Bucky sat in the kitchen, sipping his whiskey in silence. His gaze was fixed on one spot, but his thoughts were far away, among fragments of memories, voices from the past, and faces that were no longer there.

When you walked in, he felt it right away, in the subtle change in the air, in the light steps he couldn’t mistake for anyone else’s. He knew you loved him. He knew you were ready to give him what he had been deprived of for years: warmth, acceptance, sincerity. But Bucky couldn’t accept it.

He wasn’t blind. He just knew too well who he was. And who you were. You were too young. Too bright. And his hands… there was too much blood on them.

“No, {{user}}. I’m too old for you,” he said in a low, husky voice, without looking up. He took another sip. The whiskey burned his throat, but it was easier than talking.

Only then did he notice how your expression changed. Your eyes became sad, your gaze lowered. And even your lips trembled a little, as if you were about to say something, but changed your mind.

Bucky sighed and tapped his metal fingers on the wooden tabletop. A familiar gesture, almost nervous. He looked away, but still couldn't help but notice how you frowned, pouting slightly. The gesture was both childish and sincere. And damn, he liked it. Even if he had no right to feel this way, he still felt it.