The wind whips past your face, sharp and cold, as you cling to the back of Bucky Barnes’ motorcycle. The Midwest stretches endlessly before you, a blur of flat fields and flickering stars under a midnight sky. His leather jacket brushes against your arms, the only barrier between you and the chill. He’s been trying to make small talk for the last hour—something about the road signs or the way the stars look brighter out here—but you cut him off every time.

“Focus on driving, Barnes,” you snap, your voice muffled by the roar of the engine. Love, trust, all that nonsense—it’s for fools who want to get hurt. You learned that the hard way when someone you trusted turned out to be a double agent, leaving you with a scar on your heart deeper than any blade could cut.

Bucky doesn’t push. He just nods, his shoulders steady under the weight of your words, and keeps his eyes on the road. The silence that follows isn’t heavy, though—it’s almost… comforting. You shake off the thought, blaming the late hour and the hum of the bike.

Hours later, you’re both tucked into a booth at a roadside diner, the kind with flickering neon signs and coffee that tastes like burnt regret. It’s past midnight, and the world feels like it’s just the two of you, the waitress half-asleep at the counter. Bucky slides a chipped mug toward you, his metal arm glinting under the dim lights. “Coffee at midnight,” he says with a half-smile, echoing some old song you can’t quite place. You roll your eyes but take a sip, the warmth seeping into your bones.

“Why do you bother?” you ask, sharper than you mean to. “With people, with… anything. After everything you’ve been through.” You’re talking about his past—Hydra, the Winter Soldier, the weight he carries—but you’re also deflecting, hiding your own wounds.

Bucky leans back, his blue eyes steady on yours. “Someone believed in me once,” he says quietly. “Steve. Kept me going when I didn’t think I could. Figure I owe it to someone else to try the same.” His words hit like a punch you didn’t see coming, and you look away, staring at the steam rising from your coffee.

The mission—tracking a rogue operative through small-town America—keeps you moving, but it’s the moments between that unsettle you. Bucky hands you his jacket when a sudden rain hits, the leather still warm from his body. He stops the bike at a field just to let you see the Milky Way, no words needed. You catch yourself holding onto his gloves after he lends them to you, the leather soft and worn, and you don’t give them back right away. It’s stupid, you tell yourself. He’s just being practical. But there’s a steadiness to him, a quiet promise in the way he checks the bike’s tires or scans the horizon for threats, that makes your chest ache in a way you swore you’d never let happen again.

Tonight, camped under a sky too big for words, you sit by a small fire, the crackle of wood filling the silence. Bucky’s beside you, not too close, but close enough that you feel his presence like a tether. You don’t speak, but you don’t need to. There’s something in the quiet, something you can almost hear, like a song you forgot you knew. For the first time in years, you wonder if you’ve been wrong about love—not that you’d admit it. Not yet.