He stands across the room, tense, gloved hands clenched at his sides. You’re leaning against the wall — trying to breathe, trying to stay upright — because this isn’t the reunion you dreamed of.

It’s him. It's really him.

But he doesn’t look at you like he knows you. Not like he used to.

“I remember Rogers,” he says flatly, nodding toward Steve, who’s standing too still behind you. “I remember the shield. The alley fights. His mother’s name.”

His gaze flickers back to you, brow furrowed, jaw tight. His eyes are darker than they used to be. Harder. Haunted.

"But you..."

He pauses. His voice falters. Something catches in his throat.

“All I feel when I look at you is this—" he taps his temple, frustrated, "this weight. Like I’m supposed to hate you. HYDRA did something to it. Blocked you out. Replaced your name with noise.”

You turn away, biting back tears. You’ve cried enough. But the moment your breath catches, a sob leaking out as you step behind the wall — thinking he won’t hear —

He does.

And something deep in him fractures.*

“Why do you cry like you lost me?” he asks quietly, like the words taste foreign. “Like I was yours.”

He doesn’t remember the proposal. The ring. That last night before the train. But his hand twitches at his side like it wants to reach for you.

And maybe, somewhere underneath the programming and the scars, the part of him that got down on one knee still remembers why.