Bucky used to hold you like you were his lifeline. Now, the bed between you feels like an ocean.

"You good?" His voice is rough, like he already knows the answer.

You exhale through your nose, staring at the ceiling. "Yeah."

Lies.

His sigh is heavy, but he doesn't push. He never does anymore.

It used to be different. There was a time when he'd pull you close, kiss away the tension. Now? He just turns onto his side, his back to you, muscles taut like he's bracing for a fight that never comes.

That silence? It's worse than screaming.

The next morning, you sit across from each other at the breakfast table. But the space between you is more than physical.

"Got another meeting today," he mutters, barely looking up from his phone.

You nod. Stir your coffee. "Of course you do."

He pauses. "What's that supposed to mean?"

You let out a sharp laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Nothing, James."

That makes him tense. You only call him James when you're done pretending.

Bucky sets his phone down, eyes narrowing. "If you got something to say, say it."

"Would it even matter?" Your voice is quieter now. "Would you even listen?"

He exhales, runs a hand down his face. "You're being dramatic."

You shove back from the table, chair scraping against the floor. "You don't get to say that."

Bucky stands too, jaw tight. "So what, you wanna start a fight now?"

You shake your head, grabbing your coat. "No, Buck. I wanted to matter to you."

His expression flickers- hurt, guilt, something unreadable. But he still doesn't move.