LXXVIII. Emris

I step back from Bucky, though every cell in my body protests the distance.

It feels like tearing away from something warm in the dead of winter — like stepping outside with damp skin and no armor. Cold hits fast. Sharp. Unforgiving.

But I do it anyway.

Because the quinjet is parked just outside the tree line and the past is walking straight toward our front door.

I draw in a breath, square my shoulders, and pull open the cabin door.

Sam's already climbing the porch steps, all bundled in black with a wind-chapped grin on his face. His eyes land on mine and immediately soften.

"Hey," he says, stepping forward and pulling me into a tight hug. I let him. I even smile.

Barely.

"Surprised you two didn't murder each other," he jokes with a laugh.

I force out a breath that almost sounds like laughter. "Yeah, well," I mutter, patting his back. "Wasn't for lack of trying."

Behind me, I hear Bucky's soft, fake chuckle — a half-hearted echo of mine.

Sam doesn't notice. Or maybe he does and chooses not to call it out. He's always been good at reading a room and knowing when to let something go.

"Cabin looks cozy," he says, glancing around. "Little rustic for my taste, but hey — at least you had plumbing."

I smirk. "Barely."

Before the moment can stretch too far, Steve steps past both of us, his boots crunching the last of the snow at the threshold. He moves like a man who's barely slept.

"Buck," he says, quiet but warm.

Bucky steps forward and the two of them clasp hands, pulling each other into a brief, solid hug — the kind only soldiers can really understand. There's no smile, no ceremony, just gravity and history exchanged in one long second.

Then they step back and Steve nods once.

I glance behind Sam, scanning the treeline, the jet, the open air.

Something's missing.

"Where's Nat?" I ask, more sharply than I intend.

Steve answers before Sam can. "She had something to take care of."

His voice is clipped. Short. Like it hurts to say.

"She gave us the coordinates to this safehouse and took off. No explanation."

I narrow my eyes.

That's not like her. She always leaves some kind of message. Always covers her tracks, but never leaves loose ends with us.

I watch the flicker in Steve's expression. It's there for just a second — something like guilt or longing — before he locks it down.

He misses her.

I nod slowly, letting it drop. At least for now.

Then Bucky speaks up behind me, voice neutral but firm. "Well. Where to next?"

His tone is all business. But I can still feel it — the heat from that kiss, the ache still lodged somewhere under my ribs. I don't turn to him. I don't breathe.

Sam answers. "Painswick. England. Pack your bags."

I nod once, curt and quick. It's all I can manage.

Turning away, I finally look at Bucky.

And he's already looking at me.

His eyes are unreadable, but I feel it — the thousand things neither of us said. All of them caught in that one glance. A thousand truths that won't survive past this porch.

We don't smile.

We don't speak.

We just see each other. And that's enough to twist the knife.

I break the stare first, pushing past him, my shoulder brushing his as I step back inside. The warmth of the cabin doesn't reach me. It's all gone now.

I head toward the room — the one we've shared, the one I've pretended not to be attached to — and start to pack.

Because that's what we do. We leave.

And the rest?

The rest stays buried where it belongs.

The sound of the door shutting echoes through the cabin like a soft warning.

Steve and Sam are probably back outside, doing recon or giving us space to pack. Not that it helps. The walls are still closing in, the air too still. I don't move, not even to check. I just keep packing, shoving things into my duffel with a sharp, mechanical rhythm.

I don't bother folding. There's no point.

Clothes. Weapons. The few stolen quiet things I let myself have while we were here. All of it thrown together like it doesn't matter. Like I don't care.

But I do.

God, I do.

My back is to the door when I hear it creak faintly. I don't turn.

Not until I feel arms wrap around my waist from behind.

And I know exactly who it is.

I freeze for half a second. Just long enough for it to hit me—how easy this feels. How much I want to pretend this is still our bubble. Still just us. Still safe.

Then I exhale, close my eyes, and let myself lean back into him.

Bucky's chin comes to rest gently on the top of my head. We don't say anything. We don't have to. Our breathing syncs up like it always does when we're close. His hands, one soft and warm, the other cool and solid, hold me steady like he's anchoring us both to the floor.

I feel his fingers brush mine and instinctively I link them together. Hold on.

We stay like that for a long time.

Longer than we should.

The moment stretches, bends, begs us not to let go. I can hear the clock ticking somewhere in the cabin, but everything else fades. It's just his chest rising and falling behind me. Just the warmth of his skin against my back. Just him. Just this.

Then, slowly, he turns me around.

I let him.

We face each other in the low afternoon light, and I know I should look away—but I don't. I can't. His eyes lock onto mine like he's trying to memorize the color, the shape, the way they hold him.

We get lost in it. In each other.

I don't know who moves first.

All I know is that his lips are on mine again.

Soft. Slow. Certain.

He kisses me like he means it. Like he's never kissed anyone the way he kisses me. Like every part of him is trying to say something he can't speak aloud.

And I kiss him back like I know what he's saying.

Because I do.

His hands move to cup my jaw, his body pulling me closer until there's no space between us. One hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangled in my hair. The other—his vibranium hand—presses flat against my spine, holding me firmly, securely, like he's afraid I'll vanish if he lets go.

My fingers slip into his hair, tugging gently, needing him closer. His human hand slides down to rest against the side of my throat, not choking—just feeling. Like he wants proof that I'm real. That I'm alive. That I'm his.

I moan softly into the kiss, something deep and desperate bleeding into the way I hold him. Into the way I can't stop. We've kissed before—but not like this.

This is love.

Terrifying, unwelcome, undeniable love.

I feel it in every inch of him.

And I know he feels it in me.

We finally pull away, just barely, our lips still brushing when we stop.

Foreheads pressed together. Breath mingling.

Silence again—but this one is full of meaning. Full of weight.

And then, softly, almost like a breath—

"I love you."

The words land like a detonation in my chest. Beautiful and brutal.

My heart stops.

And then it races.

My breath catches, eyes snapping open to search his face, but he's already pulling back. Already stepping away from the wreckage he just left behind in me.

"Bucky," I say, voice barely above a whisper.

But he doesn't stop.

He reaches down, grabs his duffel, slings it over his shoulder.

And walks out.

Just like that.

The room feels colder the second he's gone.

The kiss still burns on my lips. The echo of his words vibrates in my chest like something alive and clawing to get out.

But I stay still.

Frozen.

Because he said it.

And I didn't.

And maybe that's the worst part of all.

He's gone.

The room is still, but not silent — not really. There's a kind of ringing in the air, like the aftermath of a gunshot. The kind of stillness that isn't peace, just absence.

I stand there, frozen in place, staring at the door.

At the space where Bucky was standing not thirty seconds ago.

My breath comes shallow, my chest too tight, like my lungs are trying to shrink away from my own heartbeat.

I lift my hand slowly — the one he touched last — and let my fingers drift across my lips.

They're still tingling. Still warm. Still shaped by him.

The kiss lingers like a ghost.

And then, before I even realize it's happening, a tear slips down my cheek.

I suck in a breath through my nose, sharp and sudden, and wipe it away with the back of my hand like it betrayed me.

Because I don't cry.

The last time I cried, he was the one who held me.

I can't cry.

But now? I can't seem to stop.

My hand lowers again, trembling faintly, and I glance down—

And there it is.

Bucky's ring.

The one he wore on his finger during our little charade — our "marriage" cover for the duration of our stay in Russia.

At first, it was a prop.

Then it was a joke.

Then I stopped laughing.

And now it sits in the center of my palm, heavy in a way metal shouldn't be. Like it knows something I don't. Like it was always waiting for this.

I stare at it like it might explain everything.

How the hell did this happen?

He loves me.

Bucky Barnes — the man who should hate me, the man I hurt, the man I've argued with in every language of anger I know — loves me.

Why?

Why would anyone love me?

Why would he?

I drop to sit on the edge of the bed, the weight of everything threatening to drag me down. The nausea swells in my stomach like poison. I feel lightheaded, dizzy, like the ground is shifting under me and I'm still trying to pretend it's stable.

I close my fingers around the ring.

Tight.

My breath shakes as I whisper the truth I've buried so deep I almost forgot what it sounded like.

"I love you."

The words crack on their way out. Barely audible.

But they're real.

God, they're real.

I love him.

I'm completely and utterly in love with him.

Not just for the way he touches me like I'm something worth holding. Not just for the way he sees through every mask I wear. Not just for the way he makes me want to be better — even when I don't believe I can be.

I love him because he never asked me to be perfect.

Because he didn't flinch from my damage.

Because he looked at me like I was already whole.

And now he's gone.

Walked out after saying the one thing I never let myself believe I'd hear. Walked out without giving me the chance to say it back.

Because I didn't.

I couldn't.

Not in time.

I stare down at my hand, the silver band pressed into the lines of my skin like a brand.

I love him.

But I've spent my whole life running from that kind of truth. From softness. From hope.

Because it never lasted.

Because people always left. Or died. Or used it against me.

But Bucky didn't.

He just... loved me.

Even when I didn't ask him to.

Even when I tried to push him away.

Even now.

Another tear slips down my cheek and lands on the back of my hand. I blink rapidly, swallow it down. I can't cry again. I won't.

But I also can't unfeel this.

I close my fist around the ring and press it to my chest, right over the part of me that feels like it's splintering.

I whisper it one more time, even quieter now.

"I love you."

Maybe someday, I'll get to say it to him.

But right now, I say it to the air, to the ghosts in the walls, to the memory of his lips and the way he held me like I was something sacred.

I say it for me.

Because if I don't now, I never will.