Bucky Barnes’ sugar bestie was… complicated.

You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t sleeping with him. And you certainly didn’t owe him a thing.

But your apartment? He paid the lease.

Your electric bill? Gone before you even saw it.

And your dreams—small, wild things like painting, music, your little weekend flower stand?

He funded them all.

“You’re too good at pretending you’re not meant for more,” he told you once. Then handed you a key to a studio and kissed the top of your head.

You didn’t ask questions. He didn’t offer answers.

Just flowers. Always white lilies. Always with a handwritten note:

“Don’t shrink to fit places that were never built for your shine.”

---

You were halfway through painting tiny strawberries on a ceramic mug when your phone buzzed.

BUCKY BARNES 1 missed call. 2 new messages.

I need a favor. Please don’t block me before I explain.

That alone was enough to raise an eyebrow.

You called him back. He answered on the first ring.

“Hey.”

“Hi. You okay?”

A pause. Then a sigh. A big one.

“My parents are flying in next week.”

You blink.

“...okay?”

“They want to meet my girlfriend.”

Another pause.

“You don’t have a girlfriend, Bucky.”

“I know.” Another breath. “I told them I did. They got excited. My mom started crying. It was a whole thing.”

You bite back a laugh.

“So what, you need someone to fake it?”

He hesitated.

That hesitation was long. Too long.

And that’s when it hit you.

“Wait… you want me?”

Silence.

“You don’t have to,” he rushed, “I know it’s weird. I wouldn’t blame you if you said no—”