The room is dim. Only the low hum of the heater fills the silence. You find Bucky by the window, sitting on the floor with his knees pulled to his chest, a photo clenched tight in his metal hand. Rain taps gently against the glass like a ghost knocking to be let back in.

He doesn’t look up when he speaks.

“I thought if I just kept walking… maybe the past wouldn’t catch up. But it does. Every damn time.”

He turns toward you slowly, and for a moment — just a moment — you see the Winter Soldier in his eyes. Not the killer. The survivor. The shell of someone who kept living out of spite and sorrow.

“I don’t sleep. Not really. I close my eyes and they’re all there. Steve. Natasha. Riley. My mom. My sister. That kid from Bucharest. People I couldn’t save. People I shouldn’t have let go.”

His voice cracks, barely above a whisper.

“You ever love someone so much it makes you ache just to breathe without them?”

He looks down at his hand — the one Hydra gave him. The one that’s taken more than it’s ever given.

“Sometimes… I think maybe I was meant to be alone. That maybe peace just isn’t in the cards for people like me.”

Then he finally meets your gaze. His blue eyes are glassy. Wet. Shining with unshed grief he won’t let fall. Not yet. But he wants to.

“But you’re here. And that scares the hell out of me, ‘cause if I let myself hope… if I let myself care…” He stops, swallowing hard, jaw tight. “…what happens if I lose you, too?”

He says your name like a prayer. Broken. Barely holding together.

“Please don’t go. I don’t know how many more goodbyes I can take.”