My heart's thudding against my ribs like it knows something big is about to happen, like it's already one step ahead of me.

He doesn't say anything. Just walks over and stops in front of me, so close I can feel the warmth of his chest through the thin fabric of my shirt. His hand lifts, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair away from my face. I tilt my head up to look at him, and his gaze is heavy — not intense in a frightening way, but in a way that makes my breath catch.

And then he kisses me.

Slow. Deep. His lips move over mine like he's memorizing the shape, like he's waited too damn long for this and refuses to rush it now. I melt into him, my hands sliding up his chest, curling into the front of his shirt.

"You don't know how long I've wanted this," he murmurs against my lips, his voice low, rough, and so full of something I don't dare name yet.

"I think I do," I whisper, breathless.

The kiss deepens, grows hungrier. There's a pull between us, this magnetic need that coils tighter with every second. He lifts me with a sure grip and sets me gently on the counter, never once breaking the kiss. His hands explore my waist, my thighs, the small of my back — like he's trying to memorize every part of me.

And God, I let him. I want to.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard, foreheads resting together.

"Bedroom?" he asks, voice husky.

I nod, unable to trust my voice.

He lifts me again, bridal style this time, and I laugh softly against his neck. It's giddy, breathless, full of that electric anticipation that's been simmering between us for weeks. Alpine meows from her perch on the couch as we pass by, and Bucky chuckles.

"Don't wait up," he tells her.

The world fades behind the soft click of the bedroom door.

And in its place, there's only us.

The moment my back hits the bed, a shiver rushes through me. Bucky stands there for a second, just looking down at me like he can't quite believe I'm real. His chest rises and falls a little faster, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides like he's fighting some internal battle.

I reach up, curling my fingers around the hem of his shirt and giving it a gentle tug. "C'mere, Barnes."

He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head like I'm the one who's dangerous here. Still, he lets me pull him down, his weight sinking the mattress around me as he braces himself on his forearms, caging me in without crushing me.

"You sure?' he asks, voice rough and low, his forehead pressed to mine.

"I'm sure," I breathe, threading my fingers through his hair. "I want this. I want you."

And that's all it takes.

His mouth finds mine again, and this time there's nothing tentative about it. His kiss is deep, consuming, stealing the very air from my lungs in the best possible way. His hands roam—one flesh, one vibranium—exploring my sides, my hips, like he's trying to memorize every inch of me.

I arch into him, desperate for more, and he groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me. His hands find the hem of my shirt, slipping underneath to touch bare skin. His palms are rough and calloused, and the sensation makes me gasp against his lips.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and blown wide with want. "If I'm too much, tell me to stop," he rasps.

"You're not too much," I whisper, tugging my shirt over my head and tossing it aside.

Bucky's gaze drags over me, reverent and almost awed, like he's seeing something sacred. "Fuck, sweetheart..." he mutters, leaning down to kiss a path from my jaw to my collarbone, lingering there, nipping lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue.

I wriggle under him, needy and impatient, my hands moving to his own shirt. "Your turn," I murmur against his ear.

He grins, this cocky, boyish thing that makes my heart flip, and sits back just long enough to strip his shirt off. The sight steals my breath: broad chest, scars, strong arms, every inch of him solid and real and mine. The soft glow of the room kisses his skin, painting him in golds and shadows.

He leans down again, skin to skin, the heat between us crackles. Everything else, the past, the pain, the uncertainty—fades away.

There's only this.

Us. Together.

He doesn't rush. God, he doesn't rush.

Bucky kisses me slow, lingering, tasting, and then he trails down my throat, across my collarbone, every touch making me arch into him, needing more. His hands glide down my sides, reverent and sure, learning every inch of me.

He pauses just long enough to reach into the nightstand and roll on a condom, his gaze never leaving mine, checking, asking, promising.

When his fingers find their way between my thighs, he curses softly against my skin, like he can't believe I'm real.

"So perfect," he mutters, almost to himself, and then his hand—his big, calloused, careful hand—is there, touching me, teasing, coaxing me open with slow, measured strokes.

I gasp, hips rocking into his touch without shame, and he smiles against my skin, whispering, "That's it, baby. Just like that."

He takes his time, working me open with fingers that are patient, tender, but relentless, watching me fall apart under him. My head tips back, my body trembling, already so close just from the way he touches me, the way he looks at me like I'm the only thing he's ever wanted.

When he finally—finally—nudges at my entrance, he pauses, forehead resting against mine, both of us breathing hard, hearts beating wild between us.

"You okay?" he murmurs, voice low and ragged, like it's costing him everything to hold himself back.

I nod, brushing my nose against his, my hands sliding up his back to anchor myself. "Yeah," I whisper, voice shaking from how much I want this. "Please, Bucky."

His name on my lips does something to him. His mouth captures mine in a kiss that's almost reverent, and with one slow, careful roll of his hips, he sinks into me.

It knocks the breath out of my lungs.

I clutch at him, nails digging lightly into his skin, overwhelmed by how good it feels — how right it feels — like every broken piece inside me is finally fitting back together.

"Jesus, y/n," he groans against my mouth, like he's trying to keep it together, like he's trying not to break apart just from being inside me.

He stills, giving me a moment, brushing his lips over my cheeks, my forehead, my temple. Little kisses. Gentle, grounding.

"You feel…" he starts, then chokes out a laugh like he can't even find the words. "You feel like… home. So good."

I squeeze him closer, a tear slipping free even as I laugh a little through it. "You're everything," I whisper, not even sure if he hears me.

He does. I know he does.

Bucky moves slowly, rocking his hips in a rhythm that's more about savoring than chasing anything. Every roll of his body against mine makes me fall deeper, pull him closer, hold on tighter.

He whispers little things against my skin, soft praises that make my heart ache in the sweetest way.

"You're perfect." "I've got you." "Mine."

I answer back without even thinking, my own words tumbling out in broken whispers between kisses and sighs.

"Yours." "Always." "Don't let go."

He doesn't. He never would.

It's slow. It's deep. It's everything.

By the time we fall apart together, clinging to each other like the world might end, I can't even tell where I end and he begins.

All I know is that, finally, I'm exactly where I'm meant to be. With him.

Every kiss, every touch, every whispered word that follows isn't just heat — though there's plenty of that — it's trust. It's healing. It's love, even if neither of us is brave enough to say it yet.

Not yet. But soon. Maybe very very soon.

The room is quiet except for the sound of our breathing, both of us tangled up in the sheets, in each other.

Bucky doesn't move far — he just shifts enough to ease out of me carefully, making sure I'm okay, murmuring something soft and wordless against my hair. Then he pulls me right back into his arms like he can't stand to be even an inch away.

His hand finds my hip under the blanket, thumb brushing lazy circles into my skin, grounding me. His metal arm curls protectively around my shoulders, cool against the warmth of my flushed skin.

For a while, we just stay like that. No pressure, no need to fill the silence. Just breathing each other in.

Eventually, he tips his forehead against mine, his voice low and a little hoarse. "You okay, sweetheart?"

I nod, snuggling closer, feeling stupidly safe in a way I didn't even realize I craved. "Yeah," I whisper.

His lips brush my temple, featherlight. Reverent. "You wreck me," he says so quietly I almost don't catch it.

"You put me back together," I whisper back.

His breath catches, and for a second, it feels like the whole world holds still around us.

Then he shifts again, guiding me so I'm lying fully against him, head tucked under his chin, his heartbeat a steady drum under my ear. His hand keeps tracing those slow, absentminded patterns on my bare back, each touch easing me deeper into something weightless and warm.

"You tired?" he murmurs after a while.

I hum a soft noise of contentment. "Not yet. Just... happy."

His chest rises and falls under me with a deep, shaky breath. "Me too," he says. "More than I can even explain."

We fall into a quiet that isn't heavy or awkward — it's soft, easy. The kind of silence that only comes when words aren't needed anymore.

Eventually, his fingers lace with mine under the blanket. He brings our joined hands up and presses a kiss to my knuckles, slow and sure, like a promise.

And when I finally start to drift, wrapped up in Bucky, the whole damn world is forgotten outside the walls of this room and I think— for the first time in a long, long while... I'm not just surviving anymore. I'm living.

And it's all because of him.

I open my eyes slightly when I feel him shift beside me. His arm's still wrapped around my waist, and his nose brushes against my temple like he didn't mean to move, like even in sleep, he's trying to stay close.

"Mmm... sorry," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep, low and unbearably soft. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," I whisper, eyes still half closed, leaning into him. "Just got cold without you wrapped around me like a weighted blanket."

He chuckles, that sleepy kind of laugh, low in his chest. "Lucky for you, I come in super-soldier size."

He tucks me in tighter, both arms curling around me now — warm, strong, safe. I melt into him, burying my face against his neck. He smells like spice and soap and something purely him, and it's so stupidly comforting it makes my chest ache.

"Hey," he whispers after a beat, lips brushing my hair. "You're not alone anymore. You know that, right?"

I nod against him, blinking back the sudden sting in my eyes.

"I know," I whisper. "You either."

He hums something in response, a sound that feels more like a promise than anything else. His thumb rubs lazy circles on my hip, and I feel his breathing slow again, chest rising and falling in that steady rhythm that always lulls me back.

Right before he slips under again, he murmurs, "G'night, sweetheart. Dream about me."

"Only if you dream about me too," I whisper back.

A sleepy smirk tugs at his lips. "Already do."

And just like that, we're both gone again — weightless, warm, and completely each other's.

Chapter Text

The next morning, we wake tangled in each other, the soft morning light slipping through the curtains of Bucky's bedroom. It's quiet. Peaceful. I can hear the distant hum of the world outside, but here in this room, everything feels still. Steady.

His arm is draped over my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck. I stretch a little, careful not to wake him, but his grip tightens slightly, like his body knows mine is trying to slip away.

"Mm-mm," he mumbles sleepily, voice gravelly. "No escaping."

I laugh softly. "Just stretching."

"You stretch, I hold," he mutters, nuzzling into my hair. It's unfair how adorable he is half-asleep. Especially after last night. Especially when I'm this sore and happy and completely, utterly ruined for anyone else.

We stay like that for a few more minutes, warm and lazy and unwilling to leave the cocoon we've made. Eventually, though, nature calls, and we both groan as we force ourselves out of bed. He grumbles something about his back and I throw a pillow at him.

He catches it, of course.

We end up in the shower together, more out of practicality than anything else. Well—mostly. There's a lot of giggling, a lot of bumping into each other, and a lot of lingering touches. Nothing escalates, but the affection doesn't fade.

He helps rinse the shampoo out of my hair like it's the most normal thing in the world, and my heart tries to crawl out of my chest.

"You always this fussy about rinsing?" he teases, fingers gentle against my scalp.

"Only when I know someone else is doing it. Gotta get the full spa experience," I grin, leaning into the touch just a little too long.

He chuckles, low and fond. "Noted. Next time I'll get the cucumber slices and pan flute music."

"God, please don't bring cucumber slices into the shower."

He laughs again, then goes quiet for a second. His hands linger near my shoulders.

"This is nice," he says, almost like he didn't mean to let it out loud. "Being close like this. Without all the noise."

I nod, throat a little tight. "Yeah. It feels... easy. Which is weird. Nothing about us should feel easy."

"Guess we're weird, then."

We finish rinsing off, soft smiles passed between us like secrets. There's warmth, unspoken and undeniable, in the way he holds the towel out for me.

Afterward, I throw on one of his shirts—it's too big and smells like him, and I pretend not to notice the way his eyes linger when he sees me in it. We shuffle into the kitchen, both of us still a little groggy but too hungry to care.

He starts pulling ingredients from the fridge while I lean on the counter, watching him.

"You really live like this?" I ask, peeking in.

"I like simplicity," he shrugs, grabbing eggs and some veggies.

"Okay, but hear me out," I say, leaning against the counter. "You need an air fryer."

He snorts. "Oh, like the one you have?"

"Leia convinced me to get one a while back. Said it would change my life." A small smile tugs at my lips at her name, gentle now, no longer edged with pain. "And she was right. Me and my air fryer? Inseparable. You should totally get one. Not just for breakfast, but like… everything. Seriously. Revolutionary."

Bucky chuckles, cracking eggs into a pan. "You and your little kitchen gadgets."

"One day you'll thank me," I say, smug. "Imagine crispy fries without the guilt. Chicken that doesn't taste like sadness. I'm telling you, Barnes, this is how I know you're still healing — you don't have an air fryer yet."

He gives me a long-suffering look, but there's laughter behind it. "I'll put it on my list. Right after world peace and learning how to fold a fitted sheet."

I laugh, hopping onto the counter as he cooks. The scent of food fills the space, and it's weird how normal this all feels — like we've done it a hundred times. Like we'll do it a hundred more.

He glances over his shoulder. "Stay for lunch?"

"I stayed for breakfast, didn't I?"

His grin is soft. "Just making sure."

And just like that, the morning rolls on — simple, sweet. Nothing fancy. Nothing loud. Just us — Bucky, me, Alpine curled up at our feet like she's claimed both of us, and the quiet, steady warmth of something real simmering between the moments. Not just a maybe anymore. Not a question mark. We're together now. Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Ours.

After breakfast, the day stretches out in front of us like a quiet, open road — no pressure, no plans, just the kind of freedom that feels too rare to waste.

Bucky loads the dishes into the sink, and I offer to help, but he just shakes his head, drying his hands on a towel. "You relax—it's the least I can do."

"Wow," I tease, leaning against the counter. "Chivalry isn't dead after all."

He smirks over his shoulder. "Just in hiding. You dragged it out of me."

We settle into the soft rhythm of the day. I lounge on his couch for a while, legs tucked under me, flipping through a book he had stacked on the coffee table. Bucky disappears into the garage for a bit — not to work, just to check on something, he says. He returns with grease on his hands and a sheepish look that makes me smile.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say, biting back a grin. "You're just... really hot when you're covered in engine grease."

He raises a brow, wiping his hands on a towel. "Noted. Might have to fake car problems more often."

I snort, rolling my eyes. "Careful. I might start poking holes in your tires just to watch you fix them."

He smirks, clearly not opposed to the idea. "You'd really sabotage my truck for that?"

"Don't tempt me," I say, flashing him a grin over the top of the book.

We spend a lazy hour side by side on the couch, Alpine wedged happily between us. At one point, Bucky dozes off with his arm slung over the back of the couch behind me, and I let myself lean into him, soaking up the quiet comfort of it all. It's not exciting. It's not wild. But it's... everything.

At some point, I glance out the window, squinting at the pale spring sky. "Weather's supposed to stay clear this weekend," I say, nudging his knee. "We should go stargazing."

Bucky raises an eyebrow, half-smirking. "Stargaze?"

"Don't tell me you've never just laid on your back and stared at the stars like a sentimental sap."

He hums, pretending to think. "I've stared at satellites to make sure they weren't Hydra."

"Not the same thing."

He chuckles, low and amused. "Alright, alright. Stargazing. You gonna bring a telescope?"

"Nope. Just blankets, coffee, and a solid playlist. Maybe snacks if I don't burn them."

He gives a lazy smile and nudges me with his knee. "Sounds kinda perfect."

I laugh into his chest, the sound muffled by the warmth of him, and let myself sink into the way his arms wrap around me like they belong there.

We spend the rest of the afternoon like that — teasing, talking, wrapped up in each other without even trying. It's a perfect kind of day, the kind you don't realize you've been craving until you're right in the middle of it.

By the time the sun starts dipping low, casting golden light across the floorboards of Bucky's cabin, a warm stillness settles over everything. The kind of peace that only comes after a long, good day. I'm curled up on the couch, Alpine sprawled across my legs like royalty while I absently stroke her soft fur. Bucky's nearby, kneeling by a loose cabinet door in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.

He mutters something under his breath as the screwdriver slips again, and I bite back a grin. "Need me to call in a professional?"

He turns to look at me with a mock glare, but there's no heat in it. "I am the professional."

I lift an eyebrow, gently nudging Alpine off my lap. "Sure you are, babe. You've only been swearing at that cabinet for twenty minutes."

"I'm warming it up," he says with a shrug, then smirks as I wander over to him. "It's all part of the process."

I crouch beside him, resting my chin on his shoulder, eyes on the slightly crooked hinge. "Your process is making me nervous."

Bucky leans into me, just slightly, his voice softer now. "Then stay close. Could be dangerous."

"Danger's my middle name," I deadpan, and he huffs a laugh before finally managing to screw the hinge back in place.

"Ha! Told you I could fix it."

"I'm so proud," I murmur, kissing his cheek. "Now can we go celebrate this historic victory with some tea or—?"

"Pizza," he interrupts, already heading for his phone.

I laugh. "Fine. You know, we've never actually had pizza together."

Bucky looks up, mock scandalized. "You mean we've shared a bed but not a pizza? That's—actually, that's criminal."

"Exactly. It's a glaring oversight. We need to fix that immediately."

He hums thoughtfully, flipping through a menu. "Alright, crucial question. Pineapple or no pineapple?"

I gasp like he just confessed to a felony. "Absolutely not. Pineapple on pizza is culinary betrayal."

He raises an eyebrow, grinning. "That's a bold claim for someone who told me she tried matcha pasta."

"Hey, matcha never tried to sabotage pepperoni and mozzarella. Pineapple's a whole different monster."

"Now I'm tempted to order it just to test your loyalty."

I throw a cushion at him. "Do it and I swear you'll be sleeping with Alpine tonight."

Alpine lets out a sleepy meow like she's fully on board with this arrangement.

Bucky chuckles, finally settling on a pepperoni and mushroom combo. "Alright, alright. I'll spare you. But one day, I'm sneaking pineapple into your life. You'll never see it coming."

"Then I'll just have to train Alpine to attack on sight."

He tosses his phone on the coffee table and grins. "Now that's domestic."

And it is. Somehow—beautifully, ridiculously, it is.

We spend the evening like that—pizza ordered, curled up on the couch, half-watching something dumb on TV that neither of us really care about because we're too busy being wrapped up in each other. Alpine, ever the queen, wedges herself between us like she's claiming her rightful throne, and Bucky murmurs something about needing a second couch just for her.

And in that cozy little cabin—with Alpine purring, forgotten pizza crusts on a plate, and Bucky's arm slung around my shoulders—it hits me. We're not pretending. We're not playing house.

This is real. We're real.

And it's only just beginning.

The hours drift by in the kind of way you don't really notice until you glance at the clock and realize the sky outside has turned indigo, the last bits of sunlight fading behind the trees. The TV's gone quiet and Alpine's curled up like a cinnamon roll on Bucky's lap.

Eventually, Bucky shifts beside me, his hand brushing my knee, eyes warm and a little sleepy. "C'mon, love. Let's call it a night."

There's no rush, no dramatic declarations. Just the quiet comfort of routine being built in real time. We rise, moving through the little rituals—turning off lights, stacking dishes, locking the door—as if we've done this a hundred times. Like it's already a rhythm we've fallen into.

And when we finally crawl into bed—him pulling me into his chest like it's the most natural thing in the world—I realize again:

I've fallen for him. Deep.

And tonight, in the warmth of his arms and the soft, sleepy hush of the night settling around us, it doesn't feel scary.

It feels like peace. Like home.

Chapter Text

The light filters in soft and golden, slipping past the curtains in lazy streaks that stretch across the bed. I blink awake slowly, warm and content, my limbs tangled with Bucky's like we've always slept this way. His arm is heavy across my waist, his breath steady and slow against the back of my neck.

I don't move right away. I just… exist there for a while. Listening to the quiet hum of the cabin, Alpine's soft little meow in the distance like she's announcing the start of a new day on her terms.

Eventually, Bucky shifts behind me, pressing a sleepy kiss to my shoulder.

“Mornin', sweetheart,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep and rough in a way that does things to me.

I roll over to face him, and his eyes are still half-lidded, hair a mess, but the smile he gives me is soft enough to melt steel.

“Morning,” I whisper back, my fingers brushing across his jaw. “You sleep okay?”

He nods, nuzzles into my palm. “Best sleep I've had in years.”

And damn if that doesn't make my heart do something stupid.

We stay like that for a little while longer, just wrapped up in each other and the morning, until Alpine decides she's had enough of our lazy nonsense and hops right onto the bed—tail flicking, eyes judging.

“She's definitely not a fan of sharing,” I laugh, reaching out to scratch behind her ears.

Bucky snorts, burying his face in my neck. “Might have to build her a separate bed with heated blankets and a throne.”

“She'll still end up on yours,” I tease.

Eventually, we crawl out of bed, stretch, yawn, pull on clothes that definitely aren't ours but feel like they could be. We make breakfast together again—eggs, toast, leftover coffee—and it’s as domestic as it gets.

“Still think you need an air fryer,” I say mid-toast-chew.

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. “okay, okay, if this air fryer is as good as you say, maybe I'll cave.”

I smirk, tossing a piece of toast at him. “You'll thank me when you realize you can make crispy chicken tenders at 2 a.m. without burning the house down.”

He catches the toast easily, takes a bite just to be petty, then mumbles through it, “You trying to corrupt me with midnight snacking?”

“Oh, absolutely. I'm a bad influence. Next thing you know, you’ll be meal-prepping salmon and roasted sweet potatoes like a TikTok mom.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “What the hell is a TikTok mom?”

I grin. “Exactly.”

He shakes his head like he regrets all his life choices that led him here, but he's smiling. “Alright, fine. Air fryer goes on the list. Right under 'figure out how to use Spotify without yelling at it.'”

“Oh my god—Bucky,” I gasp, scandalized. “You don't know how to use Spotify?”

“Not well! It keeps asking me if I wanna upgrade to 'preemie' or something.”

“Premium,” I snort, nearly choking on toast. “Oh, we're fixing that too. You're gonna have playlists, buddy. For moods. For tuning engines. For making crispy chicken tenders.”

“You make playlists for chicken?”

I shrug like it's the most normal thing in the world. “I make playlists for everything. Don't question the system.”

He just laughs, warm and easy and real.

We settle at the table, Alpine hopping up onto a chair like she pays rent. The air smells like coffee and toast and ... Peace.

When we're done eating, I stretch and brush the crumbs off my lap. “I should head back, change clothes before the day gets away from me.”

Bucky pouts, looking absolutely betrayed. “What's wrong with my clothes? You wear them better than I do.”

I smirk, standing up to collect the plates. “They're dangerously comfortable. I'm starting to forget what my own wardrobe looks like.”

He follows me, bumping his hip against mine as we head to the sink. “You have no idea how hard it was not to kiss you stupid when I saw you throw my shirt on.”

“Hmm,” I hum, rinsing the plates. “You could've tried.”

He grins, reaching around to steal a damp kiss. “Stay a little longer?”

“Tempting. But I also need to practice for the event.”

He sighs dramatically like I just crushed his soul. “Fine. Responsible and talented. I get it.”

“Speaking of,” I say, drying my hands, “the planner got back to me. They're really happy I agreed, and the event's officially set for a week from now.”

“a week,” he echoes, nodding. “Plenty of time to brag about you to every customer who walks into the garage.”

“Oh, so you're my hype man now?”

“Damn right I am.”

He kisses me once more before grabbing his keys—warm and a little teasing, like he's trying to make me smile against his mouth. He nips my bottom lip gently, then pulls back with that crooked smirk that always does me in.

“I should open up anyway. See you later?”

“Definitely,” I murmur, tugging him back by the collar for one more quick kiss. “But don't think that lets you off the hook for your Spotify lesson.”

He laughs, shaking his head as he heads for the door. “Terrified already.”

We part ways after that, and I head home, changing into something more my style but still soft and relaxed—a loose sweater, worn-in jeans, the kind of clothes that feel like a warm sigh. The house is quiet when I step inside, sunlight spilling lazily through the windows and casting gold onto the floor. I breathe it in, the silence, the stillness, the aftermath of something beautiful.

Eventually, I settle at the piano, drawn to it like gravity. My fingers find their place on the keys, familiar and worn smooth. I start to play without thinking, just letting my hands move, and before I know it, hours slip past like sand through a sieve. The melody that pours out of me isn't planned—it grows on its own, slow and delicate, notes blooming one after the other like soft petals.

It becomes something new. A piece that's gentle and layered, full of little sighs and swells, a quiet kind of yearning stitched into every note. It's not sad, not exactly. It aches, but in a beautiful way—like the feeling you get when someone makes you laugh during a hard day, or the warmth of being held after feeling cold for too long.

And I realize, as the music takes shape, that it sounds exactly like him. Like the way Bucky looks at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention. Like the softness in his voice when he says my name. Like the safe, steady weight of his arm slung around me in the morning. It's the sound of comfort and longing, of quiet joy and healing, and maybe even a little bit of love... Yeah.

It's love.

Thick and golden and quiet. Not the kind that sets off fireworks or drowns you in chaos. This is the kind that sneaks up on you, builds itself brick by brick in every small moment. It's the way he touches my back when he passes me in the kitchen. The way he listens, really listens, even when I ramble. It's in the steady beat of his heart when I fall asleep on his chest. It's in this music—this soft, aching melody I somehow pulled from the center of me.

And when I finish, I sit there for a moment.  Hands still hovering over the keys, heart full in that aching, full-body way that art sometimes does to you. And I know, without a doubt, this one's for him.

And it's beautiful.

Not perfect. Not polished. But honest. Just like us.

When evening rolls around, I hear the familiar rumble of his bike outside. I step out, and he's already holding out a helmet for me, grinning.

“You said stargazing. I'm delivering.”

My heart does this ridiculous little flip. He's got that look on his face—the one that's a little smug, a little soft, like he knows he's winning major points right now.

I cross my arms, pretending to scrutinize. "Did you remember the essentials?"

He lifts a brow. "Blankets, coffee, snacks, and a solid playlist. I don't half-ass things."

I grin, taking the helmet from him. "Look at you, overachieving."

He leans in, close enough that our noses almost touch. "Only for you."

I pretend to scoff, but I'm already melting. "Alright, Barnes. Let's go find those stars."

Before I can slide the helmet on, he leans in, hand curling around my waist, and steals a kiss—quick, but smug, like he's proud of himself.

“Couldn't risk the stars outshining you tonight,” he murmurs, lips still brushing mine.

My breath catches, and I look up at him, heart doing that fluttery thing it only ever does around him.

I hop on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist as he starts the bike, the engine purring beneath us like it's just as excited for this night as I am.

We ride out past the edge of town, the sky blooming with stars as the sun dips below the horizon. He parks near a field, and we walk out to the center where the sky feels the biggest.

We lay back on the grass, sipping coffee, fingers laced, the playlist drifting low and warm in the background. The stars blink overhead like they're winking just for us. And in that quiet space, it feels like the world holds its breath.

Bucky lets out a soft sigh beside me. “I don't remember the last time I felt like this,” he says, voice low. “Just... calm. No noise in my head. No weight on my chest. It's been decades.”

I turn my head to look at him, the soft glow of the stars catching in his eyes. “I know what you mean,” I whisper. “Ever since Leia died, it's like I've been stuck in this… void. Like nothing could reach me. I thought I'd never feel whole again.”

His fingers tighten around mine.

“But then I met you,” I continue, my voice barely a breath. “And somehow, without even trying, you pulled me out of it. You made the silence feel warm again. You made me feel... me again.”

He doesn't say anything for a moment, just shifts closer, forehead brushing mine. “Guess we pulled each other out, then.”

We're quiet for a while after that, letting the stars speak in constellations and silence.

Then I smirk. “It's different from staring at Hydra satellites, huh?”

Bucky blinks, confused for a split second, then lets out a surprised laugh. “You remember that, huh?”

“Please,” I tease, “like I could forget your very romantic take on celestial bodies.”

He nudges my shoulder with his. “Hey, making sure the sky wasn't crawling with surveillance drones is peak romance. That's just good date etiquette.”

I laugh, leaning into him. “Sure, Barnes. Nothing says swoon like tactical star-mapping.”

He grins, eyes crinkling. “You love it.”

“I do,” I admit. “God help me, I really do.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, then turns his head to look at me, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Guess I'm gonna have to keep saying weird stuff just to see what sticks."

I chuckle too, heart full, and lean in to kiss him—just a small, lingering press of lips that says I adore you without needing to say it out loud. He smiles into it like he knows exactly what I mean.

We stay a while longer, stretched out in the grass with fingers still tangled, sharing quiet looks and even quieter thoughts. Eventually, the night air grows cooler, and we pack up—he tosses the empty coffee cups and helps me to my feet, brushing invisible blades of grass from my back. The ride back is calm, a soft hum of the bike against the night's hush.

when he drops me off at my place, I tug him toward the front door.

"Your turn to stay here tonight."

He raises a brow, but the smirk that follows is unmistakable. “You don't have to ask me twice.”

He follows without hesitation, slipping inside with me. As he steps in, his eyes drift around the familiar space, then settle on the piano like it's waiting.

“How was practice?” he asks, voice soft.

I nod. “ Good.” I sit down, fingers hovering above the keys. “Wanna hear what I wrote?”

He nods, taking a seat on the couch, gaze fixed on me like I'm something sacred.

I play the piece I wrote that afternoon, every note soaked in feeling, in everything I can't quite say out loud yet. When I finish, the room holds the last note like a secret.

“Wow,” he whispers. “I've never heard that one before.”

I look over my shoulder. “You haven't. It's mine. I made it for you.”

His lips part slightly, and he just stares for a second, like the weight of that hits him somewhere deep. No words—just this stunned softness in his eyes, like he doesn't quite know how to hold something that precious.

He stands, crosses the space between us, and pulls me into him with so much tenderness I could cry. He kisses me like it's the only way to say what he feels.

And when his hands start exploring—slow, deliberate, like he wants to memorize every inch of me—I melt into him, heart racing in time with the deep, unrelenting kiss we fall into. It's not rushed, but there's a hunger beneath it. Like we've both been holding back, waiting for the right moment to just give in again.

His mouth traces a line down my neck, pulling a gasp from my lips, and he murmurs something low and indecipherable against my skin. My fingers tangle in his hair, and he groans softly when I tug, kissing me harder like he's trying to stake a claim.

We stumble back, bodies tangled, breath ragged. I feel the edge of the piano bench hit the backs of my knees, and he gently nudges me down onto it. His hands are everywhere—at my waist, my thighs, my back—pulling me closer, grounding me.

Then he lifts me onto the piano keys, the cold touch of ivory against my thighs sending a jolt through me. I gasp, and he watches me with eyes dark and burning, like he's caught between reverence and something more primal.

"Fuck. You have no idea what you do to me," he murmurs, voice thick with need. "I need you—right here, right now."

He kisses me again—deep, slow, dizzying—while his hand slides beneath my clothes, fingers parting me gently, teasing, circling where I'm already aching for him. I whimper against his mouth as he rubs slow, purposeful circles over my clit, never rushing, just coaxing out every little sound I make like he's learning a melody only I can play.

He pushes a finger inside me, then another, curling just right. My head falls back, the soft clatter of the keys beneath me mingling with my breathy moans. His mouth trails along my collarbone, murmuring praise between kisses as his hand moves with practiced, devastating rhythm.

"That's it, baby," he whispers, voice low and rough. "You're so fuckin' perfect like this..."

Another kiss, deeper now, as his fingers keep that relentless pace. "I could watch you like this forever. Every sound you make, every twitch of your hips... It's all mine."

His free hand cups the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheek. "You're beautiful, you know that? Every inch of you. And right now? You're divine."

Every flick of his wrist sends sparks through me, my thighs trembling, hips bucking into his touch. He watches me unravel, jaw clenched, like he's holding himself back just to let me fall apart first.

Then, when I'm gasping his name, right on the edge, he leans in, voice low and rough against my ear.

"You ready for me, baby?"

I nod, breathless, already pulling at his belt.

The clink of metal, the soft drag of denim—then he's there, pressing inside me with one long, deep thrust that knocks the breath from my lungs. The keys beneath me hum with our rhythm, soft notes sounding out like a song we're writing together—one built on gasps, sighs, and the sharp, delicious sound of skin against skin.

He moves with purpose, hips rolling slow and deep, like he's savoring the way I stretch around him, like he wants to memorize how I feel from the inside out. One hand grips my hip, grounding us both, while the other cups the back of my neck, holding me in place as his lips crash into mine—desperate, searing, all tongue and heat.

"God, sweetheart, you feel so fucking good." he pants against my mouth.

I moan, the words shooting straight through me, tightening everything inside. He thrusts harder, deeper, each movement a pounding heartbeat in my core. The piano shudders beneath us, notes spilling out with every jolt, as if the instrument itself is trying to keep up.

"Look at you," he growls, watching me with stormy, reverent eyes. "Falling apart on these keys—my beautiful girl, playing me like you were made to ruin me."

I cling to him, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails raking down his back as the pressure builds, hot and unbearable. My body arches, and he fucks me through it, chasing his own high, whispering, "That's it, baby. Come for me. Just like that."

I shatter with a cry, white-hot and blinding, and he follows—just before the edge, he pulls me tight and spills between us, breathless and trembling with restraint. His arms lock around me, holding me like he never wants to let go.

We don’t move for a long moment. Just breathe. Just exist in the charged stillness of a room that now knows us in every way.

He presses a soft kiss to my temple, and I smile against his skin, dazed and glowing. The piano's final note lingers in the air, silent but still felt.

It's ours now.

Eventually, he eases away just enough to brush my hair from my face. "You okay?" he murmurs, his thumb tracing gentle circles on my cheek.

I nod, boneless and warm. "More than okay. You?"

He grins, soft and real. "I could die happy. But not before we clean your poor piano."

We both glance down, the once-pristine keys now smudged and streaked, and burst into laughter.

"Guess we made a mess, huh?" I say, biting my lip.

"We made music," he corrects with a smirk, reaching for a nearby cloth. "Messy, beautiful music."

He wipes the keys gently while I curl up on the couch, watching him with lazy affection. When he finishes, he tosses the cloth aside and comes over to tug me to my feet.

"C'mon," he says, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "Shower time before round two."

I swat at him playfully, but follow him down the hall. We undress slowly, kissing between every article of clothing that falls to the floor. In the shower, the water is hot and so is the way he touches me—soap-slick hands roaming, lips finding new places to worship.

He kisses me under the stream, both of us breathless and grinning between licks and laughs. There's no rush this time. Just warmth. Just skin. Just us.

Afterward, we towel off, still stealing kisses, and crawl into my bed together, limbs tangled, hearts steady.

Sleep comes easy—wrapped in his arms, smelling like him, piano keys still echoing somewhere in the back of my mind.

The morning light seeps through the curtains, golden and gentle, sliding across the bed in lazy strips. I'm tangled in the sheets, limbs heavy and pleasantly sore, head tucked beneath Bucky's chin. His arm is draped around me, warm and possessive, like he's guarding something precious in his sleep.

His breath is steady, stirring a few strands of hair near my ear, and I fight the urge to bury my face deeper into him. Instead, I let myself bask in it—the stillness, the quiet hum of morning birds, the weight of his body curled around mine.

Then his fingers twitch against my waist.

“You awake?” I whisper.

He grumbles something that sounds like, “Five more minutes,” and nuzzles closer, beard scratching lightly against my skin.

I smile. “You're a menace.”

“Mm,” he mumbles. “You're warm. I'm staying right here.”

“You always clingy after sex?” I tease, kissing his jaw.

He cracks one eye open, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Only when it's good.”

“Oh? So, you're saying last night was just... okay?”

His hand tightens at my hip, pulling me flush against him. “Woman, if you weren't so damn smug already, I'd show you exactly how good it was.”

I bite back a grin, brushing my nose against his. “I dare you.”

He groans again, more dramatic this time, and flops onto his back, dragging me half on top of him. “You're gonna be the death of me.”

“Not a bad way to go.”

We stay like that for a while—wrapped up in each other, slow and soft and full of the kind of silence that feels earned.

Eventually, he stretches and sighs. “Coffee?”

“God, yes.”

We drag ourselves out of bed, laughing at the way we both walk like we've been hit by a truck. Bucky pulls on his boxers and grabs one of my hoodies, stretching it over his shoulders with a smirk, only to have it barely reach his ribs.

“Hey, don't copy me.”

He snorts, shrugs it off, and sticks with just the boxers instead. I pad into the kitchen, still wrapped in the bedsheet like some half-dressed Greek goddess, and start the coffee maker.

When he joins me, he grabs two mugs and sets them down with a little grin. “So… think the piano survived?”

I snort. “Barely. You're lucky you're cute.”

“Hey, I cleaned it, didn't I? I even wiped the keys like a gentleman.”

“Mm-hmm. Nothing says romance like disinfectant.”

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head.

We drink our coffee at the kitchen table, legs tangled under the wood, sharing lazy kisses and soft looks between sips. Everything about the morning feels… right. Perfect.

Then I glance at the near-empty fridge and sigh. “Okay, we need groceries.”

He groans dramatically, forehead thunking against my shoulder. “Don't make me go out there. It's dangerous.”

“You're literally a super soldier.”

“And that's why I've earned the right to stay home in sweatpants.”

I laugh, nudging him toward the hallway. “Come on, soldier boy. Let's stock the fridge before we end up eating condiments for dinner.”

He groans again but doesn't resist as I guide him toward the bedroom to get dressed.

We'll get groceries. That’s it. Like it’s any other morning.

But the rest of our day? That's another story.

Chapter Text

We get ready slowly, trading playful touches and kisses, and then Bucky heads out first to grab his truck for the ride into town.

The drive is quiet at first, but then I glance over at him with a smirk.
"You left Alpine with Pops again, didn't you?"

He hums, eyes still on the road. "Yeah."

I gasp, all mock scandal. "You know you should be paying him for babysitting, right?"

Bucky laughs, deep and warm. "Please. He probably likes Alpine more than he likes me."

I snort. "He definitely looks forward to her more than he does you."

"He's not subtle about it either," Bucky says, shaking his head fondly. "I swear, the man practically snatches her out of my arms at the door."

I grin. "Can't blame him though."

He scoffs, eyes flicking over to me with mock offense. "Wow. Betrayed in my own truck."

"Don't act surprised," I say, stretching in my seat. "She's got that face. That little 'feed me, love me, worship me' thing down."

"She gets that from you," he says, and it's so quick and smooth I blink at him, mouth open.

"Excuse me?"

He grins like he knows exactly what he just did. "What? You both act like royalty. Demand attention. Steal all the blankets."

I try to glare, but I'm laughing too hard. "Unbelievable. You owe that man childcare support already, just for dealing with Alpine."

He smirks. "Honestly? He'd probably fight me for full custody of Alpine if I left town."

"You'd lose," I say, nodding solemnly. "Cat's basically a legacy now."

He chuckles again, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah. Just don't tell her. She already runs the house."

"She knows. Trust me, she knows."

The conversation melts into a few soft laughs and shared glances, a comfort that settles deep in my chest, the kind of feeling that tells me I could do this, us, for a long, long time.

As we pull into the small grocery store lot, I glance over at him.

"Do we need anything specific for Alpine?" I ask.

He nods. "She's picky. Needs the salmon one with the gold label, or she'll ignore it and give me the cold shoulder for the rest of the day."

I laugh. "She's got taste."

We go aisle by aisle, throwing essentials into the cart, bread, eggs, coffee, cat food. Bucky insists on getting two different brands of tea for me, even though I say one is enough. He just shrugs. "Options are nice."

As we leave the store, bags in hand, I bump my shoulder against his.
"You know... I've been thinking about what you said."

He glances at me, one brow raised.

"About driving me to the event." I grin. "I kind of wish you could take me to the city on your bike. Just so everyone can see I've got a hot biker boyfriend."

He laughs, low and warm, then stops mid-step like something just hit him.
"Shit. I don't have a suit."

I blink. "What?"

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly panicking. "For the event. I can't show up like this. I need a suit."

I try not to laugh, but it escapes anyway. "It's okay, you can just show up in the hot biker outfit. Leather jacket, boots, all that brooding ex-assassin charm."

He gives me a look. "Absolutely not. I need a suit."

"Okay, okay," I say between giggles. "We'll get you a suit. I need a dress anyway. Didn't exactly bring formalwear with me when I moved here."

He perks up. "There's a tailor. Local guy. He's the best."

We head down a quiet side street, where a little shop with windows foggy with age sits nestled between a dusty bookshop and a florist. Above the door, a hand-painted sign reads: Bruno & Son, Bespoke Tailoring Since 1961.

The bell above the door jingles as we walk in. An old man looks up from a cutting table and squints. Then his eyes go wide.

"Well I'll be damned," he says, grinning. "James Buchanan Barnes."

Bucky winces. "Hey, Bruno."

Bruno walks over, wiping his hands on a cloth. "You stepping into my shop voluntarily? Did hell freeze over?"

"He needs a suit," I say, grinning.

Bruno chuckles. "Last time you were here, I had to drag you in. My son's wedding, remember? And you returned the damn thing like it was a rental. Said you'd never need it again."

Bucky shifts awkwardly. "Things change."

Bruno's eyes flick to me, and he smiles warmly. "They sure do. Must be special, if you're back."

I feel my cheeks warm, but Bucky just nods.

Bruno waves us in. "Come on. Let's get you measured."

While Bruno works, the measuring tape flying and clucking his tongue at Bucky's broad shoulders, we joke and talk. Bruno throws in plenty of old-man commentary, shaking his head at how Bucky hasn't changed a bit and giving me suggestions for local dress shops.

When we leave, Bruno promises the suit will be perfect and ready just in time.

Next, we head to a small boutique down the street. The bell above the boutique door jingles as we step inside, the warm scent of fabric softener and old wood wrapping around us. Sunlight spills in through the front windows, casting a golden glow over racks of elegant dresses and vintage mannequins. The space feels small, intimate, like the kind of place that keeps secrets and memories in its seams

I glance at Bucky, grinning.
"Your turn to sit and wait while I try things on."

He raises a brow. "Oh, I plan on being very involved in the decision-making process."

I roll my eyes, but secretly? I don't mind one bit.

Bucky hangs back near the entrance, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, eyes scanning the shop like it might bite him.

"You okay there, Barnes?" I tease, glancing over my shoulder as I run my fingers over the silky fabric of a navy blue gown.

He raises an eyebrow. "Just wondering how much tulle and lace one store can hold."

I laugh and turn back to the rack. "It's called variety, babe."

"Looks like a textile tornado hit this place."

"That's the magic." I grin. "Now help me find something that screams 'mysterious piano prodigy making her comeback after a dramatic artistic sabbatical.'"

"Oh, is that the vibe we're going for?" he smirks. "Very specific."

"I'm nothing if not precise."

He steps up beside me then, close enough that I feel the heat from his body. "I'm guessing glitter is mandatory?"

"Not necessarily. But a slit? Definitely."

He groans playfully, burying his face in my shoulder. "You're gonna kill me."

I grab a few options and head toward the dressing room, tossing him a wink. "Good. That's the plan."

The small fitting room has a velvet curtain and a full-length mirror with a slightly tarnished frame. I try on a few dresses, some too formal, others too plain, until I find one that makes me pause.

It's deep wine red, fitted at the waist, with a plunging neckline and a slit up the thigh that's just this side of sinful. The fabric hugs my body like a secret. I stare at myself in the mirror for a second, stunned.

Then I call out. "Hey, Buck?"

"Yeah?"

"I need a second opinion."

He steps outside the curtain as I pull it open, and the second his eyes land on me, he freezes.

His mouth opens slightly. "Holy shit."

I arch an eyebrow. "Too much?"

He steps closer, eyes dragging over me slowly, reverently. "You look... unbelievable."

I smile, heat creeping up my neck. "That's not a no."

"That's a yes. That's a hell yes."

I twirl once, the skirt flaring around my legs. "Then it's the one."

He nods, still watching me like he's seeing me on stage already, under a spotlight.

"We'll take it," he says to the shopkeeper without even asking about the price.

After the purchase is bagged and paid for, we step back out into the afternoon sun, both of us a little more giddy than we probably should be.

I bump his shoulder as we walk. "So, hot biker boyfriend in a custom suit and me in a dress with a slit high enough to be illegal. Think we'll turn heads?"

He chuckles, draping his arm over my shoulder. "I think we'll cause a scene."

"Perfect."

We get back home after that a little too pleased with ourselves, like the simple act of shopping together made us high. Bucky insists on carrying the groceries inside, he sets them down on the counter, then turns to me with a kiss that's warm and lingering.

"I should get going," he murmurs against my lips. "Alpine's probably plotting my downfall for leaving her at Pops' this long."

I snort. "She holds grudges, huh?"

He grins. "She's got a memory like a steel trap. And a full-on vengeance arc. I should also open the garage, but I'll be back later, alright?"

"Okay," I say, brushing my fingers down his arm. "Tell her I said hi. And good luck with the vengeance arc."

Once he's gone, the house is too quiet. I sit at the piano, fingertips grazing the keys, and before I know it, I'm playing. Practicing. Getting lost in it.

Night falls gently. I barely notice until the door creaks open and I hear his voice.

"We're home," he calls out.

I don't answer. I just stand there, the sound of his words sinking in, warm and familiar.

I turn to see him with Alpine in his arms, her white fur a soft contrast against the black metal. My throat tightens, and I don't say anything, just stare.

He raises a brow. "You okay?"

I nod. It's stupid how emotional I feel.

We have dinner, something simple and warm. We laugh over nothing. Then we go to bed, wrapped up in the kind of quiet that doesn’t need to be filled.

And just like that, the days begin to slip past, each one weaving us closer together, until the moment finally arrives.

Five days before the event:
I caught him humming one of my songs, the one I wrote for him, while he was doing the dishes. He didn't even realize he was doing it.
When I asked, he blushed and mumbled, “It's stuck in my head. Can't help it.”

I only played it once. And he remembered every note.
I fell in love with him all over again.

Four days before the event:
We slow-danced in the kitchen with burnt toast smoking in the background. Alpine meowed like we were embarrassing her.
He kissed my forehead and said, “Toast's ruined. But this? This is perfect.”

Three days before the event:
He tightened the loose handle on the bedroom window. I baked cookies. Domesticity is sexy. Who knew.
We kissed with flour on our noses and chocolate on our fingers.

Two days before the event:
I practiced until midnight. He stayed on the couch, eyes closed, just listening.
When I finished, he whispered, “Play that one again. Just once more.”
Then, we stayed in bed too long. Talked about the future in sleepy voices.
He said, “You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”
I nodded into his chest. “I know.”

The day before the event:
He gave me a ride to town, but we didn't talk much. Just held hands the whole way. He picked up his suit while we were there.
That night, he made me tea. I didn't say I was nervous, he didn't say I'd be amazing.
We just… knew.

The day of the event.

The morning sun peeks cautiously through the curtains, like it's not quite sure if it's ready to watch what's about to unfold. I sit on the edge of my bed, fingers trembling just slightly, as I stare at the dress hanging in the closet. My lungs feel too small. My heartbeat too loud.

Then, a familiar weight behind me. Warm hands on my shoulders. The gentle scratch of stubble on my neck.

Bucky rests his chin on my shoulder from behind, silent for a beat, before murmuring, "You're gonna break hearts tonight. Including mine."

I exhale shakily, leaning back into him. "What if I mess it up?"

He kisses my temple. "Then you mess it up with style. But you won't. You never do."

We get ready slowly. Carefully. Like the world will stop spinning if we don't get every detail right. He finishes before me, of course, because the laws of the universe demand it. Dressed in his sleek dark suit, no tie, just enough buttons undone to make my brain short-circuit.

He watches as I pin my hair. "Alright, I'm heading out for a bit. Be back soon."

I turn to him. "Where are you going?"

He smirks. "That's classified."

With a kiss to my cheek and a wink, he slips out the door.

For a moment, the quiet feels loud. I catch my reflection in the mirror, hands smoothing down the fabric of my dress like that'll steady the tremble in my chest.

God, I look like I've just seen a ghost...and maybe I have, in a way. The past, stretching into the morning like it has every right to be here.

I square my shoulders and exhale, trying to shake the nerves rattling in my chest.

"What would Leia say?" I murmur to myself, and it's embarrassingly easy to hear her voice in my head.

"You're hot. Shut up. Put on the lipstick and remind the world why they never forgot you."

I snort, eyes stinging a little. "Alright, alright. I'm hot."

I swipe on the lipstick. Smooth the dress again. Pin the last stubborn piece of hair into place. I don't feel invincible—but I feel ready. And maybe that's enough.

Just as I'm slipping on my shoes, I hear it—an engine rumbling outside.

It's low. Powerful. Definitely not his truck.

Curious, I cross the room and peek through the window.

I expected his truck. I really did.

But when he pulls up in a vintage black 1967 Chevrolet Impala, shining like it's rolled straight out of a noir dream, I laugh out loud.

He leans against the open door, sunglasses on, looking far too smug. "I would've taken you on the bike, but it's a long drive. And there's no way I'm letting you climb into my rusty old truck dressed like...that."

I step outside slowly, trying to close my gaping mouth. "What is this?"

"A favor," he says, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Borrowed this beauty from Mrs. Langley down the street. Fixed her porch steps awhile back, she insists on repaying the favor.”

I stare at the car, then at him. "I feel like I'm being driven to a black-tie heist."

He opens the passenger door for me with a bow. "Good. Let's steal the whole damn night."

We slide in, and the Impala rumbles to life with a low, confident growl.

As he drives, his right hand finds mine across the bench seat. Fingers thread through mine, warm and steady. It's a quiet gesture, no words, no glance, just his way of anchoring me. I hold on just as tightly, leaning into the silence between us like it's a lullaby.

After a while, I speak.

"When I used to play for galas," I murmur, eyes on the road ahead, "they were always grand. Luxurious rooms filled with curated smiles and silk gowns. I was the one they requested when they wanted something tasteful, refined. Never flashy."

I let out a breath, soft and nostalgic. "I was background elegance."

Bucky glances over, saying nothing, just listening the way he always does.

"I've never done anything like this," I admit. "A small venue. No curtain to slip behind. No blur of diamonds and tuxedos. Just a room close enough to hear people breathe. To feel every gaze like it's pressing against your skin." I pause. "It's… different."

His thumb brushes the back of my hand, one soft, grounding stroke. "That's the point, right?" he says gently. "You're not background elegance anymore."

I smile, the ache creeping into it. "Leia would've loved this," I whisper. "She'd call it my ‘main character moment.’ Probably try to bedazzle my heels when I wasn't looking."

I laugh, quiet and sharp, then look over at him. "She always thought I was playing it safe. That I had more in me than champagne concertos."

Bucky's voice is low, but certain. "You did. You do." He lifts our hands, presses a kiss to my knuckles like it's instinct. "And tonight? They're gonna remember you. Not just your music—you."

I smile at him, warm, full, real. The kind of smile that slips past the nerves and the noise.

"You always do that," I say softly, thumb brushing over the back of his hand.

He raises an eyebrow. "Do what?"

"Make me feel like… everything's going to be okay. Even when I don't believe it yet."

His gaze lingers on me for a moment longer before turning back to the road. But I see the way his grip on my hand tightens, just slightly. Steady. Reassuring.

"Good," he says, voice low. "Because it is."

The city lights start blooming around us, subtle at first, then louder, brighter, until the skyline stretches wide in front of us like a heartbeat in glass and steel. He merges off the highway, weaving through side streets until—

He slows as we pull up in front of the venue. I recognize it from the photos, but it feels different now, real, waiting.

I step out of the car, heels meeting the pavement, and pause for a breath.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

I smooth down the front of my dress, close my eyes for a heartbeat, then glance up at the building like I’m meeting an old friend after years apart.

He waits for me by the door, hand outstretched.

The event is held in a quiet venue tucked just beyond the buzz of the city, hidden behind a small garden where rows of weeping willows sway under the dim glow of lanterns. The building itself looks like an old restored manor, its wooden beams left exposed, lanterns casting golden light across sandstone walls.

Inside, the space is intimate, a high-ceilinged room with soft chairs arranged in a semi-circle around the grand piano. Candles flicker on small round tables. No blinding lights. No red carpet. Just warmth.

A quiet hum of polite conversation fills the air. The clink of glasses. The sigh of a violin in the background.

The first person to greet us is the event planner — Claire. She practically glows when she sees me. "There you are! I'm so glad you agreed to come,"

I smile, nerves fizzing under my skin. "Thank you for being patient with me."

Then her eyes slide over to Bucky and widen. "And who is this very handsome man you've brought with you?"

Bucky extends his hand, charming as ever. "Boyfriend. Security detail. Moral support. Pick your label."

"All of the above," I add, threading my arm through his.

The planner laughs, then ushers us inside. "Come on, I'll introduce you to some people."

Small clusters of guests look up as we pass. A few familiar faces from the past. A few curious expressions. Someone asks, with a smile and a tilt of their head, "We've missed your music. Why the long break?"

My mouth goes dry.

Before I can answer, Bucky's hand finds the small of my back.

He says easily, "She's been living life. Sometimes, stepping back is how you make space for something new."

Relieved, I glance up at him. He gives me the smallest nod.

Before the performance begins, we slip away from the crowd and find a quiet corner near a window. A couple of cushioned chairs sit beneath soft golden light. We sit side by side, the hum of the event a muted buzz around us.

Bucky rests his forearms on his knees, glancing over at me. "How are you feeling?"

I take a breath, then another. "Like my chest forgot how to hold a heart."

He reaches over, takes my hand gently. "You're allowed to be nervous. But I've seen you. You don't just play. You speak. And they're gonna listen."

I squeeze his hand. "You always know what to say."

He grins. "It's a gift. Don't tell anyone."

We sit there a while longer, letting the calm settle. His presence like a steady rhythm in my chest.

When the time comes, my name is called gently. Not like a fanfare. Not like an announcement. Just an invitation.

I stand slowly. Bucky catches my hand.

"You've got this."

I nod, kiss his cheek, and walk toward the stage.

The piano sits like an old friend under soft lights. I run my fingers across the keys before sitting down.

The piece I choose isn't flashy. It isn't famous. It's something I wrote. A piece with no title. Just a conversation in notes. A story only he and I know.

Soft arpeggios carry the opening, delicate as breath. The melody creeps in like a secret, unraveling slowly, rising, twisting, dipping low like a heartbeat in love. It's not perfect. But it's raw. Honest.

As I play, the room quiets. Chairs creak as people lean forward. Some tilt their heads, brows furrowed like they're trying to decipher the unspoken language flowing from the keys. A woman in the front row clasps her hands together, eyes locked on mine. Someone near the back wipes at their cheek. Even the event planner, usually all grace and poise, presses a hand to her heart like she wasn't prepared for this kind of intimacy.

It's not a performance. It's a confession.

My hands know the story. They tell it without fear. Each note is a step out of mourning. Each phrase a breath I didn't think I'd take again. This song isn't for them. It's for me. It's for Leia. It's for Bucky. It's for the girl I was, and the woman I'm learning to become.

And when the final note fades into the air like a held breath finally exhaled, the silence lingers. Then—applause. Not loud or thunderous, but sincere. The kind that wraps around you like warmth, like understanding.

I look up and find him in the crowd. Standing. Eyes glassy. Hands moving slowly.

He mouths, "Told you so."

I smile. For the first time in a long time, I feel seen. Not as what I was, but as who I am now.

After the performance, the energy in the room shifts. People begin approaching me, one or two at first, then a small trickle. Not in a swarm, but with the kind of genuine interest that feels like respect rather than obligation.

An older woman with silver streaks in her bun leans in and says, "You played like you were telling a secret." A younger man asks, almost shyly, "Do you do private events? I—uh—I'd love to hear you play again."

A couple of them politely request my contact info, scribbling it down or handing over business cards, saying things like:

"We're organizing a small gala in fall, we'd love to invite you."
"Your music… it made me cry in a good way. Please let us know if you ever release anything."
"We don't hear soul like that often. Thank you."

Bucky watches it all unfold, his hand loosely resting on my waist, proud in the quiet way only he can be. At one point, someone even asks him how long I've been playing.

He just says, "Long enough to change the air in a room."

I elbow him gently, but I'm smiling, because for the first time, the attention doesn't feel heavy. It feels earned.

We leave the event not long after, slipping out into the cool night air. I'm buzzing and exhausted all at once, and Bucky opens the passenger door for me like he always does.

When we get back in the car, a soft jazz station hums through the speakers, mellow and slow. I lean my head back against the seat and exhale like I've been holding that breath for a year.

He glances over, one hand on the wheel. "You okay?"

"I think I am," I say.

He reaches over and presses a kiss to my cheek. "I hope you know you blew them away tonight."

I smile. "I didn't play for them."

He hums. "No?"

I shake my head. "I played for Leia. And for you."

He doesn't say anything right away. Then he whispers, "You're back. And I'm so damn proud of you."

I close my eyes and let the quiet ride carry me home.

I don't realize I've fallen asleep until my eyes flutter open again and the car is slowing down. Outside the window, the familiar trees of home are beginning to blur into focus.

I blink. "I fell asleep?"

Bucky glances at me, one hand still on the wheel, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Didn't have the heart to wake you."

"Aren't you tired?"

"Super soldier, sweetheart." He gives a cocky shrug. "I don't get tired."

I roll my eyes, but my lips twitch into a smile.

We pull up to the house just a few minutes later. The porch light catches the gleam of Bucky's vibranium hand as he opens the door. Inside, the moment the door clicks shut, Alpine trots into the room with a dramatic mrrp, tail high like a little fluffy herald announcing our arrival.

Bucky bends to scoop her up with a low mutter, “Yeah, yeah, we missed you too, drama queen.”

I laugh softly, toes slipping out of my heels as I drop my purse on the bench.

There's a quiet stretch where we both just breathe. The kind of stillness that feels sacred. Earned.

I turn to him, my voice quieter now. “Thank you for today.”

He looks at me, head tilted.

“No, I mean it,” I continue. “Not just for today... for everything. For sticking around, for showing up, for helping me get here. I wouldn’t be here if it weren't for you.”

His eyes soften, brows drawing together like he wants to say a thousand things but settles on, “You did that. Not me. I was just lucky enough to witness it.”

And maybe that’s the exact moment something inside me breaks open.

I cross the room and kiss him. Hard. Hungry. I surprise even myself with the urgency of it, hands fisting in his dress shirt like I’ll fall apart if I let go.

He exhales a startled laugh against my mouth. “Aren't you tired from the long day?”

“Not anymore,” I whisper against his lips. “I feel alive. And I want you.”

He lifts me before I can say anything else, his hands firm under my thighs as I wrap myself around him.

He carries me to the bedroom, and the moment we hit the mattress, everything turns to warmth and breath and skin. His hands roam like he's mapping a place he already knows by heart, but wants to relearn from scratch.

Clothes are peeled away slowly, reverently. There's no rush, even with the hunger pulsing between us. It's not about release. It's about presence.

His mouth finds mine again, softer now. Slower. Like he's tasting the moment, anchoring himself in it.

I run my fingers through his short hair, my chest arching into his as his hand trails down my side and rests at my hip.

He sinks into me with a low groan, forehead pressed against mine, and for a moment we just breathe together. Still. Anchored.

Every movement is slow. Intimate. His hands cradle my face like I'm something precious. And I am, because he sees me that way.

I meet every thrust with my own, hips moving in sync like we've always known this rhythm. I feel everything. Every emotion from the past year pouring into this moment. The grief. The healing. The love that crept in quietly and now wraps around me like a fire I never want to leave.

Tears slip out the corners of my eyes, but I'm smiling. Because I'm alive. Because I'm here. Because he's here.

He kisses them away, whispering, “I've got you. Always.”

We fall apart together, trembling and breathless and tangled in each other. And in the silence that follows, I rest my head on his chest, listening to the sound of his heart. Steady. Warm.

Home.

Morning light stretches across the bed, warming the sheets tangled around our legs. I stir awake to the steady sound of Bucky's breathing and the weight of his arm draped over my waist. Everything smells like last night: like skin, like sleep, like something beautiful that can never— no, will never be undone.

I press a kiss to his shoulder before slipping out from under the covers, only for him to groan and pull me back in. "Five more minutes," he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

"You always say that," I murmur, brushing a strand of hair from his face, smiling as his eyes stay stubbornly closed.

We end up dozing another twenty.

When we finally get up and shower, it's unhurried and full of shared laughter and steam. He helps rinse the shampoo from my hair like it's become the most natural thing in the world to him. At one point, he plants a soapy kiss to my temple, and I almost drop the soap laughing when he says, "I'm multitasking. Cleansing and courting."

We dress and move into the kitchen together, comfortable in the kind of silence that only comes from people who never needed to fill it. I try to make eggs, but I accidentally knock over the pepper grinder, and the lid falls off, pepper raining onto the counter like confetti.

"Damn it," I mutter under my breath.

From behind me, I feel his eyes. I turn to find Bucky leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, staring like he's watching a sunrise.

"What?" I ask, brushing hair from my face.

He doesn't say anything for a second. Then, suddenly:

"I love you."

My hands freeze where I'm wiping the pepper. I blink at him, eyes wide.

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't smile. Just says it like it's a truth he's known all his life.

And something in me shatters. In the softest, most wonderful way.

"Not fair," I whisper, a grin slowly taking over my face. "I wanted to be the first one to say it."

He laughs, stepping closer, brushing his knuckles over my cheek. "Too slow, sweetheart."

"I love you," I say, finally, fully.

And the moment feels bigger than both of us. We kiss, slow and deep, like a promise sealed in the morning light.

Just as we pull apart, Bucky lets out a sudden, dramatic sneeze.

"Jesus—" he coughs, blinking. "What the hell—"

I glance down at my hands, still dusted with rogue pepper from cleaning the counter.

He gives me a look, half accusing, half amused. "You trying to kill me with love and seasoning?"

I laugh, holding up my hands. "Guilty. Death by affection and spice."

He grabs a towel and wipes his face, still chuckling. "You're lucky I love you."

I smirk. "Damn right I am."

We move through the rest of the morning, light and laughter settling into the walls like they've always belonged there.

He's pouring coffee when he says, 'I've decided I'm buying a car.'"

I raise an eyebrow. "Giving up the motorcycle dream?"

He shrugs. "No, just didn't think I'd find someone. Bike made sense when it was just me and Alpine. And the truck's for hauling broken engines and piano-delivering. But I can't keep chauffeuring my fancy pianist to her gigs in a rusty death trap or borrowed rides."

I snort into my coffee. "My poor, elegant reputation."

He leans in, mock-serious. "Can't have people thinking I kidnapped you from a gas station."

I set my mug down. "Well, I decided to talk to my tenant."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. About buying the house. I think I want to stay."

His reaction is instant—a spark in his eyes, then a full-blown grin. He crosses the room, wraps me in a hug, and lifts me off the floor.

"You mean it?"

I laugh, arms looped around his neck. "I do."

He spins me once, just because he can.

"When I first came here," I continue softly, voice thick with truth, "it was just supposed to be a temporary escape. From my old life. From everything I didn't want to face. From Leia."

His grip tightens gently, holding space for every word.

"I never planned on meeting you. I didn't plan for you to rock my entire world. But you did. You helped me move forward—with Leia in my heart, not behind me. You helped me remember what it felt like to play again. To feel something again. You reminded me that life doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to be real."

"You changed everything." I whisper, like it's still sinking in, like I'm still amazed it's true.

His forehead presses to mine, eyes full. "I love you."

He kisses me like the rest of our life starts now.

And maybe it does.

Because this—this quiet house, this messy kitchen, this love that neither of us planned for but both of us chose, feels like home.

Finally, completely, we've found it.

Together.

Some things between us were never meant to be spoken aloud. They lived in the pauses, the shared glances, the brush of his fingers against mine in passing. In the way he knew when I needed space, and when I needed to be held. In the stillness that never asked for explanation. What we built was quiet, but never empty. It was healing. It was holy. And maybe that's the point. Not every love story needs to be loud. Ours lives in the quiet places we keep.

—END

(See epilogue and bonus chapters.)

Chapter Text

Six months later

The piano sits by the window now, bathed in morning light.

I run my fingers across the keys, not playing yet—just letting them breathe beneath my touch.

Outside, the street is quiet. This time of year, the leaves start their slow descent, brushing against the windows like old ghosts. Bucky's in the kitchen, humming something off-key while Alpine paws at a drawer she has no business opening. We're a mess. A beautiful one.

Bucky bought a car.

I don't even know when he did it, just one morning, there it was, parked outside like it belonged. Like he did.

I expected a vintage car, but he chose a Ford Bronco—matte gray, solid, reliable. The kind of car that looks like it could survive the apocalypse, but still has heated seats. He said it was for the long drives we haven't taken yet. The ones we will.

My shows have started again. Nothing wild—small ones, local ones. Bucky comes to every single one, without fail. Sits in the front row like he belongs there. Like he's always belonged there. And maybe he has.

We still don't talk much in the mornings, not the loud kind of talking, but we don't need to.

It's in the way he brings me coffee before I even ask. The way I run my fingers through his hair while I pass behind him. The way Alpine insists on being between us in bed, even though Bucky grumbles every time.

We built this little world together. One we never said out loud, but somehow, we both knew how to find it. How to hold it, careful and steady.

Grief still visits me sometimes. Leia still shows up in dreams, in music, in quiet moments when the house creaks. But she doesn't hurt the way she used to.

That ache? It's quieter now. Not gone. Just… different. Gentler. It lives in the quiet places I keep. The ones Bucky never tried to fix. Just held.

And maybe that's the real miracle.

Because healing didn't come with loud declarations or perfect days. It came with burnt toast and silence and laughter so soft you could miss it if you weren't listening.

It came with him. And me. And this.

I play a note. Then another. Until a song finds me again.

The house hums with it. And from the kitchen, so does he.

Chapter Text

I never thought I'd be the type to keep a list. But somehow, I find myself scribbling down all the little firsts—those small moments that feel bigger than anything else.

The first time I see her smile over something dumb I say.

The first time she catches me staring and doesn't look away, like maybe she's memorizing me back.

The first time she leans into me, unprompted, like I'm a safe place she's finally willing to land.

The first time she lets me make her coffee, even though I'm terrible at it.

The first time I catch her tears, and I'm the only one who gets to wipe them away.

The first time she falls asleep in my truck, and I don't dare wake her, just watch her breathe.

The first time I hear her play the piano for herself, not for anyone else. Not the world. Just her.

And then there's the big ones. The ones that live under my ribs.

The first time I touch her, really touch her, and she lets me see all the places she used to keep hidden. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away. She looks at me like I could touch every scar and she'd still feel beautiful.

And the first time she says she loves me. Right after I blurt it out in the kitchen like I've been holding it in too long, and she stands there, pepper on her hands, smile trembling like she's never meant anything more.
“Not fair,” she said, “I wanted to be the first one to say it.”

I write all of it down. On scraps. On receipts. On pages of half-read books. I hide them in my jacket pocket, inside my toolbox, behind the cereal box she never touches.

One afternoon, she's digging around for a pen when she finds one, crease-wrinkled and stained with something from my workbench.

She raises an eyebrow, scanning it. “You're keeping a little diary, Barnes?”

I reach for it, but she dances out of the way, teasing smile in full force. “Let me guess—this one's about the first time I burned toast?”

I grin, cornered. “No. That one's under the sink, next to the one about the first time you kissed me first.”

Her face softens. She steps close, slips the note back into my hand, and looks up at me like she's reading me now.

“I hope you're ready to run out of paper,” she whispers. “Because this thing between us? We're just getting started.”

And I don't say it aloud, but I know it. I feel it.

These aren't just little firsts.
They're the quiet places we keep.

Chapter Text

From day one, I knew something was up when the metal-arm human showed up with the soft-voice human trailing behind like a lost puppy. I mean, who brings a human into my territory and expects me not to boss them around?

I watched. I judged. I waited.

At first, soft-voice was all awkward and quiet. Metal-arm was steady, calm, and very, very good at opening cans of food. I gave him points for that. But soft-voice? She's the one who talks to me in the middle of the night like I'm her therapist.

I knew they'd be trouble when they started looking at each other like they shared some secret language. You humans and your weird love stuff.

But here's the thing: I saw the quiet touches, the way metal-arm would slip his hand just so, like he was claiming her but also protecting her. I saw how soft-voice smiled when no one else was watching. I called it long before they admitted it.

When she cried for Leia, metal-arm didn't run. He held her. I sat by, silently judging but secretly approving.

And when soft-voice plays the piano, it's like the whole house breathes in with her. Metal-arm listens, every time, even when he's pretending to be all tough.

I'm not just a cat, you know. I’m a witness. The unofficial, fluffy guardian of their love story.

And honestly? I'm pretty proud of my humans.

So yeah. I run this house. But I let them think they're in charge. It's more fun that way.