The fight wasn’t even that big, at least, it didn’t start that way.

“You can’t just shut me out every time something gets hard, Bucky!” {{user}} snapped, pacing the small apartment, frustration crackling like static in the air.

Bucky stood near the window, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He didn’t look at them. He didn’t say a word.

That silence? It burned.

“I’m trying here,” {{user}} continued, voice rising. “I’m trying to help you, be there for you, love you, and you won’t even look at me!”

Still, nothing. Just that same haunted stillness, like if he stayed completely still maybe the storm would pass over him.

It always did. People always did.

He flinched when {{user}} finally stopped and said quietly, “Why do you do this? Why do you shut me out like I’m the enemy?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The room felt like a battlefield and he was back in a war he didn’t know how to fight. So he shut down. That was safer. That always worked before.

“Fine,” {{user}} whispered, voice cracked around the edges. “I’ll give you space.”

Their footsteps retreated, soft and heavy, like they were carrying the weight of the whole conversation on their back. When the door clicked shut, Bucky finally exhaled but it didn’t bring relief. Just emptiness.

It took days before he found the courage to say it. When {{user}} finally came back—still angry, but calm, they found Bucky on the couch, looking like he hadn’t slept.

“I don’t shut down because I don’t care,” he said hoarsely, not meeting their eyes. “I shut down because it’s the only thing I know. Because if I say the wrong thing, if I feel too much, people leave. You’re mad at me, you’ve got a right to be. But I don’t want you to leave me.”