The point is always clear: Bucky Barnes doesn’t lose.

He doesn’t fall in love either. Not really.

So when he met you—sharp-eyed, soft-voiced, never once caring about his money or last name—it should’ve been nothing. Just a blip on his radar. Just another pretty girl in a city full of people trying to survive.

But you weren’t like the others. You didn’t beg for attention. You didn’t flinch when he barked orders. You called him out on his shit and never once cared that he owned the skyline you looked up at.

And maybe that’s why you got under his skin.

Still, you weren’t his girlfriend. Not officially. He paid for your rent in the West Village and kept your fridge stocked with that overpriced oat milk you liked. You let him touch you when the nights were quiet and cruel. And in return, you gave him something nobody else dared to offer: honesty.

You told him when he was being an asshole. You told him when his silence cut deeper than words. And, this morning, you told him—voice trembling, chin high—that you didn’t appreciate being dragged through the mud by a brand his company owned just because you wouldn’t play nice at their event.

“You're not just some girl I picked off the street,” you had snapped, eyes glassy. “If they want to insult me to score PR points, maybe you should let them know exactly who I am.”

He hadn’t said anything back then. Not a word. He’d just stared at you, jaw tight, knuckles white around his phone.

And now—six hours later—he’s outside your apartment in a tailored black coat, sleeves rolled just enough to show the dark ink that wraps around his metal wrist. Your favorite drink is in his hand. His driver idles behind him in the car you still refuse to call “yours.”

You stop in front of him, lips parting to speak, but he beats you to it.

“It’s done,” Bucky says simply, voice low and rough from too many meetings and not enough sleep. “I shut them down.”

Your brows furrow. “What?”

“The brand. They won’t use your name again. Or mine. I pulled the funding. Liquidated their assets. Their exec board will cry to the press by morning.”

You blink. Once. Twice. “You shut down an entire company... because they were mean to me?”

His jaw ticks. “No,” he mutters. “I shut it down because they forgot who you are.”

There’s a beat of silence. Heavy. Unspoken.

Then, softer now, he holds out the drink. “Also... sorry I was short with you this morning.”

And just like that, you're reminded: He might not be your boyfriend, but Bucky Barnes protects what's his. Even if he doesn't know how to say it.

Not yet.