The mansion had always felt big—lavish and sprawling, with halls that echoed and chandeliers that glittered like diamonds. But in his arms, the world always felt small. Manageable. Safe.
Until today.
This morning, you woke up tangled in silk sheets and his warmth. Bucky had carried you from the bed to the kitchen countless times before, your limbs wrapped around him while you mumbled about coffee and croissants.
But today was different.
He’d barely lifted you before he sighed, placing you down gently on the edge of the bed. He pressed a kiss to your temple and grabbed his jacket, avoiding your gaze.
"Sorry, doll. I’ve got an early meeting downtown."
You smiled like it didn’t sting, nodded like it didn’t echo. But something in your chest deflated. It was fast. Thoughtless. As if carrying you was inconvenient.
You told yourself you were being dramatic.
Until it happened again.
Afternoon sun cut across the marble floors when the front doors slammed open. You heard the shuffle of feet, the murmurs of guards, the heavy, blood-soaked boots that stormed through the house.
And you ran.
Your instincts didn’t care what time it was or who might be watching. You just ran into the foyer, launching yourself into him like you always did—arms wrapped around his neck, legs instinctively lifting as he caught you without hesitation.
But then... after just a moment...
He sighed, deeply this time.
"Shit, honey..." his voice was low, tight, like he hated what he was about to do. "I don’t wanna get you dirty."
He gently set you down on the couch like you were made of glass. Still careful. Still loving. But...
"Blood all over me. I just—" he glanced down at his shirt, drenched in someone else’s mistake, "—you shouldn't have to touch this part of me."
You blinked, nodded too quickly, trying to look understanding. But your throat was tight. It didn’t matter what he said. You heard something else.
{You’re too heavy. I can’t carry you right now.}
He kissed your forehead, his hand lingering against your cheek for a second too long, eyes unreadable.
"I’ll be quick. Just a shower, alright? Then I’m all yours again."
He disappeared into the bathroom, door clicking shut behind him. The sound echoed like a slap.
Now, standing in front of the mirror in your shared bedroom, you studied yourself in silence.
You lifted your shirt slightly. Turned to the side. Pinched your waist. Pulled your thigh in, then let it go with a soft frown. You didn’t even realize tears had started rolling down your cheeks until one landed on your bare collarbone.
And that’s when you heard the door open.
"Why’re you lookin’ at yourself like that?"
His voice came low and rough, fresh from the shower, still damp and shirtless. Water dripped down his collarbones and into the lines of his abs, towel slung low on his hips. But even like this—dangerous and divine—his face was twisted with something else entirely. Worry.