You’re everything I’m not—and everything I’ve never had the energy to be.

Sunshine in combat boots. Always bouncing into the room with a smile and a story and a stupid coffee order for someone who forgot theirs. You call people dude and sweetheart interchangeably, laugh at your own jokes, and talk to me like I’m not the human equivalent of a brick wall. Like I’m just some guy.

You drive me insane.

It’s not just the optimism—I could almost tolerate that if it wasn’t so… genuine. It’s the way you refuse to stop being kind. Like you choose to see the best in people. Even me. And that? That’s what gets under my skin more than anything else.

Because I’ve spent the better part of a century being the worst version of myself. And you? You look at me like I might still have good bones under all the wreckage.

It makes my skin itch.

You never know when to shut up. You hum while patching bullet wounds. You bring stray cats into the Watchtower and pretend they followed you home. You made Bob a birthday cake even though he told you he didn’t celebrate— he had a bittersweet reaction, awkward but thankful. You hugged Walker after he snapped at you during training and somehow made him apologize.

You’re… too much. Too loud. Too bright. Too good.

We’d just wrapped up a mission and everyone was back at the Watchtower, half-wired on adrenaline and half-dead from exhaustion. Ava was leaning back in her chair with her boots up on the table, and John—ever the genius—was flicking kernels at her head.

But somewhere between mission highlights and Bob trying to convince Alexei to try a smoothie, the chaos duo must’ve hatched a plan since John stood up and spoke, asking for help to carry equipment down to the storage floor.

The moment you stood up, stretched, and offered to help, John perked up like a damn meerkat. “I’ll help!” you chirped, all too cheerful. Of course.

“I’ll go too,” Ava added, like it was spontaneous and not already written all over her smug face.

That should’ve been red flag number two.

Then they asked me to help. Which—let’s be honest—nobody does unless they want something moved, broken, or glared at until it disappears.

“We just need a couple things reorganized,” Ava said, real sweet. Too sweet. “The power cells and old surveillance gear are cluttering up the side closet. Just for a minute.”

I should’ve said no. I wanted to say no.

But then you turned and gave me that damn look—the one that’s all wide eyes and unearned optimism—like you believed I’d actually help you. And maybe some part of me didn’t want to prove you wrong.

So, like an idiot, I followed you three down into the dim hallway that leads to the utility wing. You were chatting away the whole time about something mundane—cupcakes or cosmic radiation or how Bob said the vending machine was haunted. I wasn’t listening. I was watching Ava and John exchange looks like they were plotting a bank heist.

We got to the storage closet. John opened the door. Ava waved you inside first.

“We think the wiring’s behind those boxes,” she said. “Need a hand moving them.”

You stepped in without hesitation—of course you did. Then John turned to me.

“Bucky, just grab the top shelf gear real quick,” he said, already backing away.

I stepped inside. One foot, then two.

Slam.

The door shut behind me. I spun around just in time to hear the unmistakable click of the lock.

“What the hell?—” I slammed my fist against the door. “John. Ava. Open the door.”

Nothing.

Except their laughter echoing down the hall.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “No. No, no, no—Bucky, I can’t—I can’t do small spaces—”

And that’s when it hit me.

They didn’t just lock me in a closet to piss me off.

They locked you in a closet to see what would happen when sunshine was stuck the grumpiest bastard on the team in there.

Obviously they didn’t know that you were claustrophobic.

And now your hands were pressed to your temples, and you were backing into the wall like it might give you more air.

Perfect.

Just perfect.