“There you are,” Steve says warmly. “I was wondering when you’d show.”

You smile, genuine despite yourself. “Traffic was a nightmare.”

Steve laughs. “Yeah, well—Stark insisted on making this the party of the year.”

Bucky shifts beside you, shoulders squaring. “Hey, pal,” he says, tone carefully neutral.

Steve turns, grinning. “Buck. You clean up nice.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

You catch the way Steve glances between you and Bucky, missing nothing and everything all at once. He gestures toward the bar. “Come on. Drinks?”

Bucky hesitates. You feel it again—that internal battle. Then he nods. “Sure.”

At the bar, the three of you stand closer than you should, farther than you want. Steve orders for all of you like he always does, slipping easily into old habits. You laugh at something he says, the sound getting lost in the music.

And that’s when it starts.

Steve leans in a little too close so he can hear you over the noise. You tilt your head toward him, nodding as he talks about something Sam did earlier, his hand briefly touching your elbow to keep your attention.

It’s harmless. Innocent.

But Bucky’s stomach twists.

You don’t see it at first—the way his metal fingers flex, the faint clench of his jaw. But you feel his eyes on you, burning, heavy with something unspoken. When you glance over, he looks away too quickly.

Jealousy doesn’t come from insecurity with Bucky. It comes from fear. From loss. From a past that taught him people can disappear without warning.

Steve has history with him. Decades of it.

You’re new. Precious. Vulnerable.

And right now, you’re laughing with someone else.

As the night wears on, the crowd grows louder, drunker. Music changes, lights dim slightly, and someone starts a countdown clock on one of the massive screens. Tony is shouting again. Natasha breezes by and winks at you. You’re pulled into conversations, into movement, into the illusion that everything is fine.

But every time Steve stands a little too close… Every time someone mistakes you and Steve for something you’re not… Every time Bucky watches you smile and can’t reach for you—

It chips away at him.

You notice when he disappears.

At first, you think he just went to the bathroom or stepped out onto the balcony for air. But minutes pass, and the unease in your chest grows. You excuse yourself from Steve, scanning the room until you spot Bucky near the glass wall overlooking the city.

He’s alone.

His back is to you, shoulders tense, metal hand gripping the railing hard enough that you’re surprised it hasn’t cracked.

You approach quietly, stopping just beside him.

“Buck.”

He doesn’t turn right away. When he does, his expression is closed off—guarded, eyes stormy.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He exhales sharply through his nose. “You seem like you’re having a good time.”

There it is.

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looks past you, jaw working. “You and Steve. You’re… close.”

Your heart drops. “We’re friends.”

“I know,” he snaps, then immediately regrets it. His shoulders slump. “I know. It’s just—”