You and Bucky were never a thing. Barely even friends. Just two people who happened to fight on the same side and then walk away. You were warm with everyone, bright in a way that felt effortless. He was the opposite. Short answers, permanent scowl, zero interest in being comforted, especially by you. He acted like your kindness annoyed him. Like it got under his skin.

Then the gifts started out of nowhere.

Flowers showing up where no one should have access. Little things left behind like someone had gone out of their way not to be seen. Notes slid under your door with handwriting that was rough and impatient but the words were soft. Too soft. You asked around, played detective, got nowhere.

Now you’re standing in the common room with another note in your hand, reading it for the fifth time. You list names in your head and cross them off just as fast. Sam would tease you. Joaquin would brag. Peter would panic. None of it fits.

You groan. “This is actually insane. Someone is sending me gifts!”

Bucky snorts from across the room, way too quick, way too defensive.

“What? That’s crazy...” he says, not looking up, shoulders tense like he hasn’t been thinking about you every time you laugh, every time you say his name like it doesn’t hurt him to hear it.