LXXIX. Bucky

I shut the door behind me and the sound feels too final.

Too loud in a house that was just filled with her.

I don't stop moving.

I can't.

If I do, I'll turn back. I'll look into her eyes and beg for something I don't deserve. So I walk — slow, stiff — through the cabin's narrow hallway, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape me.

My duffel bag is slung heavy over my shoulder, but I barely feel it. Every step toward the living room feels like I'm peeling off something that was keeping me warm.

I stop at the edge of the table near the door. My fingers twitch.

Then, without really meaning to, I open my hand.

And there it is.

Her ring.

The one she wore during our time in Russia—the one that told the world we were husband and wife. Just a symbol. Just part of the lie.

Until it wasn't.

Somewhere between the shared bed and the quiet mornings, the way she said my name and the way I found her toothbrush next to mine, that ring stopped feeling like a prop.

And I know she felt it, too.

Because when I slipped mine into her hand during that kiss, she slipped hers into mine.

I swallow hard, my throat tight, eyes locked on the curve of silver in my palm.

We always mirrored each other, didn't we?

Two broken things, trying to pretend we weren't sharp around the edges. Trying to believe we could pretend well enough to forget the past was still chasing us.

I clench my fingers around the ring.

It digs into my palm, and I welcome the sting. It keeps me tethered to the moment. To her.

She didn't say it back.

I didn't expect her to. Not really.

But I guess... part of me hoped.

Even if it wasn't fair.

I walked out before she could say anything. Didn't turn back when she called my name.

I push open the front door, letting the cold slam into me like punishment. The snow crunches beneath my boots as I step off the porch and make my way down the path toward the quinjet.

The wind bites, but I barely notice. My head's too full.

Emris.

Everything about her burrows under my skin — has from the start. Even when she was pissing me off. Even when I hated her for the things she reminded me of. For what we both were.

Even then, I think I was already falling in love with her.

God, what does that say about me?

Or her?

She's fire and venom and silence and sorrow. She's seen more death than anyone should, carried more guilt than I think even I can understand. And yet, there's a part of her — small, hidden, sacred — that still wants something good.

And I wanted to be it.

Still do.

I know she won't say it. I knew before I said the words.

Because she doesn't think she's lovable.

Because she doesn't believe someone can see all that darkness and still stay.

I know that feeling too well.

Because that's the same reason I walked out before she had the chance to reject me.

It wasn't about strength. It was fear. Always fear.

Because if she'd looked me in the eye and said nothing — if she'd hesitated — I don't think I could've handled it.

I'm not made for softness anymore. Not really.

The things I've done... the things I still dream about... they rot you from the inside. Make you think you'll never be anything more than the sum of your worst nights.

I've been the Winter Soldier, a ghost, and nothing. For so long, I forgot how to be just Bucky.

And maybe that's why I never believed anyone could love me.

Why would they?

I'm a mess of triggers and trauma and half-healed wounds. I still wake up in a cold sweat half the time, ready to kill whatever shadow moves first. I flinch at the wrong sounds. I panic in the wrong silences.

What kind of life is that for someone like her?

But still... I let myself say it.

I love you.

And I did.

And I do.

Even if it was selfish. Even if it was too late.

Even if I'm the only one who feels it.

The quinjet looms ahead, dark against the white frost clinging to the trees. Sam's probably inside, running a systems check. Steve's out of sight, probably on watch — pretending not to miss Natasha.

I pause just before I reach the ramp.

The ring's still in my hand. The metal warmed by my skin, still slick with the heat of her palm.

I think about turning around.

Just once.

Just to see if she followed.

But I don't.

Because if she did — if she was standing there on the porch, looking at me the way she did before I kissed her — I'd drop everything.

I'd walk back and never leave.

And I can't do that.

Not unless she asks me to.

And she hasn't.

So I keep walking.

Ring still clutched in my hand.

Heart still beating for someone who may never be ready to take it.

But she's still got it.

She'll always have it.