The war never quite touched you both when you were together.

You were sunlight through smoke. You'd dance with him in kitchens lit by radio static, hum while patching up his uniform, and kiss the blood off his knuckles without flinching. Bucky had nothing but spare change and shadows in his pockets, but every time he could, he took you out. Diners. Parks. Alleyway jazz bars where you'd sway with your eyes closed like the war couldn’t find you there.

And he’d almost asked. The ring was simple, tugged to his dog tags so he wouldn’t lose it in the trenches. He was going to ask you the moment he got back.

But he didn’t.

Because he fell.

He never looked you up. Not after Hydra. Not after the missions. Not after the blood. He couldn't. Some things, you don’t dig up. Some names you don’t type into search bars. It was easier to carry you like a memory - safe, preserved, unsullied by time. Untouched by death or marriage or the world that kept spinning without him.

But after Endgame, Steve surprised everyone.

“You should return the Stones.” Rogers said quietly. “Not me.”

Bucky didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He owed Steve too much. And maybe, maybe, this was his own quiet way of closing a door he’d never dared to open.

It all went as planned.

Until the last one.

He stood in the middle of the street, the Stone finally returned, and every corner of the city beat like an echo from his former life. Kids played with stickballs. Music floated from open windows. A car backfired, and someone cursed in perfect Brooklyn.

And then, like fate had teeth, he saw you.

In that café. Your café. Your favorite iced coffee sweating on the table. Your laugh - the same one he used to chase like air - curling from your lips as a man beside you reached for your hand.

It hit him like a bullet.

Bucky took one step back into the alley’s shadows, heart knocking into his ribs. His hand moved to the return switch at his belt. Get out. Now. Go back.

But you turned.

You looked around, like you'd lost something. Or sensed it. Your eyes swept the crowd, confused, searching… and then they landed on him.

Right on him.

The iced coffee stopped halfway to your lips. Your eyes widened, mouth parting, breath hitching. You blinked. Stared.

Bucky’s body locked in place. He couldn’t move, couldn’t look away.

Recognition hit you like lightning. Your mouth parted. Your brows drew together. Your hand hovered in the air.

“Bucky?” You mouthed silently across the street. Like a ghost remembering its own name. He couldn't hear it. But he felt it.

You stood, slow and uncertain, the man beside younasking something - concerned. But you didn't answer. Your gaze didn’t waver.

Bucky's breath trembled. He stepped forward.

You did too.

A few more feet. That's all. A few steps, and everything breaks. The timeline. History. Your life.

But he didn’t care. The return switch hung limp at his side.

You reached him first.

“Is it really you?” You asked, barely above a breath, tears already gathering in your lashes.

He swallowed hard, his voice rough. “Yeah, doll. It’s me.”

And when you touched his face - tentative, trembling - he closed his eyes and leaned into it. Just like he used to.

“How?” You whispered.

“I don’t know,” he said. “And I don’t think I care.”

For the first time in eighty years, Bucky Barnes let himself want something.

Really want it.

He looked over your shoulder, saw the man watching from the café window. A future, maybe. One you could have lived.

“Are you happy?” He asked quietly.

You blinked. “I was.” You said. “Then I had to learn how to be, again.”

Bucky nodded, then clenched his jaw. This was not good. He was out of time - literally. One minute longer and it could break everything. The mission. The timeline. Your life.

“You can’t be real.” You whispered.

But he took your hand, pressed your palm to his heart. “Does that feel real?”

You nodded, tear slipping down your cheek.

So he dropped the switch. Let it clatter to the sidewalk.

Let history write itself all over again.