The bar was dimly lit, the familiar hum of conversation and clinking glasses wrapping around the booth where you and Bucky Barnes sat, like always. A bottle of beer in his hand, the corner of his mouth tugging slightly upwards at something you’d said a moment ago. You didn’t even realize it, but you were laughing again—one of those soft, unguarded sounds that always made something in Bucky settle and ache at the same time.

He was quiet now, though. His beer hovered near his lips, untouched, his blue eyes watching you as you sipped from your own glass. There was something different in the air—he felt it. And maybe, maybe this was the moment he’d been waiting for. The courage he’d buried for months was bubbling up, trembling at the surface.

“I wanted to ask you something.” Bucky said, voice lower than usual, edged with nerves he couldn't quite hide.

You turned your head toward him, your chin resting lazily in your palm, offering that same soft smile you always gave him—the one that made his chest tighten like someone was wringing his heart with both hands.

“Of course!” You replied, curiosity lighting in your eyes.

And Bucky looked at you. Really looked. You, in this dim light, looked like something unreal. Something precious. He wanted to tell you that. To tell you everything. But then his gaze caught on the subtle smear of red on your lips—the lipstick.

For a second, he wondered how it would taste. How it would feel if you leaned across the table and kissed him. How the smudge might transfer to his mouth, to his skin, to his soul.

Instead, his mouth betrayed his heart.

“I was just wondering... are you wearing lipstick?” He asked.

You blinked. It wasn’t the question you expected. You tilted your glass, then lowered it all the way this time. The warmth in your smile faltered slightly, but it didn’t disappear. There was something behind your eyes—a softness, yes, but also distance. A decision already made.

“Yeah..” You said, with a little nod. “I’m going out with John again.”

And you said it so casually, like it wasn’t the sound of a door closing in his chest.

You stood, giving his shoulder a brief, affectionate pat—the kind friends give without thinking, the kind that felt like ash and embers to him now. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

And just like that, you were gone.

Bucky didn’t move. The beer in his hand had gone warm, his mouth dry, his heart louder than the music playing from the jukebox in the corner. His eyes stayed on the door for a long time after you’d walked out.

In the parking lot, roses sat in the passenger seat of his car. Wrapped neatly, a note tucked between them.

He never got the chance to give them to you.