You watch him from across the press pit. Crisp navy suit. American flag pin. That metal arm hidden beneath custom-tailored fabric.

J Buchanan Congressman from New York’s 7th District. Decorated war veteran. Rehabilitation icon. Public darling.

But he won’t look at you.

Not like he used to.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters when you catch him in the quiet corridor behind the House chamber. His jaw is clenched. Voice low.

You shrug, pretending your heart isn’t clawing against your ribs. “It’s a public hearing, Barnes.”

“Not for you.”

You haven’t seen him in months. Not since the last time he walked out of your apartment with regret in his eyes and blood on his knuckles. The war might be over, but the battlefield just changed zip codes.

Now it’s white-collar handshakes and redacted files. Whispers in marble halls. And you’re the only one who sees the cracks in his mask.

He leans in close, gaze hard but voice trembling.

“They want me clean. Untouchable. If I let myself need you…” He shakes his head. “They’ll tear us both apart.”

And still, he doesn’t step away.

Because beneath the metal and titles, Bucky Barnes still bleeds. And some part of him—quiet, broken, hopeful—still aches for you.