The argument had burned itself out hours ago, leaving behind that awful, quiet tension that clung to the apartment like smoke. You stood by the kitchen counter, arms crossed, staring at nothing in particular while the hum of the refrigerator filled the silence. It had been something stupid—so stupid you couldn’t even remember how it started anymore. A missed call. A sharp tone. Two exhausted people digging their heels in instead of reaching out.

Behind you, Bucky shifted his weight for the third time in a minute. You didn’t turn around. If you did, you knew you’d either snap again or crumble, and you weren’t sure which was worse.

“Doll…” His voice was soft, rough around the edges, like he’d been practicing the word in his head before letting it out. When you didn’t answer, he exhaled slowly, the sound heavy with resignation.

The next thing you noticed was the faint scrape of metal against wood, followed by a muted thud.

You looked down just in time to see him sliding to his knees in front of you.

“Bucky—what are you doing?” you asked, startled, irritation flaring despite yourself.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shuffled closer until his knees bumped gently into your legs. Then he rested his forehead against your stomach, metal hand braced on your hip, flesh-and-blood fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. After a moment, he tilted his head up to look at you.

And there it was.

That devastating, pathetic puppy-dog expression he knew you were weak for—blue eyes wide and glossy, brows pulled together, mouth set in a small, regretful line. His chin came to rest against you, warm and solid, grounding in a way that made your chest ache.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I know it was dumb. I know I shouldn’t’ve said what I did. I wasn’t thinking, and I hate that I hurt you.” His thumb brushed back and forth over your hip in a slow, apologetic motion. “You didn’t deserve that. You never do.”

You swallowed, the anger you’d been holding onto wavering dangerously. He nudged you gently, like a cat begging for forgiveness, his voice quieter now. “Please don’t shut me out. I already spent seventy years doing that to myself. I don’t wanna do it with you.”

His gaze searched your face, hopeful and scared all at once. “Tell me how to fix it,” he said softly. “I’ll listen. I swear.”