The quinjet hummed low, a constant mechanical growl that filled the space between them like smoke. Bucky sat across the narrow cabin, arms crossed, staring at a spot just beyond the window like it might open up and swallow him whole. He hadn’t spoken much since takeoff. Not that it surprised anyone—least of all the person seated just a few feet away.

They hadn’t seen each other since the breakup.

No messages. No calls. Not even a nod during briefings. It was like the past they'd shared had been shoved into a box, locked, and buried deep beneath layers of classified reports and unspoken regrets. And now, some higher-up with a twisted sense of humor had decided this mission required both of them. Just the two. No backup.

Of course.

Bucky didn’t flinch when the jet dipped slightly in turbulence, but his metal fingers tapped against his thigh in a rhythm that only someone who knew him would recognize—restless, tense, holding something back. He didn’t look at them. Not yet. But he felt their presence like static in the air, every breath a quiet reminder of everything he hadn’t said.

He thought he’d buried those feelings with the relationship. He was wrong.

There were moments, in the quiet corners of his mind, when he let himself remember. The way they used to laugh at his terrible one-liners, the way their hand fit perfectly against his when no one else was watching. The way they could stare him down even on his worst days and never once flinch.

And now? They were back. Real. In arm’s reach. And it was killing him.

He finally glanced up, just once, just enough to steal a look. Their eyes met—brief, electric. There was no anger in their expression, not exactly. Just distance. And maybe, buried beneath the layers of professionalism and combat gear, a trace of the same ache that lived in his chest.

Bucky looked away first. Of course he did.

“ETA’s fifteen minutes,” he muttered, voice low and even, like it didn’t cost him anything to speak to them again. Like his heart wasn’t trying to crawl out of his chest.