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byhuenii · 5 days ago

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Wishlist

Pairing Bucky x Reader

Synopsis Spring in New York. A quiet love growing louder. One gift from the wishlist at a time. Featuring a soldier who’d fight the world to make you smile.

“Wishlist” by TXT (Tomorrow X Together) inspired

Word count 7k

Themes + Warnings slow burn , friends to lovers , fluff , avengers tower chaos , soft masculinity / vulnerability , everyday intimacy , wishlist as a metaphor for love , GRUMPY X SUNSHINE !!!! , Heavy pining / internal angst , soft!bucky (you’ll love it)

— Wishlist “Please tell me now! Time's up, give me your wishlist ” - TXT

M. list | Request (open) | stream ‘Wishlist’

Spring has finally started to settle into New York.

The city feels warmer, softer. Like it’s healing from something. Pink flower petals drift along the sidewalks. Vendors sell tulips from little carts. Couples sit on stoops with melting ice cream cones and matching smiles. It’s the kind of weather that makes people believe again.

And inside the Avengers compound, it’s doing something to you, too.

You hum when you walk. You leave your window open at night. You wear that sparkly lip gloss again — the one that glints like magic when you smile. Bucky notices every time.

He notices everything.

You’re out in the city with the team that afternoon — no mission, no briefing, just a group day off. Steve claims it’s for “team bonding.” Sam claims it’s because he caught Bucky almost growling at the coffee machine again. Either way, you’re all downtown, weaving through the streets in civilian clothes like it’s normal. Like you’re not the most recognizable team on the planet.

You keep stopping to take photos on your phone — old buildings, neon signs, pigeons fighting over a muffin.

“What do you even do with those?” Kate asks, sipping her iced latte.

“Nothing,” you shrug. “I just like remembering things. Little stuff.”

You snap a picture of a LEGO flower set in a toy store window. Your eyes light up.

Bucky lingers near the back of the group, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, watching. Not in a creepy way. Just like you’re something rare. Like he’s scared the wind will carry you off.

You don’t see the way Sam glances over at him. Or the smirk Steve’s fighting off.

Spring in New York is a love letter Bucky never expected to read again.

The wind is soft, the kind that tugs at coat hems and hair strands like a gentle tease. The streets are still loud, still fast, but the air smells like wet sidewalks and blooming lilacs. It’s the kind of weather that makes you believe in things again.

And he thinks — maybe that’s why you like it so much.

You’re sitting across from him at a table outside your favorite café multiple chairs pulled out for the rest who are off in line for more pastries. The one with the chipped pink chairs and floral tea cups that don’t match. You’re wearing lip gloss again — that shiny, sparkly one — and every time you laugh, he swears the light hits it just right to make you glow.

You’re talking about some movie you saw, animated, something about stars and soulmates and missed chances. You wave your hands while you talk, wide gestures like you’re trying to physically throw your love for it into the air.

“There’s this one line,” you say, sipping your lavender matcha, “where they say ‘people are like stars, they just need time to burn bright again.’ I don’t know, it just stuck with me.”

Bucky doesn’t say much. He’s never been great with words. But he watches. He listens.

Later that night, the compound is quieter. Dim lights. Everyone winding down.

You’ve long since retreated to your room — third floor, two doors down from his.

And Bucky’s sitting on the floor by his bed, cross-legged, the little notebook open in his lap. It’s not fancy. Just a black journal Peter gave him for Christmas with a note that said, “For your brain spaghetti.”

On a fresh page, he writes:

✦ likes stars / scared of bees, spiders, wasps

✦ hates tea too hot — “tastes like regret”

✦ wants that honey-vanilla-amber perfume — didn’t buy it, said “too indulgent”

✦ LEGO flower bouquet — “they don’t die. that’s sweet.”

✦ gold & silver earrings — expensive. keep an eye on that boutique.

✦ Sony CyberShot digital camera — black preferred. she’s been scammed. check eBay reviews.

✦ bracelet?? something personal. something hers.

✦ red star?

And, tucked in the margin:

✦ her voice softens when she says his name.

✦ he’s not sure he’ll survive hearing her say it in bedhead and morning breath.

Then, at the very bottom — written small, like it might disappear:

✦ you’re the best thing I’ve never been brave enough to ask for.

✦ I think I’m falling. No.

✦ I’ve already fallen.

The next morning the chaos is immediate.

Tony’s complaining about someone messing with the thermostat (“Why is it 72? Are we running a sauna??”), and Yelena is loudly trying to microwave four different types of Trader Joe’s frozen pasta in the common kitchen.

you find the first gift.

Wrapped in brown paper. Twine bow. Sitting neatly on your bed.

No tag. No note. Just… sitting there. Like it’s been waiting

But the second you unwrap it, the scent hits you — warm, honeyed vanilla with that soft amber undertone. that perfume. Warm honey, vanilla, a hint of amber. The one you stood outside the shop window staring at for two whole minutes last week. The one you said was “too pretty” and “too much” and walked away from like it hadn’t already lived in your mind for days.

You glance out into the hallway.

His door is open. He’s not there.

You touch the bottle like it might shatter. Like it might vanish if you admit how it makes you feel.

And there it is — You look around, heart ticking. Did someone hear you say that? Did someone remember?

Outside in the hallway, you spot Peter.

“Hey,” you ask, holding up the box. “This yours?”

He peers inside. “Oh no. That’s fancy. You’ve got a secret admirer.”

You roll your eyes, but when you walk downstairs, the teasing is already in full swing.

“Ooooh, mystery gift #1,” Kate sings, waggling her eyebrows.

“It’s always the quiet ones,” Natasha smirks, sipping her tea. “Bet it’s someone on the team.”

“Bet it’s the barista from that café near Bryant Park,” Yelena says. “She always gives you extra foam.”

You shake your head, laughing as you try to escape the room.

“Just admit you’re in your rom-com era!” Wanda calls after you.

That night, when the compound settles down, two people don’t sleep.

One of them is you — lying in bed, twisting the perfume bottle between your fingers, heart warm and unsure.

The other is Bucky — two floors up, sitting cross-legged in his room, face covered in a sheet mask you gave him as a joke (“good for stress lines, Buck”), laptop open in front of him.

Sam and Steve knock once and barge in anyway.

“Bro,” Sam deadpans, squinting. “Are you Googling digital cameras in a moisturizing mask?”

“And LEGO flowers,” Steve adds. “Don’t think we didn’t see that tab.”

Bucky doesn’t look up. “Shut up.”

“You’re so in love, it’s disgusting,” Sam mutters.

“Disgusting,” Steve agrees.

They flop on his bed like big brothers who definitely aren’t leaving anytime soon.

“You should just tell her,” Sam says after a beat.

“She’s not ready,” Bucky mutters.

“No, you’re not,” Steve says gently.

Bucky goes quiet.

He highlights a camera listing. Reads the reviews. Double-checks the seller location.

“She’s been scammed before,” he murmurs.

Steve and Sam exchange a glance — part pity, part this man is down BAD.

You wake up to birdsong.

And a note slipped under your door.

Not signed.

Just two words, scribbled in tight handwriting:

“For spring.”

You pick it up, press it to your chest, and wonder how long someone’s been watching you this closely. How long they’ve been loving you like this.

“How about romantic?

The feeling can’t be caught…”

— TXT, “Wishlist”

—

It starts with breakfast.

You walk into the compound kitchen with a dreamy little smile, still wearing your sleep shirt and fuzzy socks, hair wild from the night. Everyone’s half-awake, nursing mugs of coffee — Wanda curled up on the couch, Kate upside-down in a chair with a pastry on her stomach, and Tony flipping through some tech blueprint that might actually be a takeout menu.

“Morning,” you say brightly, heading to the fridge.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Peter mutters, buried in a bowl of cereal he clearly doesn’t want to share.

You glance at the couch, cheeks warm. “I just… someone left me perfume yesterday.”

A pause.

You hold it up — you’d brought it down to show Wanda — and the scent drifts sweet and warm into the room like a memory. “It’s the exact one I wanted. The exact one.”

“Damn,” Kate says, biting into a croissant. “Whoever it is? They listen.”

From behind you, Bucky yawns.

You glance back and—

He’s standing in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame, still in his sleep shirt, hair pushed back, expression… soft.

There’s no other word for it.

He looks warm and full and lit from the inside, like someone cracked his chest open and sunshine poured out.

You blink.

“Did you use that face mask I gave you?” you ask, stepping closer, chin tilted.

“No,” he says immediately. Too quickly.

“Liar,” Sam mutters behind his mug.

“He absolutely did,” Steve adds. “Twice.”

“We have photos,” Sam grins. “I added sparkles to one.”

Bucky groans, dragging a hand over his face. “I hate all of you.”

You catch the faintest pink in his cheeks. The kind of glow you don’t get from sheet masks.

You smile. “It looked good on you.”

His eyes flicker to yours.

“Thanks,” he says, voice just above a whisper.

And you wonder — not for the first time — what it would feel like to be the reason someone softens.

Peter looks up from his cereal like he just remembered something vital. “Wait. Did you check your laundry yet?”

You freeze mid-step.

“Why would I check my laundry, Parker?”

He shrugs, way too casual. “No reason.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m never weird.”

“You literally wore Crocs into battle last week.”

“It was a stealth op!”

“You wore banana yellow Crocs.”

Peter waves a hand. “You’re avoiding the topic.”

Your voice gets flatter. “What topic.”

“The topic of how you’re clearly someone’s favorite person in the known universe.”

You turn away just as your cheeks flush. The perfume still sits on your desk upstairs. You’ve reapplied it three times since waking up. You keep smelling your wrist like you’re trying to memorize what love feels like.

“Don’t know what you mean,” you mutter.

Peter snorts into his bowl. “Yeah, okay, denial. Got it.”

Later, after you do check your laundry and nearly collapse over a tiny black box containing earrings too beautiful to be real, the teasing intensifies.

Peter finds you again before movie night and dramatically gasps when he spots the hoops dangling from your ears.

“OHHH it’s you,” he hisses. “You’re the main character.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

“No, no. You don’t understand. You’re in a cinematic universe of longing and secret gift drops. This is bigger than Endgame.”

“Peter.”

“There are probably sparkles following you when you walk. I swear I saw slow motion just now.”

“Goodbye.”

—

The team is sprawled across the common room couch and floor cushions when Tony walks in mid-movie.

“Alright, who finished my La Croix and left the can on top of the fridge like some sort of raccoon—”

He pauses mid-rant, eyes catching on your earrings.

“Huh,” he says, stepping closer. “These are… nice.”

“Thanks?” you blink.

“No, seriously. Good metal. Hand-hammered work, maybe local. Possibly vintage.” He squints. “Who’s your dealer?”

You open your mouth. Close it.

Peter doesn’t help.

“Mystery gifter,” he stage-whispers.

Tony pauses. Raises an eyebrow. Looks at you. Then —

He looks directly at Bucky, who is sitting stiffly in the corner of the couch pretending to be very invested in the movie credits.

Tony’s eyes narrow. His head tilts. The pieces click.

“Interesting,” he says slowly, like he’s discovered a secret engine blueprint.

But — to his credit — he doesn’t say anything else. Just pats you on the shoulder and walks away humming.

Bucky exhales only after the door slides shut.

After movie night ends, the chaos begins again.

You escape upstairs with Wanda and Kate, trying to downplay your smile the whole time. (Failing, for the record.)

Meanwhile, in Bucky’s room:

“Soooo,” Sam says, flopping backwards onto the bed, “jewelry now?”

“It’s not—”

“Yeah,” Steve cuts in, “because hand-selected artisan earrings placed on top of her laundry is totally something a stranger would do.”

Bucky groans and rubs his face.

“How do you even know she liked them?” Sam presses.

“She wore them,” Bucky mutters.

That’s all it takes.

Steve and Sam exchange twin looks of ohhh, he’s in it deep.

Then Nat leans into the doorway like she’s been waiting for her cue.

“So. Jewelry,” she deadpans, arms crossed.

“Not you too.”

“Come on, Barnes. You’re glowing.”

“I’m not glowing.”

“You literally are glowing. That’s a dewy finish.”

Sam snorts. “We told him. Sheet masks change lives.”

“Sam.”

“Bro. You spent twenty minutes tying that bow.”

“…shut up.”

Bucky sighs and sinks deeper into his hoodie.

“You’re all unbearable.”

“You’re the one playing secret admirer,” Nat teases. “At this point, you might as well start leaving riddles and roses.”

Steve laughs. “Oh god. Don’t give him ideas.”

Much later, after the teasing fades and the others clear out, Bucky is alone with his thoughts and the blue notebook in his lap.

He opens it, flips past the page with your tea preferences and your fear of bees, and adds:

✦ Earrings. Looked at them like they were magic. Like they made her feel known.

Then, underneath it:

✦ She asked about the mask again. Said it looked good.

✦ wears the gifts like armor. like hope.

✦ I think it’s just her. She makes everything look better.

✦ looks so happy in them. I’d do it all over again.

And on your end — when the compound is quiet and the lights are low — you sit cross-legged on your bed and stare down at the earrings in your hands.

You don’t say anything. Don’t need to.

But your heart is a little louder tonight. Beating with the rhythm of something growing.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to wonder what it would feel like if the gifts stopped being anonymous.

What it would feel like if the next one wasn’t a surprise.

But a confession.

“A cellphone filled with a wishlist…”

— TXT, Wishlist

—

You wake to birdsong and golden light filtering through the curtain slats.

It’s a peaceful morning — until you notice it.

Something on your windowsill.

You blink blearily, shuffle closer, and see a box. Pink paper. Slightly messy tape job. But the bow is soft, tied by hand.

Your heart skips.

You open it slowly. Inside: a LEGO flower bouquet.

You gasp — an actual, full bouquet of tiny LEGO flowers. Sunflowers. Roses. Poppies. Snapdragons.

Flowers that don’t die.

And then you see the note, folded underneath the stems. No name.

Just:

For your spring.

(with a tiny red star drawn next to it.)

You sit down hard on the edge of your bed.

Your fingers hover over the bouquet. Your lips tug into a smile so soft it makes your own chest ache.

He remembered.

Two weeks ago – Downtown Brooklyn

The sidewalk buzzed with warm spring life. Outdoor cafés. Bikers whizzing past. You, Bucky, and the others meandering through after grabbing pastries. You stopped in front of a toy shop window.

Inside: a LEGO flower bouquet display.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, hand pressed to the glass. “Look at these!”

“They’re plastic flowers,” Bucky had said, puzzled but curious.

“Exactly. They don’t die. And they’re beautiful.”

You looked back over your shoulder, smiling.

“Permanent hope,” you added quietly.

He had barely blinked at the words. You didn’t notice the way he looked at you afterward. Not then.

But now?

You’re holding the proof that he did.

You FaceTime Peter.

“What.”

“He left me LEGO flowers.”

“Oh my GOD.”

“And a note!”

“Was it a poem?!”

“No, but it said ‘For your spring’ and it had a red star!”

Peter literally puts a pillow over his face and screams into it.

“Parker.”

“HE’S FLIRTING IN SYMBOLISM.”

“It’s not flirting.”

“It’s a declaration of seasonal affection. It’s romantic. It’s war.”

“You are so dramatic—”

“You’re wearing soft pink pajamas and holding hand-built plastic flowers like they’re treasure—you’re dramatic.”

You can’t stop smiling. You bury your face into your hands.

Peter’s voice softens through the phone.

“…you like him, huh?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “But I think I’m starting to realize I’ve liked him for a while.”

Downstairs, Bucky is nursing a mug of coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His hoodie’s rumpled. His hair’s still damp. He hasn’t slept.

Because he spent three hours the night before building that bouquet with his metal hand — slowly, carefully, making sure none of the pieces were crooked. Then taping the box shut with shivering fingers and signing it with the tiniest, stupidest star.

He keeps replaying it all in his head like it’s a mission gone wrong.

“You look like you murdered someone,” Sam says, sliding into the seat across from him.

“I left a note.”

“You what.”

“She’s gonna know.”

“You signed it?”

“…with a star.”

Sam slaps the table.

“HE SIGNED IT WITH A STAR, STEVE.”

Steve walks in holding his protein shake like a weary parent.

“It’s fine. You’re doing fine.”

“I’m losing my mind.”

“You’ve already lost it.”

“It was supposed to be anonymous!”

“You built her LEGO flowers.”

“So?”

“So,” Nat says, appearing from literally nowhere like a shadow with good cheekbones, “you are so screwed.”

Bucky groans into his hands.

“I hate all of you.”

“Not as much as you love her,” Sam mutters with a grin.

That afternoon, you find a quiet moment to sneak away — rooftop, warm breeze, the LEGO bouquet in your hands.

You sit on the edge, legs dangling, camera in your lap, bouquet beside you. The city stretches wide beneath your feet. Spring in full bloom. A little golden, a little messy.

Just like the person you suspect built this bouquet for you.

You pull out your film camera — the one Bucky helped you fix last month when you jammed the shutter. You snap a photo of the bouquet with the skyline in the background. Then one of your hand holding a tiny flower piece.

You don’t even realize he’s watching.

From one level below — balcony shadows — Bucky watches you from a sliver in the curtains. You, sitting in the sun, smiling at something he gave you. The wind catching your hair.

And for a moment, he doesn’t feel like a weapon.

He feels like someone who could give joy.

Someone who does.

That night, he almost throws out the notebook.

Almost rips the “for your spring” page out and burns it in the sink.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he writes underneath it.

She smiled.

She sat with them for a whole hour.

She called them “hope.”

She’s never looked more like spring than she does now.

Later, as you head back to your room, Nat passes you in the hall and raises an eyebrow at the bouquet in your hands.

“Secret admirer still going hard?”

You smile. “Looks like it.”

“Mmm. You know, when Barnes was Hydra’s weapon, he never did romantic flower drops.”

You blink.

“…what?”

“Nothing,” she says, walking off. “Enjoy your LEGO love story.”

And maybe, as you fall asleep that night — the bouquet on your nightstand, note tucked in your pillowcase — you whisper into the dark:

“If it’s you�� I think I already knew.”

“How about romantic? (Yeah)

The feeling can’t be caught (What’s the best present?)”

— TXT, Wishlist

—

It’s a rare quiet morning at the compound.

You shuffle into the common room, tea in hand, eyes still sleepy, hoodie halfway zipped. The sun is spilling across the hardwood floors like honey. May in New York has that soft buzz of warmth—the kind that makes you believe good things are waiting.

You almost don’t notice it at first.

Just a small matte black box on the couch. Unassuming. A soft breeze from the balcony flutters the Post-It on top.

Your name. Written in a slanted, unmistakably careful script.

Your heart skips.

You set the mug down slowly and kneel on the couch. You unwrap the box with almost trembling fingers.

Inside:

A Sony Cybershot DSC. Matte black. Brand new.

You gasp.

“No way—”

You blink down at it, barely breathing. Your throat is already getting tight. You know this model. It’s the model. The one you told Peter about. The one you tried to win off an auction site. The one you swore off because it kept getting stolen out of your shopping cart or from sketchy sellers.

And now it’s here. In your hands. Fully yours.

You power it on with shaking hands. The screen blinks awake.

Gallery: 10 photos.

You hesitate. Click in.

Photo 1: A side profile of you — nose scrunched, talking animatedly. Must’ve been dinner at the compound.

Photo 2: You and Peter, sitting on the balcony with empty bubble tea cups and a shared bag of chips, sun blazing behind you. You’re laughing, hair messy. It’s candid. The kind of shot you didn’t know anyone could capture so perfectly. The light makes you look soft. Like someone’s muse.

Photo 3: A book on your windowsill. Your annotated copy of The Secret History next to your favorite mug. A quiet detail only someone paying attention would know.

Photo 4: Your shadow and his. Leaning together on the balcony during sunset. You didn’t know he was there.

Photo 5: The LEGO bouquet—framed like fine art. On your shelf. On your shelf. Taken before you ever found it.

You feel your chest clench. Your fingers tighten on the camera. You sniff once, barely holding it back.

Photo 6: You asleep in the rec room. Hoodie half-off your shoulder. Your lips parted. A blanket tucked gently over you. Not yours.

Photo 7: A shot of your reflection in the café window. Your gaze distant. Your hand cupping your cheek. You look like a dream. His dream.

Photo 8: You again. Reading. A pencil tucked behind your ear. You’re chewing your lip in thought.

Photo 9: A close-up of your hands lacing Peter’s sneakers into a triple knot. He’s mid-whine. You’re grinning.

Photo 10: The note he left. The tiny “Your name” written in all caps. Sitting next to the camera box. The present before the reveal.

“Holy shit,” you whisper. “He’s in love with me.”

Then you scream.

A real scream.

Out of nowhere. Just emotion and surprise and disbelief colliding in your chest and bursting out of your lungs.

And exactly 1.2 seconds later—

CRASH.

“GET DOWN—!”

Webbing flies. A taser baton nearly clips your bookshelf.

Yelena and Peter burst in from opposite doors—combat mode activated, full chaos.

“WHO’S ATTACKING—?!”

“DID YOU TRIP THE SECURITY—?!”

“ARE YOU POSSESSED?!”

You’re still on the floor, gripping the camera like a lifeline, face damp with fresh, stunned tears.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “I’m fine!”

Peter looks around wildly. “You screamed!”

“It was a happy scream!”

Yelena’s brow furrows. “What the hell is a happy scream?!”

“Look!” you cry, holding up the camera. “He got it for me! He—he remembered!”

Peter walks closer and sees the display. His brows lift. “Whoa…”

Yelena peers over his shoulder.

“These are all photos of you.”

“You guys, they’re like—beautiful. Like… heartbreakingly beautiful.”

“Okay, now I believe he’s in love with you,” Peter adds. “This one literally looks like an indie movie poster.”

You sniff again, laugh-shaking. “I think I’m gonna die.”

Yelena: “You better not. I have money on when he confesses.”

Peter: “Wait, I do too.”

You glare through watery eyes. “How many of you are betting on my love life?”

Peter: “Everyone except Bruce and Thor. They’re too scared to jinx it.”

Meanwhile…

Across the World – Mid-Mission

Gunfire echoes in an abandoned warehouse.

Bucky, Sam, Steve, and Natasha are mid-fight. Punches flying. Adrenaline high.

And suddenly—

And Steve yells over the comms:

“Hey Bucky?”

“What?!”

“Y/N got the camera!”

“—What?!”

Sam, dodging a blast: “She screamed so loud Peter and Yelena kicked in a door.”

“She screamed?! Is she okay?!”

Nat, voice smug over the line: “She cried.”

Bucky freezes for half a second. A beat too long.

“Was it—was it a bad cry or a good cry—?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Nat says, “it was a ‘he’s the love of my life’ kind of cry.”

Sam: “You are so done, man.”

Steve: “She’s gonna kiss you into next week.”

Bucky hides his face behind his metal hand.

“I’m gonna throw myself into the Atlantic.”

Steve’s already grinning. “Peter said she screamed. Yelena thought she was under attack.”

“Is she okay?!”

Sam: “Oh, she’s great. Peter said she’s crying and smiling like she’s in a drama.”

Bucky ducks behind a crate and groans, face in his hands.

“She saw the photos?”

Nat: “All of them.”

Steve: “You took ten, man. That’s not ‘casual.’ That’s ‘wedding montage.’”

Sam: “You put in one of her asleep?! Bro. You’re gone.”

“I’m not gone,” Bucky mutters.

Nat: “You named the file folder ‘For Her Eyes Only.’”

“Okay, maybe I’m a little gone.”

Steve, grinning, lands a knockout punch. “She’s gonna kiss you so hard you forget your name.”

Bucky: “I’m never showing my face again.”

Sam: “Jokes on you—we got the whole thing on camera.”

Steve: “And guess what? When you get back—bracelet time.”

“Oh god.”

Nat: “You’re doing great, sweetheart.”

Later that night, Bucky stares out the Quinjet window as New York lights come back into view.

In his jacket pocket is the charm bracelet. With the red star.

He’s one gift away.

One breath from finally saying it.

From finally being the sixth wish.

Bucky had pulled out his notebook and add:

Camera went well. She smiled. She cried. I didn’t die from it. Progress.

She deserves better than my silence.

But god, she’s beautiful. I want to be the person who sees her like that every day.

And you—back at the Compound—are curled in bed with a camera against your chest, smiling like you already know.

“A cellphone filled with a wishlist…”

“Please tell me your secret.”

— TXT, Wishlist

—

You hear the front doors of the compound open late that night. It’s almost midnight.

Bucky’s back.

And somehow… you don’t go to him. Not yet. You’re still trying to stop the trembling in your hands from the gift he hasn’t given you.

Because the camera? The LEGO flowers? The perfume? The earrings?

Each one made your heart flutter.

But the bracelet?

The little box that you found on your bed after you returned from a late training session — simple and velvet, tied with a red ribbon — that one left you breathless.

You open it again.

The bracelet is delicate and silver, lightweight on your wrist. Five small charms already dangle on it — each one unmistakably chosen by him:

A tiny LEGO flower.

A glinting gold hoop earring.

A miniscule Sony camera.

A teacup — with steam etched into the metal.

And a bright red star.

He is the sixth wish. And he gave you the star from his heart before he gave you himself.

You press the heel of your hand to your chest and exhale shakily. You almost miss the thin piece of paper beneath the satin lining. A note. Folded three times.

It’s his handwriting.

Y/N,

I don’t know if you’ll understand how long I’ve been working on this. Not the bracelet.

Not the camera.

But this —

Remembering the small things. Noticing the details. It’s the only way I’ve known how to say:

You matter to me.

You’ve always mattered.

I’ve spent more of my life losing people than learning them. But you… you made me want to learn again.

I don’t have the words yet. But maybe these will help.

— Bucky

Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them.

You don’t sob.

You don’t scream.

You just… sit in the quiet, overwhelmed, your heart trying to make space for a love that’s been there all along.

And then you see the notebook.

It’s half-tucked under the edge of your bed. A black journal with frayed corners. You know this cover.

This is Bucky’s.

He never leaves it out.

You hesitate, fingers trembling, then slowly open it to the first page.

Page One:

Y/N’s List — Important Things to Remember

• Hates tea too hot. Says it tastes like “regret.”

• Loves cherry lip gloss. Will fight Sam over the last one.

• Once said “I like stars because they remind me to breathe.”

• Scared of bees but will run straight into a fight with a HYDRA tank???

• Favorite matcha: the kind with oat milk, vanilla, and an extra scoop.

• Once fell asleep reading her book to the plants on the balcony.

• Asked Peter if ghosts can feel lonely.

• Laughed so hard once, she snorted tea out her nose. I haven’t stopped thinking about that sound.

You flip to a later page.

Page Thirteen:

*She was talking about earrings. Gold and silver mixed ones. Said they reminded her of sunlight and moonlight.

I’ve never seen someone so in love with things that sparkle. I hope she never finds out that nothing glows the way she does when she talks about things she loves.*

Another page.

Page Twenty-Two:

*I don’t know how to say it.

But I would give anything — anything — to be the reason she smiles after a long day.

I want to be her camera. Her flower bouquet. Her favorite song.

But mostly, I just want to be the thing she doesn’t give back.*

And there, tucked at the back of the notebook—

Final Entry:

*Red star. For the sixth wish.

She doesn’t know it yet.

But it’s me.*

BUCKY.

The moment the gift is dropped off, he panics.

He’s back in his room freshly showered, pacing, heart pounding like he’s under fire. His hands are shaking — not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.

Hope.

What the hell did he just do?

He gave her the bracelet.

The bracelet.

The final gift before he either loses his mind or tells her the truth.

He didn’t even stay to watch her open it. Coward.

But what if she hates it? What if it’s too much?

What if—

What if she doesn’t want me?

The thought guts him.

Bucky stares at the desk in his room — the wrapping paper scraps, the ink-stained fingers, the red ribbon he accidentally got tangled around his wrist earlier like some goddamn poetic joke.

He glances at his laptop, still open to the jewelry store’s confirmation page. A hundred tabs open. His Amazon cart is basically a shrine to her at this point. His notes are scattered like breadcrumbs.

And that journal — he left it in her room. He left the fucking journal.

He slams his hand on the desk, breath coming fast.

She’s going to read it.

She’s going to know.

She’s going to know everything.

And it’s not like a mission, where he knows what to do when the danger starts.

No.

This? This is scarier.

Because he doesn’t have a plan for heartbreak.

Because he’s in love with you.

He has been for months. Maybe longer. And he doesn’t even remember when it started — just that it never really ended. It grew quiet and steady. Like spring.

He learned the way you take your tea.

The lip gloss that leaves shimmer behind when you smile.

The look in your eyes when you talk about constellations and ghosts like they’re just neighbors.

How you make the compound feel like home just by walking into a room.

And now he might’ve ruined it. Over a bracelet.

Over a goddamn red star.

YOU.

You’re already on your feet before your brain catches up.

The notebook still in your hand. The bracelet clinks on your wrist with every step. The journal clutched in your hands.

You don’t think. You just go.

It’s late, the halls dim, but you don’t care.

You walk, no — run — toward the hallway. Past the common room. Past Peter and Yelena, who do a double take and high-five behind you.

When you see the soft kitchen light and the shadow moving inside, your heart leaps.

And there — in the kitchen — you find him.

You whisper, “Bucky?” and it’s not a question. It’s a confirmation. He’s here.

Bucky Barnes.

He turns at the sound of your voice.

He freezes.

Your eyes are glassy with tears — but you’re smiling. Glowing. And you’re wearing that damn lip gloss again, the one that catches the light when you laugh.

He barely hears himself whisper, “Shit,” before you crash into him like a comet of joy.

His hands catch you instinctively, arms around your waist as you bury your face in his shoulder. The journal thuds softly to the floor between you.

“Wait, wait—” he tries, but you’re already cupping his face, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye.

Hair still damp from a shower. Hoodie half-zipped. Barefoot. Soft. Startled when you crash into him.

“Whoa—Y/N?”

You’re crying. Laughing. Clutching his journal to your chest.

He looks like he’s about to pass out.

You don’t even give him a chance to speak.

You take his face in your hands. Tilt your forehead to his. Your voice barely a whisper:

“I found the star.”

He swears the earth tilts.

“What?”

You nod. “The sixth wish. It was you.”

Bucky swallows hard, blinking rapidly. “I was gonna… I had this whole—”

His voice breaks.

You kiss him.

It’s warm and unhurried. A promise, not a question. You taste like tears and flavored lip gloss — like honey.

And he’s gone.

He’s absolutely ruined now.

Because no serum, no war, no past life, has ever made him feel like this.

You pull back just a breath and whisper:

“I might as well confess… I like you.”

His whole face crumbles. Relief. Joy. Love.

He exhales like he hasn’t in months. Years, maybe.

His forehead rests against yours. He closes his eyes.

“Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You’re serious?”

You nod.

“I thought—” he laughs, but it cracks in the middle. “I thought I messed everything up.”

You shake your head quickly. “No. Bucky, this—this was everything. Every gift. Every note. That bracelet—”

“Has a red star,” he says quietly, like he’s giving you the truth for the first time. “Because you’re the only thing I ever really wanted to protect. The one thing I never wanted to lose.”

He says your name like it’s the first time he’s allowed to breathe it.

And then he kisses you again. And again.

The sixth wish.

Is him.

It’s always been him.

And now… you get to keep him.

FROM A DISTANCE…

Peter and Yelena peek into the kitchen from around the corner.

Peter whispers, “Do we… tell Sam?”

Yelena grins. “Oh, Sam already owes me fifty bucks.”

MEANWHILE…

Mission comms channel – earlier that night:

Sam: “Okay, so camera drop — successful?”

Nat: “Yeah, but he looked like he was gonna bolt to Wakanda.”

Steve: “Honestly, if she doesn’t kiss him tonight, I will.”

Sam: “Cap—”

Steve: “I’m just saying. Man’s been in love like it’s a classified operation.”

Nat: “Operation: Simp Soldier.”

Bucky (grumbling): “I can hear you.”

Steve: “And?”

Sam: “We hope you hear us.”

Nat: “By the way, you owe us a mission update and emotional clarity when you get home.”

Bucky: “I’m hanging up.”

Steve: “No, you’re not. We’re invested.”

Back in the compound, Bucky finally speaks, still holding you.

“I read once that the best kind of gift is something you never expected to want but suddenly can’t live without.”

You tilt your head, curious.

He lifts your hand, presses a kiss to the bracelet.

“That’s what you are. To me.”

You lean into him. “You should’ve just told me.”

He smirks faintly. “I was trying. With… flowers and jewelry and… LEGO bricks.”

You laugh — bright and startled.

And he kisses you again. Because now, he finally can.

“Please tell me now, Time's up, give me your wishlist ”

— TXT, Wishlist

—

Bucky Barnes has survived wars, brainwashing, and decades of solitude.

But none of it compared to the sheer hurricane that hit the Avengers Compound the morning after you kissed him.

You and Bucky are curled up on the kitchen couch, your legs over his lap, still in sleep clothes. He’s half-asleep with his arm around your waist, and you’ve got the charm bracelet glinting on your wrist as you sip your tea (not too hot, obviously).

Your head is resting on his shoulder. You haven’t stopped smiling since last night.

Then—

SLAM.

The kitchen door bursts open.

“WE TOLD YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!”

Sam, Steve, Peter, Nat, Yelena, all in full-blown chaos mode, cheering like you just won the Super Bowl.

Bucky literally flinches like he’s under attack.

“Why—why are you all awake right now?” he groans into your shoulder.

“Because we knew this was gonna happen!” Peter shouts. “I knew it! I said it! Sam said it. Natasha knew before anyone—”

“I told you he was pining,” Nat says smugly. “Called it six months ago.”

“I said three,” Sam argues.

“You said three because you wanted to win the pool,” Yelena smirks. “Speaking of—Tony? Pay up.”

Tony strolls in, coffee in hand, Pepper behind him. He glances at Bucky, who is flushed, lips bitten pink from where you kissed him thirty seconds ago.

“You cry yet, Barnes?” Tony asks with a smirk. “Fifty bucks says you’re the first to tear up.”

“He already did last night,” Steve says casually, eating a protein bar. “I was on the comms. There was sniffing.”

“I was not crying,” Bucky mutters, clearly lying.

Pepper leans against the counter, arms crossed. “This is what I wake up to?”

“This is what we’ve all been waking up to for the past year,” Wanda chimes in from the hallway. “This painfully slow descent into domestic longing.”

—

You pull out your little black digital camera — the one Bucky got you — and before he can protest, you snap a photo of the two of you right there.

“Wait—did I look okay?” he asks instantly.

You flip the screen toward him.

And he goes silent.

It’s… perfect. You’re both a little messy, sleepy, wrapped in morning light — and love.

You grin and say, “Lockscreen-worthy?”

He just nods, heart visibly softening.

You make it your lockscreen right there. And he literally melts.

That afternoon, after the chaos dies down (barely), you and Bucky sit on the floor of your shared living space at the compound with the LEGO bouquet spread out between you.

It’s quiet now. Just the two of you.

“You’re serious about this?” Bucky asks, turning the instruction booklet sideways.

“Dead serious,” you whisper, nudging his knee.

It’s slow and beautiful, both of you focused and laughing as you build. He fumbles the small pieces. You steal the yellow rose and claim it’s “your flower.”

And when it’s finally done, he sits back on his heels.

“I like the idea,” he murmurs. “Flowers that never die.”

You smile. “Like this feeling.”

You pull out your shared notebook — the one you once wrote your wishlist in.

Bucky taps his pen against the blank page.

You start writing in your messy, lovely scrawl:

“Things We Want To Do Together (Now That We Know)”

Bucky’s additions:

Go to that bookstore in the Village she always talks about

Make her favorite brownies from scratch

Stargaze on the roof without telling the others

Surprise trip to Coney Island

Let her kiss me every morning, just because

Write our own story

You add:

Keep wearing the earrings, perfume, bracelet

Let him keep taking pictures of me

Take pictures of him too

Let him hold my hand in front of everyone

Be the safe place he never had

Say “I love you” when I’m ready

Hear it from him first

You glance up at him.

He meets your eyes.

—

“You know,” Bucky says, his voice soft, fingers brushing your jaw, “that lip gloss you always wear? The sparkly one?”

You nod, surprised.

“I didn’t know it was flavored until you kissed me,” he admits, flushing. “Honey.”

You blink.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it. It’s—you. Sweet and bright and familiar. And now when I smell honey, it’s you. When I taste it, it’s you.”

You don’t speak. You just lean forward and kiss him again.

This time it’s slow. Long. Perfect.

Later that night…

Peter corners Bucky by the fridge.

“Okay, listen, I’m cool with it. You’re cool. She’s cool. It’s cool.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Thanks?”

“But if you hurt her—like even accidentally—I will get May to give me permission to emotionally destroy you.”

Bucky smirks. “You’d have to get through Yelena and Natasha first.”

Peter thinks. “Okay fair, but I’d still try.”

Bucky claps him on the shoulder. “Noted.”

—

You crawl into bed beside him that night — soft sheets, his arm already reaching for you. Your charm bracelet jingles faintly as you settle in. The earrings glimmer in the moonlight.

“Hey,” you whisper, voice against his collarbone.

“Yeah?”

You lift your head to look him in the eyes.

“I love you.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I love you, too.”

And outside the door?

Tony hands Yelena another fifty.

Sam high-fives Peter.

Nat records Bucky’s second happy cry of the week.

Steve just smiles.

Mission complete.

“A jewelry box with a star called you,

My heart overflows again…

I might as well confess… I like you.”

— Wishlist, Tomorrow X Together

(You’ve got mail!) WHAT DO YALL KNOW ABOUT THIS SONGGYGY. THIS IS MY SONG LIKE MY SONGGG MY SONG MY SONGGG. LIKE OUUUHHH THIS SONG HAS ME IN SUCH FEEELLLLSSSSSS. I’ve written tm angst Bucky and I feel like we need some happy slice of life soft solider James Buchanan Bucky Barnes. God that one txt oneshot popped off now here I am with my new improve TXT x Bucky Barnes branded one shots!!! YUP I LOVE THIS. I was geeking and gawking so badly when I was making this you don’t understand lmfaoooo.

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open!)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @theycallmeanxiety @lovinqbella @starstruckfirecat

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byhuenii · 5 days ago

Text

Cooking up a fanfic rn. This is your hint

“Please tell me now!”

(It’s a song lyric)

2 notes · View notes

byhuenii · 6 days ago

Text

HAHA NOT LOVE ISLANDDD

Don’t Smile

Pairing College!Bucky Barnes x Roommate!Reader

Synopsis You were so tired of being an option he would’ve never of chosen. It’s just as ironic a song had been playing while you beat yourself over and over again for not being the one he wanted

Word Count 3.4k

Themes + Warnings hurt with slight comfort , unrequited love (kinda) , angst , slight fluff , THE OTHER WOMANNNNNN

— Don’t smile “You’re supposed to think about me everytime you hold her” - Sabrina Carpenter

The apartment is too quiet.

Except for the soft crackle and warm hiss of the vinyl player in your room, spinning a fragile thread of sound through the stillness.

The night had wrapped itself around the apartment building like a dark velvet curtain, cool spring air seeping through the cracked window in your room, brushing against your skin like a whispered reminder of everything you were trying to push away. The needle of the vinyl player had long since lifted, but the echo of “Don’t Smile” still clung to the walls—a haunting lullaby for the broken.

The gentle piano intro seeps into your skin, weaving between the shadows and the fading streetlight leaking through your blinds.

The voice—soft, hurt, aching—wraps around you like a ghost.

“You’re supposed to think about me every time you hold her…”

The lyrics hit different when you’re alone in a room that suddenly feels too small and too empty.

Your chest tightens. The cold from the cracked window crawls up your spine, but you don’t close it. You want to feel the sting. You want something real to remind you you’re awake, not dreaming.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, clutching the edge of the mattress, heart pounding louder than the music.

You can hear them—Bucky and the girl—in the room two doors down. Laughing. Touching. Whispering.

You imagine her head resting against his shoulder, his fingers tracing invisible patterns along her arm, lips brushing her temple.

That should be me.

You pressed your fingers against your lips, biting the inside of your cheek until the taste of copper filled your mouth. You tried to swallow the sting, tried to push away the images—the way his bare skin had brushed against hers, the way his voice had lowered when he whispered “doll,” the way the girl giggled in his arms like she owned a piece of him you’d never get back.

The thought echoes in your mind, a mantra that twists your stomach in knots.

You close your eyes and press your palms over them, trying to erase the image.

But it’s stubborn.

You think about the times you almost said something.

Almost told him how you felt. Almost warned him that you weren’t okay with this casual parade of strangers through your shared space.

Almost hoped he’d see you—not just as the roommate who did the dishes, or the one who gave him coffee when he forgot to buy any—but as something more. Something real.

You bite your lip until it bleeds, but the pain doesn’t distract you.

Because every time you close your eyes, it’s the same scene:

You.

Alone.

Watching him fall asleep beside someone who isn’t you.

And the silence between you grows louder than any scream you could let out.

You curl into yourself, a fragile, trembling knot of want and regret.

The music swells. Long gone, Long stopped playing. Just repeats in your head

“I don’t wanna see you smile like you mean it, no…”

Your breath catches.

But the ache wasn’t just jealousy. It was years of quiet yearning, of watching from the sidelines as Bucky did everything but look at you the way you looked at him.

You wished you could scream, but instead you swallowed the noise, wrapped yourself tighter in your sweater, and tried to disappear into the shadows of your room.

But you weren’t invisible.

Not to Yelena.

Not to Peter.

Your bed is cold. You sit up and drag the blanket off. You throw on sweats, a sweater, and the only shoes in reach—the fuzzy matching slippers Peter got everyone as a joke for Valentine’s Day. Yours are pale blue with little stars on them. They squeak slightly when you walk.

They’re soft, comforting, a small thread connecting you to the others in this messy shared life.

You slide them on, grateful for the softness against your aching feet.

The music keeps spinning, but the words blur into a soundtrack of your broken hope.

You stare at the door, heart hammering, knowing that soon you’ll have to leave this room. Leave the apartment. Leave the people who don’t see the storm you’re drowning in.

But not yet.

Not until the last note fades away, leaving only the cold and the silence.

And the whispered promise you wish you could say out loud:

That should be me.

The living room is dark except for the flickering glow of the TV, abandoned long ago.

Peter’s slumped on the couch, eyes half-closed, his face slack as the last YouTube video loops on the screen—some random clip of a baby otter clumsily trying to climb a rock.

He’s supposed to be asleep, but his brow furrows like he’s holding something back.

From the cracked door of her room, Yelena’s silhouette appears—a careful, cautious shape framed by the dim hallway light. She steps out quietly and crosses the floor with silent steps, settling on the arm of the couch beside Peter.

Her eyes drift toward your closed bedroom door, narrowing.

“Do you think she’s okay?” she whispers.

Peter blinks slowly, almost reluctantly. “She left the music on. And the door’s closed, but she’s not in here. I heard... something. Sounds.”

Yelena’s gaze sharpens, voice low but urgent. “That’s not just something. She’s hurting.”

Peter’s hand twitches, the tip of his thumb brushing against the couch fabric nervously.

“She’s been pretending. You know it. We both know it.”

Yelena’s lips twitch into a half-frown. “We can’t just let her walk away like this. Not tonight.”

The two of them exchange a look loaded with worry, something heavy and unspoken hanging between them.

Meanwhile, in your room, you’re already sliding on your fuzzy blue slippers—the ones Peter made sure everyone had to “keep the peace.”

You pull on your oversized sweater, its sleeves falling past your wrists, a cocoon to hide in.

You take a deep breath, wipe your eyes, and open the door.

“Hey,” Yelena’s voice is gentle but firm, stopping you just outside.

Peter’s blankly staring at the tv screen while on the couch. Hoodie tangled around his arms, mouth slightly open. Even half-asleep, his eyes shift over the second he hears your door click shut.

“Where are you going?” Yelena asks, eyes searching yours like she’s trying to read a secret you won’t give.

“You okay?” he mumbles.

“Wanda’s,” you say quickly. “Her heater broke, and she asked me to come help. You know, a quick fix.”

It’s a lie. A dumb one. You know yelena and peter knows it.

Peter’s voice is softer than you expect. “It’s cold out.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” you lie, voice cracking just a bit.

Yelena calls out, barely above a whisper, “Don’t forget to text. And if Barnes comes after you, trip him.”

You offer them both a tight-lipped smile. “Copy that.”

Behind you, faint but crystal clear through the thin walls, comes the sound you’re trying to block out—the quiet giggling, the soft kisses, the murmurs that Bucky and the girl share in his room.

A cruel soundtrack to the lie you tell.

You swallow the lump in your throat as your heart screams that should be me.

Yelena’s brow tightens. Peter looks like he wants to argue but knows it’s useless.

Neither of them presses further.

They know.

And as you step outside into the cold spring night, the door closes softly behind you, leaving a silence heavier than any words could be.

The window slid open with a creak, and Bucky leaned out into the chill, shirtless, skin dappled by the glow of the hallway light behind him. His eyes scanned the street below until they found you—shoulders hunched, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, fuzzy blue slippers silent on the concrete. You looked like you were trying to disappear into the night, swallowed whole by the cold.

He blinked once, twice, like he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

“Doll?”

Your name cracked against the air, soft but strained, like a question laced with panic.

You didn’t turn around.

Inside his room, the girl stirred on his bed, clearly annoyed. “Bucky, come back. What are you doing?”

He barely heard her. The second she touched his shoulder, he flinched away, eyes still glued to you disappearing down the street like you were slipping out of a dream.

“Doll?” he called again, louder. You were at the edge of the sidewalk now, shoulders shaking—not from the cold, he knew—but you kept walking.

Bucky stepped back from the window like he’d been hit.

“Fuck.”

He said it under his breath, guttural, sharp. The panic flared hot in his chest now.

He grabbed the hoodie hanging on the back of his desk chair—his favorite gray one, the one that smelled like late nights and everything soft—and yanked it over his head. Out of habit, he reached for the cologne on his dresser, misting himself once, then twice. He didn’t even realize he was doing it until he was already shoving the cap back on.

“Bucky, seriously?” the girl whined. “You’re going after her?”

But he didn’t answer. His bare feet hit the hallway floor hard as he bolted for the front door. Yelena’s bedroom door creaked open just enough for her and Peter to watch him barrel out—hoodie half-on, no shoes, heart pounding.

The second Bucky hit the street, the cold slapped him in the face. The air bit at his chest, but he didn’t stop.

“There you are,” he muttered, spotting you ahead.

“Hey—hey!” he called.

You flinched but didn’t stop. He ran faster, slipping a little on the damp pavement until he caught up, breath coming out in visible gasps.

“Doll,” he said again, closer now, voice breathless and warm. “Where are you going?”

You didn’t look at him. “Wanda’s.”

“At midnight?”

“She needed help,” you replied flatly. “Her heater’s out.”

He caught up to your side, walking backward in front of you to block your path. “It’s forty degrees out and you’re in slippers,” he said, eyes scanning your face. “C’mon. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” you bit, gaze flashing. “I’m fine. She texted.”

Bucky’s heart cracked wide. He saw it then—really saw it. The red rims of your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers were digging into the sleeves of your sweater like you needed to hold yourself together.

“Please,” he said, voice dropping. He shrugged out of his hoodie in one quick motion and held it out to you, arms extended like it was an offering. “It’s freezing. Just—just come back inside.”

You stopped walking, but you didn’t take the hoodie.

Behind you, Yelena and Peter watched from her bedroom window. Neither said a word. Their breath fogged the glass as they pressed closer, eyes wide.

You shook your head slowly. “I’m not coming back.”

“Why?”

“I told you why.”

“No, you didn’t.” His voice cracked. “That’s bullshit. Wanda didn’t text you.”

You swallowed hard. The silence stretched.

He tried again. “Just talk to me. You don’t have to walk away. Not like this.”

You looked at him then—really looked at him. His cheeks flushed from the cold, his hoodie hanging in his hands, the soft scent of his cologne wrapping around you like a ghost of something you never had.

And you thought of her.

Of the girl still waiting in his bed. Of her lips on his neck. Of his voice, saying “doll,” just like that, but not to you.

“That should’ve been me,” you whispered so quietly it could’ve been the wind.

“What?” he asked, stepping closer.

You blinked fast, backing away. “Nothing. I’m going.”

“Why?” he asked again, almost begging now. “What did I do?”

You laughed, bitter. “You really don’t know?”

“Then tell me,” he pleaded.

And the words clawed at your throat. You’re supposed to think about me every time you hold her.

But you couldn’t say it. Not when you knew how it would end.

You stepped back. “Wanda’s waiting.”

You turned, leaving him standing in the cold, heart cracked wide open, hoodie still in his hands, barefoot on the pavement. The door to your shared apartment slowly creaked open behind him.

But Bucky didn’t look back.

He just watched you walk away, and for the first time, he didn’t smile.

—

Bucky stood there, hoodie limp in his hands, staring at the spot where you vanished.

Your slippers were still scuffing quietly down the sidewalk, barely audible now—but the sound stayed with him like an echo in his chest. The cold bit through his skin, his breath fogged in uneven puffs, and for a second, the world tilted on its axis.

“…fuck.”

He said it once.

Then again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Seriously?” came the annoyed voice behind him.

He didn’t even need to turn around to know the girl was standing there in his bedroom doorway, one of his shirts tugged over her frame, arms crossed like this was an inconvenience to her night.

“You’re just gonna chase her? Like, that’s so rude—”

He turned over his shoulder.

Yelena was standing in her bedroom doorway across the hall, arms folded, one brow arched with that signature unamused stare that could curdle milk. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Peter appeared a second later behind her, rubbing sleep from his eyes, wearing the hoodie you’d stolen a thousand times. His face fell the second he saw the door open, saw the empty street behind Bucky.

He sighed—long and slow, like something inside of him cracked.

Head shaking. Disappointed. Tired.

And that was what did it.

That moment.

That second of stillness.

Yelena staring. Peter sighing. The girl huffing behind him.

The ache in his chest sharpened like glass.

Fuck.

He shoved back inside, heart in his throat. The girl tried to follow him, muttering something about “being done with this bullshit,” but he didn’t care. Didn’t listen. His mind was already sprinting faster than his bare feet had outside.

He stumbled into his room and yanked open his drawer for socks, pulling the first pair he could find. Slippers—no. Shoes. Jacket. Hoodie still clutched in one hand.

His keys?

Where the fuck are his keys?

He rifled through his desk, knocking over an empty mug and a few pens, until his fingers curled around the lanyard.

“Where does Wanda even live?” he muttered to himself, raking a hand through his hair.

His mind reeled.

He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember the damn cross street.

And then he realized—he hadn’t memorized her address. He’d never needed to.

He didn’t even know if you were really going there.

Bucky grabbed his phone with shaky fingers and pulled up your name.

[doll 🐻]

His thumb hovered. Then he hit call.

The ring echoed once. Twice.

He was already bolting down the apartment stairs, phone to his ear, heart hammering as the cold swallowed him all over again.

Three times. Still ringing.

“C’mon, c’mon—pick up,” he whispered. “Just let me explain—”

Four times.

Voicemail.

He cursed so violently it echoed down the block.

He turned toward where he last saw you walking and broke into a jog, feet slapping the pavement, hoodie tucked under one arm, phone pressed to his ear as he called you again.

Still no answer.

He whispered into the wind like it might carry the words to you:

“Please. Come home. Just come home.”

The cold hit harder with every block.

You hadn’t grabbed a real coat. Just a threadbare sweater, some old sleep leggings, and your fuzzy matching slippers that all four of you owned. Bucky’s had the little rip on the side from when Peter tripped over the couch trying to prank him. Yelena’s were the wrong size because she bought them in a rage while hungover. Yours? Yours were just worn in all the places love hides.

You didn’t even feel your fingers anymore.

You tugged your sleeves tighter, breath fogging, trying to blink away the sting in your eyes.

Behind you—somewhere back there—he’d called your name.

Doll.

Of course he did.

You’d imagined it so many times. Whispered, reverent, like he’d finally figured it out. Like he meant it the way you meant everything. But tonight, it was just salt in the wound. A cruel echo against the air.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Again.

You didn’t have to check to know who it was.

You didn’t look. You couldn’t.

Your chest squeezed so tight it hurt.

The streets were quiet. It was past midnight, and spring hadn’t bothered to warm up yet. The chill curled up your sleeves and dug into your spine, and still—you kept walking. Wanda’s building was a ten-minute trek. You didn’t even know if she was home. You just needed to be anywhere but where he was whispering doll to someone else and offering you hoodies like bandages over broken bones he caused.

The final block felt endless. The cold wind bit your cheeks raw, and your toes had gone numb. You finally reached her stoop and buzzed, praying she was awake.

A soft shuffle, then the door clicked open.

You pushed inside like a ghost.

Warmth hit your face, but it didn’t sink in. Not really.

Wanda appeared from the kitchen in one of Vision’s sweatshirts, brow furrowed. “Hey. What are you—?”

“I’m sorry,” you blurted, trying to smile, trying to be casual when your voice cracked. “I just—uh, I needed to get out for a sec.”

Wanda didn’t ask. She didn’t have to. She just nodded once, quiet understanding in her eyes, and stepped aside to let you pass.

Vision peeked around the corner, blinking slowly. “Are you alright?”

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just… needed air. I’ll sleep on the couch if that’s okay.”

Behind him, Pietro appeared shirtless and yawning, bleached hair sticking up in five directions. “Hey,” he said softly, surprised but not unkind. “Didn’t expect you.”

“Me neither,” you said, and it was the closest to the truth you’d said all night.

Wanda pressed a warm mug into your hands. You hadn’t noticed she was already making tea.

“I’ll grab you blankets,” she said quietly.

You whispered a thanks and sank into the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest, still wearing the fuzzy slippers, still shaking.

Your phone buzzed again.

And again.

You didn’t look.

You just turned the ringer off, shoved it under a pillow, and stared at the wall.

Outside, somewhere in the dark, you knew Bucky was looking for you.

You knew because your heart was still beating.

And it only ever beat like that for him.

(You’ve got mail!) this was molding in my drafts so I wanted to post it because yes..AND HONESTLY I WANTED TO MAKE IR LONGER BUT I DEADASS DIDNT KNOW WHAT TO ADD LIKE I LOST THE WAY I WAS PLOTTING IT I ONLY HAD THIS IN MY DRAFTS. but this was one of my fav songs off sns and just listening to it made me levitate 🧘‍♀️

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @theycallmeanxiety

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