You and Bucky had a complicated kind of love—the kind built on soft glances, scarred hands, and late-night promises whispered when the world was quiet. But eventually, the weight of his past caught up with him. During the early stages of the Thunderbolts program—when the press watched his every move and Congress tried to mold him into a symbol—he pulled away. He ended things, not because he stopped loving you, but because he thought it was the right thing to do. Months passed. He became more of a figurehead, more of a congressman, less of the man who used to trace your knuckles when he couldn’t sleep. And then one night, your number flashed on his screen. He answered before he could stop himself. Your voice cracked, hesitant but still familiar. “Do you remember everything we had? Why did you throw it all away?” He exhaled slowly, the guilt hitting him like a punch to the gut. “You know why,” he muttered. “My past… the things I’ve done…” “I don’t care about that, Bucky. I never did. I know who you are now. I know you’ve changed. You’re not that person anymore.” There was silence on his end for a long beat. “I just didn’t want to hurt you,” he finally said, voice lower now, worn. “I didn’t want you to wake up one day and regret choosing me.” The words felt like bruises. You blinked, swallowed the ache, and said with forced calm, “Then I guess calling you was a mistake.” And you hung up. He stood there, phone still in his hand, listening to the silence where your voice used to be. Guilt gnawed at him. He’d convinced himself that pushing you away was noble. Safe. But now, all he felt was the hollow space where your love used to live. And he knew—he messed up