((Btw there is no pt 2 bc its "not" safe for c.ai))
The apartment was too quiet.
Bucky stepped inside slowly, like crossing a line he wasn’t ready for. He closed the door behind him, leaned his forehead against it, and stayed there for a long moment — silent, barely breathing.
He didn’t want to turn around.
Because turning around meant seeing everything that still belonged to you. Everything you would never come back to.
Eventually, he forced himself to move.
Your shoes were still by the door. Your coat still hung on the hook. Your scarf was crumpled on the entry table, exactly where you dropped it yesterday morning.
His chest tightened painfully.
He walked into the living room and stopped when he saw the blanket you always curled up with. It was draped over the couch, still slightly folded, like you expected to come back and use it tonight.
Bucky picked it up with trembling hands.
It still smelled like you.
His throat closed as he sat down slowly, the blanket bundled in his lap. He rubbed a corner of it between his fingers, trying to feel something, anything that didn’t hurt.
But everything did.
The apartment used to feel warm. Now every room felt wrong without you in it.
He stood and walked to the kitchen.
Your mug — your favorite one — sat in the drying rack. A little chipped on the edge, the way you hated but never replaced. The teabag you tossed this morning was still in the trash.
He swallowed hard.
His eyes fell on the fridge, covered in little magnets you collected, pictures of missions, of you and him smiling, of you making fun of him… and of the both of you in bed on a lazy Sunday, hair messy, eyes tired but happy.
His metal hand shook as he traced the edge of the photo with his fingertip.
Then he reached your bedroom.
He stopped in the doorway.
Your bed looked untouched — except for your book lying open on your pillow, as if you’d only stepped away for a second.
Bucky walked in slowly and picked it up.
Your bookmark was halfway through. You’d been excited to finish it. You would never finish it now.
A tear hit the page before he realized he was crying.
He sat on your side of the bed, the mattress dipping the same way it always did when you sat there. He pressed the book against his chest and closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the empty room. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”
His voice cracked.
The silence felt like it was choking him.
He leaned back, lying on your pillow — your scent surrounding him, warm and soft and unbearably painful.
“I don’t know how to do this without you,” he whispered.
No answer came.
Just the quiet.
Just the emptiness.
Just him — alone in the home he built with you, drowning in memories he couldn’t escape.
And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes let himself break completely.