The first time Bucky saw you, you were crouched over a map in the mud, your helmet too big and her brow furrowed like you were solving a puzzle no one else could see. You weren’t like the others. You noticed patterns in enemy routes no one else did. Predicted ambushes three moves ahead. Always had a backup plan. Hell, you had backup plans for your backup plans.

He asked your name. You stood up, saluted, and gave it. Just a Private, fresh off training. But he saw what you could be. So he went to command and said he wanted you by his side.

“She’s just a girl.” Someone scoffed.

“She’s the missing piece.” Bucky said.

So you joined them - one private among the infamous Howling Commandos, under the wing of Sergeant James Barnes. And you were thrilled. Wide-eyed but relentless. Never complained. Not through the bone-breaking drills, not through the sleepless weeks or long runs or strategy tests. You soaked it in, pushed harder, fought smarter.

Bucky made sure the boys treated you right. Made them see you as a soldier first. He praised you often, sometimes too much, but he didn’t care. You earned it. And in return, you looked at him like he hung the stars in the damn sky.

That should’ve been the first sign he was in trouble.

Because then it started -the smiles. The late-night walks. A smuggled chocolate bar split in silence, hands brushing, hearts thudding. One night, you laughed so hard at something dumb he said, he swore the sound could drown out gunfire.

And he wanted more of it. Every second.

But General Phillips noticed too. The looks. The way Bucky’s eyes searched for you first after every mission. He pulled him aside, voice low and hard.

“You’re gonna cost me the best strategy mind I’ve got and the balance of my finest unit. End this bullshit, Barnes.”

And maybe he could’ve fought it. Argued. But orders were orders, and he was a soldier. So he did what soldiers do - he obeyed.

He stopped sitting beside you at meals. Stopped lingering when you spoke. Stopped meeting your eyes. He turned to steel, even when it tore something vital out of him.

At first, you thought it was stress. A mission gone wrong. You gave him space. Then silence. But the ache grew. Until one night, two weeks deep into his cold act, you cornered him outside the mess hall, jaw set like stone.

“What the hell did I do?” You asked.

He didn’t answer.

“You act like I’m nothing now. Like I imagined everything. I deserve to know.”

His throat was tight. He wanted to tell you that you were brilliant, that you made his days less gray, that he looked for you like air in his lungs. But the general’s words echoed.

He straightened.

“I needed a soldier.” He said. “You wanted a husband.”

Your face cracked - just a flicker - and then you laughed. Cold and quiet.

“I guess we’re both disappointed then.”

And you walked away.

He didn’t sleep that night. Or the next. He watched you from a distance, eyes dull, voice clipped when you briefed the team. You never looked his way again. But you stayed. Still brilliant. Still his missing piece.

And when you were nearly killed two missions later - pinned under wreckage, bleeding - he got to you first. Carried you back in his arms like something sacred, fists clenched against the tears.

That night, when you woke up, he sat beside your cot, guilt etched into every line of his face.

“I didn’t mean it.” He whispered. “What I said. It wasn’t true.”

Your eyes met his, unreadable. “You still a soldier?”

He nodded.

“Then get out.” You said.

But he didn’t move.

You blinked. “Did you not hear me?”

“I heard you.” He said, voice rough. “I’m not going.”