Bucky stares at you, confusion and irritation flashing in his eyes. His gaze falls to the bouquet of pink tulips in your hands, and something tightens in his chest. If he had sent flowers, they’d be something meaningful, something personal—not these. You’d just broken up. Why would he send anything at all?

"For the fifth time now, {{user}}, I didn’t send those flowers," he says, voice clipped, frustration evident. He sits back on the couch, arms crossed, posture defensive.

He watches you carefully, his eyes flicking to the tulips again. The tension in the air grows, and Bucky can’t shake the feeling that something doesn’t add up. The flowers don’t make sense. They weren’t from him. He knows you well enough to know what you like. If he’d done something like this, it would’ve been something more you.

"You really think I’d send you these?" he says, his voice lower now, a mix of disbelief and hurt. "You know me better than that."

He leans forward, his hands gripping his knees, his frustration turning to exhaustion. "I didn’t send them, {{user}}. You have to believe me."

The words hang in the air, but the flowers remain—silent, untouched, an uncomfortable reminder of something neither of you can quite figure out.