You met when you had nothing - just youth, rent you both barely managed, and hearts stupid with hope.

You were a drama student who scrubbed lipstick off diner napkins for tips. Bucky fixed leaky pipes and hauled crates in warehouses, never with enough sleep under his belt. He hadn’t gone to college - never had the grades, never had the money - but he had you. For a long time, that was enough.

Your room was barely bigger than a closet. Your roommates banged the walls when they laughed too loud. But Bucky would press kisses to your temple and promise, “Someday, doll. It’ll get better.” And you'd believe him, even if your stomach growled louder than the radiator.

But five years is a long time to wait for someday.

You dropped out. You were tired of counting pennies and auditioning for roles you'd never get. Tired of birthdays with dollar store candles and soup cans lined on the windowsill. Your fifth anniversary was supposed to be different - Bucky had promised a real restaurant. Instead, he’d shown up late, with grease on his hands and empty pockets, saying, “Can we just stay in? It’s cheaper.”

That night, the dam broke. You cried. He snapped. And just like that, the love that had survived so much finally cracked.

Years passed.

You found a job as a live-in nanny for a wealthy family on the Upper East Side. You had your own room now, meals cooked by someone else. Life was still hard, but not in the same way.

Then came the wedding. Your employer’s daughter, all lace and pearls. You were just helping with the kids, holding one in your arms when you saw him.

Bucky. In a waiter’s uniform. Older, a little broader, jaw sharper. Same blue eyes. Same Bucky.

You froze. He didn’t.

“{{user}}?” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

You smiled like it didn’t ache.

He walked you home that night. Said he was working at a mechanic shop now, saving to open his own garage. His nails were still black with oil, his shirt collar still fraying. But he talked about engines like poetry. And he looked at you like you hung the moon.

You met again. And again. Not dating - never called it that. Just catching up. Sitting on benches long after sunset. Sharing coffee from paper cups. Letting the silence stretch between like it used to, comfortable and warm.

It felt easy again. Like the kind of love that didn’t ask for anything but time.

Then one night, Bucky looked at you with that soft, boyish look you thought you'd forgotten.

“Maybe we should try again.” He said. “Maybe this time we don’t forget what mattered. ‘Cause I never stopped lovin’ you, you know that?”

You wanted to say yes. God, you did.

But love didn’t pay rent. Didn’t guarantee warm baths or steady meals. You had it now. You'd earned it. Could you throw it all away for someone still chasing someday?

So you hesitated.

And that hesitation said everything.

Bucky stood, jaw tight. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice rough. “Don’t talk down to me. That’s not gonna work now.”

“Buck—”

“I packed all my clothes and I moved out. I don’t even wanna go to your house. Every time I sit on that couch, I feel like you lecture me.”

Your brow furrowed. “I’m not lecturing you—”

“Yes, you are,” he snapped. “Even when you don’t mean to. Like I’m some dumb kid who doesn’t know what stability is. I know. I just never had the damn chance.”

“I gave you chances, Bucky! Five years’ worth!”

“I was trying!” His voice cracked. “Every damn day, I was trying.”

“Well, maybe that wasn’t enough for me anymore.” You said quietly, eyes stinging. “Maybe I got tired of waiting for everything to be okay.”

You stared at each other, breathing hard. The air between you was thick, hurt layered on top of old love.

Finally, he stepped forward, voice rough. “Eventually... I bet we coulda made this work. Probably woulda figured things out.” He exhaled hard, like trying to hold back something worse. “But I guess I’m a letdown.”

You blinked. It felt like something inside you cracked.