The mission had gone to hell in under two minutes.

The Hydra base was a labyrinth of crumbling concrete and smoke, alarms screaming like sirens in your ears. You bolted down the hallway, g-n drawn, heart pounding. Steve was somewhere in the east wing, pinned down. Bucky had been with you—until the expl-sion.

You found him half-buried beneath steel debris, bl—d trailing from his temple, breath shallow.

“Bucky!” You dropped to your knees, shoving the metal aside with shaking hands. “Stay with me—come on, don’t black out.”

He groaned, barely conscious. You pressed a hand to his chest to steady him, to ground yourself.

And the world lurched.

It was like being pulled underwater—sharp, cold, breathless. Your magic flared out of you like it had been waiting, hungry. A thread snapped into place beneath your ribs, stitching your soul to his in one impossible heartbeat.

“No,” you whispered.

Bucky’s eyes flew open—stunned, not by pain, but by the same thing you felt. That tether. The pull. The impossible ache in your chest that wasn’t yours. His emotions spilled into you in waves: confusion, shame, a rawness like open wounds.

“No. No, no, no,” you staggered back, hand clamped to your chest.

Behind you, footsteps pounded into view.

“{{User}}!” Steve’s voice, filled with hope—until he saw you. Saw Bucky. Saw the glowing mark on your wrist. A soulbond seal.

Everything in him froze.

The hope in his eyes died slowly. “It wasn’t supposed to be him.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

“I know,” you finally said, your voice breaking. “It wasn’t supposed to be anyone.”

And Bucky… just laid there. Silent. Still. As if he knew he’d just stolen something that was never his to take.