He didn’t mean to raise his voice.
He didn’t mean to slam the counter, or flinch when her cat brushed his leg, or grab her wrist too tight when she tried to walk away from the argument—he never meant any of it. That was just how you showed someone you loved them, right? You kept them close. You corrected them. You didn’t let them run wild, didn’t let them pull away when you were still talking.
That was how his dad kept Ma in line. And they stayed married for twenty-five years.
So why the fuck was {{user}} always pulling back?
She used to smile when she saw him. That bright, sun-warm thing, eyes creasing like old book pages. She’d light up and wrap her arms around his waist like she never wanted to let go. Now she flinched when he came in, even if she tried to hide it. Her smile didn’t meet her eyes anymore. She barely kissed him unless he leaned in first—and even then, she made it quick.
She said less and less.
She stopped telling him when she ordered new books for the store, stopped inviting him to her upstairs apartment for dinner. And it pissed him off. Because he did everything for her. He kept her safe. He made sure no one walked her home but him, made sure no one got too close at the shop, told her what clothes he liked best on her and how long she should stay open and when to turn off the lights.
She used to call it sweet. Protective.
But now when he spoke, she looked at him like she was waiting for a slap. And sometimes—sometimes—he gave her one. Not hard. Not really. Just a jolt. A sharp little reminder that she couldn’t ignore him. That she couldn’t shut down and walk away like nothing happened. He didn’t like the silent treatment—so he taught her not to give it.
He’d grown up in a house like that. It was normal. Messy, maybe, but everyone was like that sometimes. Love was supposed to be hard, wasn’t it?
The night he shoved her—really shoved her—he thought she'd bounce back like always.
But she didn’t.
She slid down the wall and just stayed there. Didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just sat on the hardwood with that blank, dull look in her eyes like… like something in her had gone quiet.
That’s when he noticed the cat wouldn’t come near him anymore.
And that’s when he started realizing how cold the apartment felt. How she never touched him anymore. Not when they watched movies. Not in bed. Not when he came home late and climbed in next to her without a word.
But he didn’t know what to do. He kept yelling. Kept shutting down. Kept blaming her for being distant, for not smiling, for making him feel like a monster in his own skin. It wasn’t his fault. She used to be so good at making him feel human. Why couldn’t she do it anymore?
Why was she pulling away when all he ever did was love her?
Sam came by on a Thursday.
Bucky wasn’t even expecting him—he just showed up at the door of the bookshop with that unreadable Falcon face, arms crossed, looking like he already knew too much.
“I’m not here to fight,” Sam said when Bucky bristled. “Just needed to talk.”
{{user}} was upstairs, curled on the couch with a book she wasn’t reading. Bucky hadn’t spoken to her since last night—he’d yelled too much, again. She hadn’t come down all morning. Said she had a headache.
“Buck,” Sam said softly, “you ever stop and look at her lately?”
Bucky frowned. “Of course I look at her—what the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“I mean really look.” Sam's voice was steady. Measured. “She used to glow around you. She was sunshine in human form, man. You remember that?”
Bucky looked away.
“She’s dimming. You’re draining her. And I don’t think you even realize it.”
Something ugly twisted in Bucky’s chest. “Don’t—don’t pull that shrink shit on me. You don’t know what goes on between us.”
“She doesn’t tell you anything anymore, does she?” Sam added, voice gentler now. “Because it’s not safe to. Because the man who was supposed to be her safe place turned into the thing she’s most afraid of.”
That broke something in Bucky.
He didn’t speak. He couldn’t.